Work Text:
Robby first notices the petals at 2:17 pm, in the bathroom. It has already been feeling like the shift has been going on for longer than it has. It's not catastrophic but simply relentless, the kind that breaks you apart slowly. A septic shock that almost wasn’t, a kid with a broken arm and brave eyes, an elderly man who coded twice before deciding to stay dead. Robby washes his hands longer than necessary, staring at his reflection like he might find something missing if he looks hard enough. He coughs once, sharp and irritating. He leans forward and spits into the sink without think and then freezes. A single white petal, not mucus nor blood. It's pale and soft, edges torn like its been ripped instead of picked. It clicks at that moment.
"No." he whispers to himself.
He rinses the sink, watches the petal spiral down the drain and tells himself it's nothing. It might be lint or paper towel or anything really. He coughs again, nothing comes out this time, he straightens his spine like his posture alone can fix this.
He goes back to work. By the third petal, denial becomes a habit. They come in phases at first, a dry cough in the stairwell between floors and a tickle he ignores while dictating notes. It's always white, always small, easy to explain it you don't think for long. Robby lets himself think anyway. Hanahaki is rare but it's not mythical, he's treated it multiple times, often successfully. He knows the stages, the timelines and exactly what white petals mean. It's new and early or simply unacknowledged. He knows exactly what is going on but doesn't want to admit it.
Jack laughs too hard at the central desk that night, right before his shift. His head leans back, he holds his stomach to ground himself, his eyes crinkle at the corners the way Robby pretends not to notice. His coffee sits in front of him on the counter, he's in a good mood. Right before his shift, right before the death and the devastation begins.
"You're quiet." Jack says glancing over, "You okay, brother?" he smiles.
Robby doesn't look up from the computer screen he's looking at, "Fine." he automatically replies.
Jack hums, looks at Dana. He is very unconvinced but he lets it go as always. It's a personal courtesy, maybe something else Robby has never been able to name. Love doesn't have to be confessed to be lethal. At least the petals don't hurt yet. That's almost worse, they appear in the sink and in tissues, once in the shower where Robby stands still as the water pounds down his back and a white petal sticks to his thigh. He catalogues that the way he does with symptoms in patients. White in color, intermittent in frequency, minimal pain and inevitable progression. He doesn't tell anyone.
It's a week later, right after his shift as he smokes in the ambulance bay. He hasn't smoked in years, that was until his lungs already gave him a death sentence. Jack catches him coughing hard right next to his motorcycle.
"Hey." Jack calls, "Sounds rough, you good?" he smiles shyly.
Robby straightens, takes a drag from his cigarette and forces a smile.
"Just the cigs." he says, Jack studies him for a bit before nodding.
"If you say so." Jack adds, Robby watches Jack walk away.
His heart is doing something complicated and familiar and dangerous in his chest. Two white petals rest in his palm, delicate and damning. Robby closes his fingers around them. He already knows how this ends, he hasn't decided how much he's willing to lose before then.
His next shift starts wrong, not loud but just off. It's like a rhythm that won't settle. Robby feels it the moment he enters the emergency department, there is a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with exertion. He ignores it the way he always does. White means it's not terminal, not yet at least but it means that time is running out.
The cough hits him during the last moment of his shift. He turns away smoothly, hand already up as if he's clearing his throat. The petal lands in his sleeve instead of the floor, he shakes it out in the bathroom moments later. It's unmistakable, soft and bruised at the edges but this time it's pink. Robby stares at it longer than he should, then sweeps it into the trash and sanitizes his hands until they sting.
"Brother?" Jack's voice comes too close.
"What's up?" Robby straightens.
Jack's gaze flicks to the trash and then back to Robby's face, "You sure you don’t want me to check that chest pain? You look…"
"I'm fine." Robby says, sharper than he intends.
Jack pauses, nods and walks away towards the bathroom stall without even looking back once.
By the next day the petals come faster and the cough is harsher. He finds one on the floor of the staff room, crushed under his shoe. Another in the trash after he pretends to vomit during a treatment. Pink, impossible to explain away now even to himself. He knows the progression. Knows the red that comes next is not far away.
Jack corners him at the end of his shift, it's subtle. It's a simple hand on Robby's elbow as he passes, light but insistent pressure. Robby turns to his side where Jack is standing.
"Come with me."
They end up where the lockers are, fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead. Jack's face is completely full of concern at the moment, his professional mask has already slipped.
"You're not fine," Jack says quietly, "You've been coughing heavy, you almost dropped the other day."
Robby shrugs, "I didn't"
Jack lets out a bitter chuckle, "That's not the point."
Robby exhales slowly and carefully, his chest burns but he has to keep his face neutral. There is not point in making Jack more concerned than he already is. It kind of makes Robby question it, with the concern Jack's showing how could his love be unrequited. Jack studies him for a long moment.
"Robby, you don't have to go through everything alone." this time it isn't attending to attending, it's personal.
The words hit Robby harder than the disease has, he looks away. He wants to scream and ask Jack how he could not love him. It hurts, not physically but it's heartbreak for sure.
The worst cough comes just before dusk a few days later. The department is quiet though he would never say it out loud. It isn't silent but subdued like it's catching its breath. Robby steps into the bathroom, grips the sink. The anxiety of someone catching him in this state takes over until it starts to hurt. It's a deep and tearing sensation. It feels like something is being pulled that doesn't want to move. He coughs until his eyes water, his ribs ache and until his hands shake. When he finally spits, the petal that lands in the sink is darker than before. Still pink but bleeding towards red on the edges.
Robby closes his eyes, he can no longer ignore this or act like everything is fine. He walks out of the bathroom, he notices Jack is in and he is eyeing Robby from where he's standing. It's almost like Jack is afraid he would disappear if he looked away. At that moment Robby accepts his death because he would never accept the treatment, which will make him lose his love for Jack. Robby gives Jack a tired smile, Jack doesn't smile back.
Robby never checks his emails, but that evening while he's simply laying on his couch he gets this urge to finally catch up with them. His eyes are tearing up and his chest is tight with that familiar pre-cough warning. The TV hums in front of him, an episode of Seinfeld rerunning. An email from Leonie Keough gets his attention. She is a pulmonologist at PTMC and Robby has no idea why he would be getting and email from her. He frowns, he has barely worked with her.
Friend of a friend is coordinating recruitment outreach for a Hanahaki drug trial. They need discreet circulation: no direct referrals, just passing along a volunteer link. Total privacy setup, I won’t know who signs up. Thought of you because you see a lot of relevant cases. No pressure at all.They specifically asked for physicians to share it quietly with patients who might qualify but avoid coercion. Completely voluntary. If it’s not your thing, ignore.
A link follows. Robby stares at the word Hanahaki until it feels unreal. For a moment the noise of his TV fades into a dull background hum. His lungs itch. He clicks the email open again, rereads it carefully. His physician instincts are overriding everything else. This is perfect timing, this might be his chance at living while still loving Jack.
Robby exhales slowly, his reflection stares back at him from the computer screen. He is visibly tired and pale. A cough creeps up, he presses a fist to his mouth. There are now two petals in his palm, fully red. He closes his hand quickly, his heartbeat is loud in his ears and the universe obviously has a sense of timing.
He opens the link, he scrolls through the eligibility criteria as if he would be referring a patient. Except he is the patient and he is seriously considering taking part in the trial.
Persistent floral manifestation.
Emotional attachment unreciprocated or unresolved.
Late Stage II–III progression preferred.
He almost laughs, he fills up the form on the webpage.
The next morning, across the central desk, Jack argues about discharge paperwork. His voice is warm, alive and completely unaware. Robby tries not to look directly at him, looking at him too long makes his breathing harder. Jack glances over anyway, their eyes meet briefly. Jack raises his brows. Jack walks towards him.
"You look like you just made a life decision." the corners of his lips curl up slightly.
Robby huffs a faint laugh, "Didn't sleep well."
"When have you slept well?"
Robby smiles at Jack's comment. His chest aches, flowers pressing against his ribs, treatment looming around his mind. His feelings unresolved and dangerously alive. He pats a hand on Jack's bicep and walks away. Right at that moment, he gets an email. It's about the trial, his first meeting is confirmed.
In a few days, he finds himself in a small room with a row of fellow physicians in front of him. They ask him questions, he answers, they can clearly see the deterioration of his condition as he keeps coughing red petals in front of them. He is scheduled for his first infusion session for the following week, he takes the day off.
Once the time comes, he enters the treatment room. It looks nothing like a hospital room and that unsettles Robby. The lights aren't as bright, it's not so white and the armchair actually looks comfortable. The overhead lighting is soft, the walls are a muted gray. A window stretches along one side of the room, pale winter sunlight is beaming through the frosted glass. It's quiet enough that he can hear himself breathe, which is unfortunate since breathing hurts today. A nurse named Celine, according to her badge checks the wristband he has been given.
"First infusion?" she asks, Robby nods quietly.
He settles into the chair, trying not to think about how many patients he’s watched sit exactly like this. Their tense shoulders, controlled expression, pretending bravery is the same thing as calm. Celine begins placing monitors with efficient movements.
"Dr. Halberg will come in before we start" she says, "He likes to explain the mechanism one more time."
"I read the protocol," Robby replies automatically.
She smiles faintly, "He’ll still explain it."
The cough hits before the doctor arrives, it's sharp and deep. Robby turns away instinctively. The spasm tears through him, his lungs tighten. Three petals fall, crimson. They land softly on his lap. He stares at them, completely detached. Size increasing, pigmentation deepening, frequency escalating. Then the door opens quietly, Dr. Halberg pauses when he sees the petals on Robby's lap but doesn't react.
"Progression consistent with scans."
Robby wipes his mouth with a tissue, completely embarrassed. He looks down at the petals once more.
"Any questions before we begin?"
Robby wants to say yes, ask all of the thousand questions he has but he holds himself back. Instead he shakes his head.
"No." he says.
Robby steps back into the cold Pittsburgh night, chest tight, lungs full of petals he believes. And against better judgment, they are finally about to be gone. For the first time since the first white petal fell into a sink, Robby allows himself to hope. The first thing Robby notices is the silence. No cough when he wakes. No tightness when he laughs which is rare, but it happens. No petals in the sink, the shower drain, the trash. He waits for them anyway.
Every morning, he leans over porcelain, breath held, expecting white or pink or red. Every morning, nothing comes up but air. His lungs feel… empty. Clean. Like someone finally cleared a blockage he didn’t realize had been there his whole life. He doesn’t celebrate.
The symptoms that replace the petals are easy to ignore at first. A pressure behind the sternum during long codes. Needing to sit down after sprinting up the stairs. A strange awareness of his heartbeat when the department goes quiet. It's nothing alarming or measurable. Cardiology clears him after a cursory workup. EKG clean. Troponins negative. Nobody orders an echo-cardiogram. Robby nods and goes back to work.
At night, alone, the pressure grows. It’s not pain but simply presence. Like something has taken up residence where it doesn’t belong. He sleeps on his side now, one hand pressed flat to his chest, as if that might keep whatever it is from shifting.
Three weeks in, he realizes something else, the love hasn’t faded. He takes a deep breath realizing that. If anything, it’s sharper and cleaner, no longer dulled by fear of suffocation. Jack’s smile hits him like it always has. Jack’s absence still registers like a missed step. Robby tells himself this is the price he agreed to. Love, intact. He just didn’t know it would physically feel like this.
Robby is on a double shift which he regrets taking. He is responsible of the scheduling, he doesn't know why he put himself into this position. Jack catches him that night, staring at nothing between patients.
"You okay?" Jack asks softer than usual.
Robby opens his mouth to lie, "I'm fine." he says finally.
Jack doesn't argue. He reaches out instead, brief and careful, fingers brushing Robby’s wrist in a way that lingers half a second too long to be accidental. Robby’s heart stutters and the pressure spikes. He sucks in a breath and forces his face neutral. When Jack withdraws, he is unaware of what he’s done.
It feels like a normal shift, nothing unusual and nothing interesting. Robby is standing at the central desk, half listening to a discussion about bed availability. The department is loud around him, phones ringing, people speaking and of course all those monitors chiming. It's all ordinary noise and a predictable rhythm. He likes the predictable rhythm.
His chest suddenly feels tight again but it has been like that for days now. It's a dull pressure that he has decided not to put a lot of attention on since cardiology cleared him. His labs were fine and nothing objective have shown up. He reasons with it, ignores it.
He is slowly walking towards one of the computers to catch up on his charting when his heart misfires. The sensation is so abrupt that he pauses mid-breath. It isn't exactly like pain, it feels absent. It's a skipped beat large enough to notice like a step on the stairs missing when you expect it to be there.
He frowns, his pulse rushes to compensate. It's pounding so hard that his vision starts to blur. He straightens instinctively, he rolls his shoulders as if posture might fix all. It's probably dehydration, he tells himself. His walking slows down, another beat stutters. This time it's fast, hard and then irregular.
A cold awareness spreads through him. His hand drifts unconsciously to the center of his chest. He presses his fingers lightly as if he can steady the rhythm from outside. He pauses and assesses the situation. He inhales slowly, the air goes in but the breath feels shallow. His pulse accelerates again. The edges of the room soften and Robby blinks hard, trying to refocus on what is in front of him.
"You good?" someone asks as they pass by, he nods automatically without looking.
"Yup" the lie comes out too easily.
Another violent thud rattles through his chest, followed by a chaotic flutter that steals his breath. His hand that was holding the counter slips, that gets his attention. He tries to ground himself, wait for the dizziness to pass but it doesn't. Instead, pressure blooms behind his sternum; expanding with each heartbeat, tightening and releasing in a rhythm that feels disturbingly physical, as though his heart is pushing against resistance. Robby swallows and tries to step away from the desk but the floor tilts sharply and his knee fails to lock.
For a split second he thinks he’s just misstepped but then his heart lurches into a rapid, uneven rhythm that sends adrenaline flooding through him. He takes one more step, black spots crowd his vision. Sound dulls, conversations stretching and warping like he’s underwater. He hears someone laugh, hears a monitor alarm somewhere distant, but everything feels far away. He coughs reflexively, it's dry and nothing comes out. The absence of petals unsettles him more than anything else. Another violent misbeat hits, a rapid flutter followed by a terrifying pause where his chest simply stops moving. No beat or breath for a full second. Fear flashes sharp and his hand claws at his scrub top.
His legs give way completely. The impact is sudden and heavy. His shoulder striking tile first, then the rest of him following. The sound cracks through the department, louder than it should be. The voices stop. He hears his name like it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel. His heart thuds violently once again, slamming erratically against his ribs. Each contraction feels wrong, disorganized, too strong and not strong enough at the same time. He tries to sit up but his body refuses. Air comes in short, confused gasps. The ceiling lights smear together above him. Hands appear in his peripheral vision, someone kneels beside him.
"Hey, stay still" Jack's voice. It's close and urgent.
Robby turns his head slightly, struggling to focus. Jack’s face swims into view, concern stripped completely bare. Another wave hits. His chest tightens so suddenly he chokes, fingers curling against the floor. It feels like something inside him shifts with the heartbeat. It's a dragging, internal pressure that makes his stomach twist with instinctive alarm.
"Get a gurney!" he hears while he fights to keep his eyes open.
Robby shakes his head weakly, confusion overtaking fear. The treatment worked. The petals stopped. This isn’t supposed to happen. His heart races again, then stumbles, rhythm collapsing into chaotic beats that make his vision flicker. Jack’s hand grips his shoulder, steady and warm.
“Stay with me, okay?”
Robby tries to answer. Instead, the world narrows to a pinpoint of light as another massive misbeat steals consciousness out from under him. The last thing he feels is his own heart hammering wildly in his chest which is powerful, obstructed, and completely beyond his understanding before everything goes dark.
When the time comes, the sound returns first. A hum of steady and mechanical beeping cuts through the darkness, slow, deliberate and consistent. Robby focuses on it before even understanding what it is. Monitor, regular rhythm, even good rhythm. The realization surfaces automatically before his memory does.
His eyelids feel heavy and dry, once he finally forces them open, the world arrives in pieces. Muted light, pale ceiling tiles, faint antiseptic smell of a hospital room. He is not in the emergency department, it's too quiet. He inhales carefully, air moves easily, no tightness in his lungs, no urge to cough.
The awareness shifts inward, his chest feels strange. It's not painful or sore but he's just deeply aware. Every heartbeat is noticeable, each contraction firm and deliberate. He swallows, memory snaps back all at once. The desk, the dizziness, the falling. Jack's voice, the worry in Jack's eyes, Jack.
Robby's eyes open wider, he turns his head slightly and freezes. Jack is sitting beside the bed. He isn't standing or working but simply sitting. He has one elbow resting on his knee, fingers loosely curled near his mouth like he'd been thinking too hard. His hair is messy, scrubs wrinkled and exhaustion is written all over his face. A disposable coffee cup sits untouched next to him. His head lifts, eyes lock into Robby's and relief hits his expression so fast.
"Hey" Jack's voice is rough.
Robby blinks, trying to orient himself, his throat feels dry when he speaks.
"How long?"
"Couple of hours" Jack sits up straighter, careful but attentive, "You scared the hell out of us."
Robby tries to push himself upright, a hand immediately presses lightly against his shoulder. The contact sends a sudden and sharp awareness through Robby's chest. His heart accelerates before settling again. Robby shakes his head slightly.
"I can feel it"
Jack raises an eyebrow, "Feel what?"
"My heartbeat." he exhales slowly.
Jack glances at the monitor, he gets reassured by the steady rhythm displayed.
"You had an arrhythmia, pretty significant one, that feeling should be normal" he says carefully.
Robby processes that slowly, "I passed out?"
"You collapsed" Jack corrects gently.
"What caused it?" Robby finally asks.
Jack hesitates. It’s subtle, just a fraction too long but Robby notices immediately. Years of reading families and patients has trained him to catch pauses like that. His brows rise up.
"You don't know."
Jack exhales through his nose, gaze dropping briefly before returning to him. "Dr. Weiss from cardiology is on your case, he'll be here soon." it's all Jack can say.
That answer satisfies neither physician nor patient. Robby shifts slightly against the pillows. The movement makes his heart thud harder again, a deep internal pressure accompanying each beat. Not painful but just present. He presses a hand lightly to his sternum. The sensation intensifies under his palm; a strange fullness synchronized perfectly with his pulse. His confusion deepens. Jack watches him too carefully.
"You stayed, why?"
Jack turns to Robby sharply, "Where else would I be?"
Robby turns to him, it hurts him deeply. How could Jack not love him despite acting like this? Robby studies him now, properly and the exhaustion, the guarded expression, the way Jack keeps glancing at the monitor as if expecting it to change.
"You didn't have to" Robby insists.
"I know"
The simplicity of the answers catches Robby off guard. He stares at Jack, waiting for him to say something else but it never comes.
Then the inevitable comes, Dr. Weiss comes in. Jack looks at Robby with kind eyes, he doesn't leave the room. Robby would ask him to stay anyway. Jack has not been told anything, he is nothing more than a friend so it's normal they wouldn't give him any information.
"Dr. Abbot, please leave the room." Dr. Weiss says.
Jack wants to ask so many questions to Robby and Dr. Weiss but he holds back. It's not his place to ask such questions. The room suddenly feels closer to the both of them. So he leaves.
"It's interesting, your heart is completely covered by petals." Dr. Weiss says, Robby sharply turns to him.
"So they migrated."
"Were you aware of Hanahaki involvement?" Dr. Weiss asks.
"I had pulmonary manifestation" he looks at the ceiling, "Experimental treatment three weeks ago."
"The trial redirected growth " Dr Weiss says quietly, "Instead of expectoration, the floral tissue localized internally."
He points to the screen.
"This isn’t pericardial effusion. These are organized biological structures. They’re compressing during contraction."
"Can we remove it?" Robby asks.
"As Hanahaki removal goes, the love would be eliminated too." Dr. Weiss' words hit Robby in the face.
"No. I don't want that" Robby firmly says.
Robby wants scream and shout, leave the room and tell Jack about everything. He simply doesn't, he can't. Jack doesn't love him back despite all the care and admiration he has for Robby. That hurts the most.
"What does the timeline look like?" Robby says
"Heart failure eventually."
"What about the life span?" Robby asks, finally letting go and taking charge.
"Depending on how fast the petals are growing, rapid decline is expected."
"So you don't know in how long I would die." Robby says.
Dr. Weiss studies Robby's face. It's understandable that he would be frustrated and scared but Dr. Weiss feels like this goes deeper. He excuses himself out of the room and Robby is left alone.
Soon, Robby is discharged. He takes a couple of days off to rest and is advised to avoid stress. As if it was something he could do being the chief of an emergency department. Jack offers to take time off and take care of him but Robby declines. He can't take it, he can't let Jack take care of him knowing that he is dying because of him. He doesn't despise Jack but he is starting to get angry. Jack must love him but maybe he simply is too dumb to know.
Robby is at home, lying on the his couch as he stares at the schedule. He takes a sip from his cup of tea. He looks around, it's calm and silent in his apartment. The TV is off and he is too lazy to get up to turn his speaker on to listen to some music. He plays around with the schedule a little, avoiding putting himself on it. Then it hits him, he should take a longer break. A sabbatical, a few weeks maybe a few months. He calls up Gloria right at that moment and gives her, his decision. She surprisingly takes it well.
The next day he gets a call from Jack, he hates calls so Robby was worried the moment he saw his name on his phone screen.
"What the fuck?" is the first thing Robby hears.
"I was just made interim chief in your absence, care to elaborate?" he continues.
Robby lets out a chuckle, "I'm taking a sabbatical."
Robby hears Jack take a deep breath. He wouldn't have been able to tell Jack himself anyway so he is glad that he learned it this way. Jack doesn't answer immediately. Robby can hear him breathing through the phone. It's not the calm kind of breathing but the kind someone takes when they are trying hard not to say the wrong things.
"You collapsed, almost died and your solution is to disappear?"
Robby leans back into the couch, stares at the ceiling. His chest feels heavy today, not worse but present and every beat is deliberate beneath his ribs.
"I'm not disappearing, it's leave. People take leave" Robby defends himself.
"Not you." the certainty in Jack's voice lands harder than anger.
"That's kind of the point."
There is a long silence between them. Somewhere on Jack's end, background noise of the hospital he knows by heart is echoing. For a moment he can almost picture where Jack is standing, with one hand braced on his hip and his jaw tight. Robby hears footsteps on Jack's end, a door shutting and the background noise dulling. Jack would never seek privacy unless something mattered.
"Is this because of what Dr. Weiss said?" Jack asks.
Robby's fingers tighten around his phone and he stares at the faint reflection of himself in the dark television screen across the room.
"Partly."
"That's not an answer." Jack is firm with his words.
Jack lets out a frustrated breath, "You’re sick, Robby. You don’t just go off alone when you’re sick."
A beat passes and Robby feels his heart press hard against his sternum, slow and heavy as if it's listening too. Robby almost laughs at the situation he found himself in but simply closes his eyes instead. He can picture Jack exactly. He's probably pacing now, running a hand through his hair, trying to keep his voice down. Jack only gets like this when he’s scared. Robby knows that clinically but emotionally he still refuses to interpret it the way he wants to.
"I need space" Robby says carefully, "To think, to adjust."
"To what?" Jack presses immediately.
Robby hesitates. To dying, to loving you until my heart literally stops, to figuring out how to leave before you watch it happen. He swallows instead. Robby shifts on the couch, pressing his palm lightly against his chest. The steady thud answers him back, too strong, too aware. The petals are growing and he can feel it even without imaging. Each beat feels crowded.
"Nothing."
Jack sighs loudly, "You could've at least told me yourself."
"I didn't know how to."
"It's not nice to learn such a thing from administration." Jack adds.
Jack isn't even angry at Robby, he can tell that he is having a rough time but he doesn't know how to help either. Robby wouldn't even tell him he reason why he collapsed, maybe he doesn't trust Jack anymore for whatever reason. Robby takes the moment of silence as an opportunity.
"Take care Jack." he says
"Wait, Robby" Jack has the phone hung up on his face.
Robby doesn't regret hanging up suddenly, it is getting overwhelming. Not being able to tell Jack that he is dying because of him is another pain. Not being loved back is something but this is another. Robby kept staring at the ceiling, he couldn't wait to be dead. Oh, what a heavenly way to die. He sees loving Jack as a blessing and he accepted his fate.
As promised, Robby hops on his motorcycle and started his journey across the country. Life went on without him in the PTMC emergency department. Jack was now working the day shift and a new hire was occupying Robby's absence until he comes back. He has never realized how much Robby had in his hands, he had never been this busy before. He was so used to the organized chaos of the night shift, the day shift was something else, less grounding for sure.
Jack eventually gets used to working days and being in charge of all. One thing he can't get used to is Robby's absence. No inside jokes during handovers, no tight hugs or handshakes, no sharing a silence on the roof. Jack has never realized how much space Robby takes up in his life, mind and heart. He picks up extra shifts. Pretends the quiet office at the end of the hall doesn’t exist unless absolutely necessary, just like Robby. Life continues, which is apparently what people are supposed to do when someone important leaves.
He notices things he never paid attention to before. How no one argues gently but relentlessly for observation admissions the way Robby did. The department works but it feels slightly like a joint that healed wrong. Jack shakes it off. He tells himself that people leave, take breaks and it's normal.
The moment of clarity actually happens during a trauma debrief. Dennis is spiraling after a bad outcome, voice tight, eyes glassy. He thought after all those times, Dennis would've known how to handle death but Jack is wrong. He hears himself repeating words he’s heard dozens of times before.
"You did everything right."
The phrasing is familiar enough that he pauses, Dennis too. That’s Robby’s sentence, not similar but the exact thing Robby would say. He finishes the conversation automatically, reassures Dennis. Only afterward, standing alone near the lockers, it hits him properly. He didn’t just learn how to be a better teacher from Robby but he learned how to be in the world from him. The thought unsettles him more than it should. When they first met, Jack was a mess. He was trying to find his place in the world again, he learning how to function and how to go on. Robby had been his anchor, the shoulder he could rest on if he needed to.
He remembers every moment he shared with Robby. Robby handing him coffee without asking how he takes it because he already knows. Robby watching him during chaotic shifts with quiet, steady trust. Robby collapsing. The sound of his body hitting the floor echoes back into Jack’s mind so vividly his stomach twists. His chest tightens with not panic, not fear exactly but something worse. He realizes he has been tracking Robby’s absence the way people track pain: constantly, subconsciously, adjusting around it.
Every good case, he wants to tell Robby. Every bad outcome, he wants Robby’s voice grounding him. Every joke, every irritation, every long shift. Robby is the first and the last person he thinks of. Memories rearrange themselves instantly. The way he always checked Robby’s face first during codes. How relief flooded him whenever Robby walked into a room. Why the sabbatical felt less like inconvenience and more like loss. Why the idea of Robby being alone somewhere makes his chest ache in a way nothing else ever has.
It isn’t admiration. It isn’t friendship. It isn’t professional loyalty. It’s the way Robby’s absence changes the temperature of the entire world. It’s missing someone in quiet moments, not just dramatic ones. It’s fear, sharp and irrational, that something might happen to him far away where Jack can’t help.
“I’m an idiot,” he murmurs the way no one can hear him.
Because suddenly everything makes sense. Every lingering touch he never questioned.Every argument that felt too personal. Every time Robby said 'I’m fine' and Jack knew, instinctively, he wasn’t. He stands abruptly, pacing. He thinks about the phone call, about Robby’s careful voice and about how tired he sounded. About how Jack let him go anyway.
A new realization follows immediately, colder and heavier: Robby doesn’t know.Jack presses a hand over his mouth, dread settling into him. He is in love with Robby. Completely, quietly, probably for longer than he can pinpoint. And Robby is gone, somewhere alone, possibly very sick. He doesn’t just want Robby back as a colleague. He wants him back. Safe, alive, within reach. Now he knows and knowing changes everything.
The first few weeks of his sabbatical, Robby keeps in touch with Jack. Short texts, just letting him know he still exists. Then he regrets it, he craves Jack too much, it messes up with his mind. He suddenly stops, he stops messaging anyone. He just focuses on the road in front of him. He keeps thinking of his upcoming death. Would he die riding? Would he die in his sleep? Would it be painful? And most importantly, when would it happen? So he writes, specifically to Jack. A message, a letter that is scheduled to be sent to Jack's email in six weeks. Robby is sure he would be dead by then.
Jack receives the email as he is lying on his bed just before going to sleep. He has already taken his melatonin and should not be looking at his phone but he feels responsible to check his emails. A new one pops up just as he refreshes, it's from Robby. The exact Robby who hasn't been replying his messages in weeks, who no one has heard from in a while. The exact Robby he is in love with but took too long to notice. He clicks on the email.
If you’re reading this, then things went the exact way I though it would.
I wanted to leave quietly, without making anyone carry the weight of watching me fade. That probably wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry for that most of all. You deserved honesty sooner, but I didn’t know how to explain a disease born from something as human and as selfish as love. I had Hanahaki, last stage and I got on a drug trial. It made the petals migrate from my lungs to my heart. That's what made me collapse and that's why I died.
I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of changing into someone who no longer felt the things that made my life matter. I chose hope, even knowing the risks, because loving you, loving all of you was never something I wanted cured.
Please don’t look for something you could have done differently. There wasn’t a moment you missed or a word you failed to say that would have saved me. My life was full in ways I never admitted out loud. The long shifts, the bad coffee, the laughter at the desk when we should have been charting. And those were the good parts. You were the good part.
If this hurts, let it hurt for a while, but don’t let it stop you from living. Take breaks, go home on time sometimes. And please, forgive me for leaving without goodbye.
Thank you. I love you.
— Robby
Jack simply stares at the screen, tears in his eyes. He doesn't cry exactly but he knows for sure if he blinks even once, a single tear would fall down his cheeks. He takes a breath as deep as he can. He had Hanahaki, this entire time. Jack calls back to the cough, how tired he looked all the time in a different way than usual. He calls back to when he collapsed, how he retrieved afterwards and couldn't even look at Jack in the eye.
He immediately calls Robby, knowing he will not get an answer. He doesn't tell anyone that he got the letter, he doesn't tell anyone that Robby might be dead. He goes on with the ache in his heart. This isn't the first time he lost someone and wouldn't be the last. He was used to grieving, so much that it was a part of his daily life. This felt different though, the unknown. He is sure someone would've reached out if Robby was dead. Jack went on as if Robby was dead for sure, hope would be the end of him. Jack didn't cope well if he was hoping, the pain is easier to endure. Days, even weeks pass. Dana keeps asking if he heard from Robby, Dennis asks when Robby would be back. Langdon keeps saying things like 'When Robby is back.' and Jack just nods, smiles.
On a random Monday, the sliding doors to the emergency department opens. It feels wrong the moment the automatic door does its job. Robby walks in with his backpack on his back and his helmet attached to the strap. Nothing has changed. Monitors still chirp, stretchers still roll past, someone laughs too loudly near triage but he feels like a ghost walking through a place that moved on without him. The sabbatical has stretched longer than anyone expected. Every step costs him more now, his heart works hard enough that he can feel each beat pressing outward beneath his ribs. He almost turns around twice before reaching the central desk.
Jack stands there, sleeves rolled, arguing gently with Santos over orders. He looks exhausted in the way only leadership exhaustion shows. His posture is rigid, attention split everywhere at once. Interim chief suits him too well. Robby watches for a moment longer than he should, memorizing the familiar lines of him. Jack looks up and the reaction is immediate and violent in its stillness. Everything about him freezes. Santos keeps talking for another three seconds before realizing no one is listening and she turns back to see what Jack is staring at.
"Dr. Robby!" they hear King screech in excitement.
Everyone who saw him gathers around him, crowding him and overwhelming him. Jack stays back and watches, he can't believe what he's seeing. Robby is alive, seems well and he casually walked into the ED without a word.
"Everyone back to work!" Dana yells, people go on their own ways.
Jack feels anger, he is not the kind of man that gets easily angry but now he exceptionally is. The letter, the way he has been ignored for almost months. Robby having Hanahaki and not telling him, especially that he was the reason he had it. Jack then realizes why Robby is still alive, Jack has come to terms with his love for Robby. Robby's love is no longer unrequited. He wonders if Robby knows that.
Jack notices Robby is walking towards him but he doesn't engage, he turns his back and leaves to attend to a patient. He can't talk to Robby at the moment, not in public because he knows he would lash out. Jack is the calmest person in the lives of people he knows but at that moment he is fuming. He could've told Jack, he could've at least returned to his messages.
Jack avoids him for exactly forty-three minutes, not intentionally at first. At least that’s what he tells himself. There’s always another chart to sign, another consult to answer, another patient suddenly requiring his full attention. He moves through the department with sharp efficiency, voice steady, decisions precise and the picture of control. Every time he turns a corner, he feels Robby somewhere behind him. Not imagined, completely real. Breathing the same air again. Alive. The word keeps colliding with the memory of the letter burned into his mind.
Jack’s jaw tightens every time the sentence resurfaces. He finishes suturing a laceration, strips off his gloves and washes his hands longer than necessary. Water runs hot over his fingers while his reflection stares back at him from the stainless steel panel. Alive. He didn’t tell me. He dries his hands abruptly and steps back into the hallway, only to nearly collide with Robby standing there.
Robby must have been waiting. Up close, Jack can see the changes immediately. Thinner, paler. There’s a carefulness to how he stands, like balance requires intention now but his eyes are clear. Warm and watching Jack with quiet uncertainty. Jack walks past him, not rudely or dramatically. He just keeps walking and Robby follows.
"Jack!" there is no response.
They reach the corridor near the lockers, mostly empty between patient surges. Jack can barely catch his breath, his stump hurts and it is extra painful to walking in the speed he is walking. Jack finally turns around. The anger hits full force now, sharp enough to make his voice shake.
"What"Jack says, controlled but barely.
Robby stops a few feet away, "I wanted to talk."
Jack lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"Oh, now you want to talk." Robby flinches slightly.
Jack notices and hates that he notices. He presses on anyway because if he stops now he might forgive him too quickly.
"You disappear" Jack continues, voice rising, "You stop answering messages, you send a goodbye letter explaining you’re dead"
"I didn’t know if I’d survive" Robby says quietly.
"That doesn’t make it better!"
The words echo louder than intended. Jack lowers his voice immediately, but the intensity stays.
"I thought you were gone" he says, and that is the real wound underneath everything "Do you understand that? I read that email and thought I was too late."
Robby’s expression shifts. Guilt, realization, something deeper.
"I was trying to spare you."
Jack laughs again, this time harsher,"You don’t get to decide that!"
Silence settles heavily between them.
"I couldn’t tell you."
“Why?” Jack demands, "You tell me everything. Every stupid administrative headache, every bad case, every time you pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly not…but this?" his voice cracks despite himself.
Robby looks down briefly, then back up.
"Because it was you."
Jack freezes, getting confirmation of what he guessed previously.
"The Hanahaki" Robby says, steady now despite the tremor in his hands, "It was you."
The hallway feels suddenly too small and Jack’s brain struggles to catch up.
"You were dying because you loved me." his voice drops
Robby nods once. Jack exhales sharply, pacing once, hands running through his hair.
"And you didn’t think I deserved to know that?"
"I thought it was unrequited" Robby says, "That’s how the disease works."
Jack stares at him, stunned. All the anger shifts shape. it doesn't disappear but cracks open to reveal something rawer underneath. Jack steps closer, eyes bright now with emotion he’s clearly been holding back for weeks. He swallows hard.
"I was angry because it was the first time you told me you loved me was the letter."
Robby’s breath catches.
"And you only said it because you thought I’d never have to answer."
The truth lands between them, undeniable. Robby opens his mouth, then closes it again. Jack shakes his head slowly, disbelief mixing with relief and lingering fury.
"I spent weeks thinking I lost you" he says "Do you know when I realized?”
A humorless smile flicker, "During a trauma debrief. I heard myself talking like you, thought like you. Missed you so much it physically hurt."
He steps closer again, until there’s barely space left between them.
"I’m in love with you, Robby."
The words come out steady now, definite, certain.
"I probably have been for years. I was just too slow to understand it."
Robby stares at him, stunned into silence and Jack’s voice softens but doesn’t lose intensity.
"I’m furious you didn’t tell me. I’m furious you decided alone that I wouldn’t choose you back." Jack whispers
Robby’s eyes shine slightly, "I didn’t want to survive by forcing a confession."
"You wouldn’t have" Jack says immediately "You never had to."
A long pause stretches, heavy, fragile. Robby presses a hand lightly to his chest unconsciously. Jack notices immediately. Jack’s expression tightens with concern, but he doesn’t step back.
“Then no more disappearing,” Jack says quietly. “No more letters pretending you’re dead. If you’re going to scare me like that again, I at least get warning.”
Jack hesitates only a second before pulling him into a tight embrace. He is careful, mindful but firm enough to make the point. Robby freezes in surprise before slowly returning it. Jack exhales against his shoulder, tension leaving him all at once. It's different than all the tight hugs they've shared before. The way Jack's head rests on Robby's shoulder and how Robby grabs the back of Jack's head. They both let each other be held. Robby pulls back first, he cups Jack's face with his hands.
They make their peace with each other at last, accept each other's love. Morning arrives gently now. Not as an interruption, not as something Robby has to fight his way back into but just light slowly filling the room, pale gold slipping through half-closed curtains. He wakes without urgency, without the instinctive check of his body that used to come first. For a long time he simply lies there, listening. The apartment breathes around Robby. Pipes humming faintly, a car passing somewhere below. The quiet rhythm of another person sleeping beside him. Jack.
Robby turns his head slightly. Jack is still asleep, face softened in a way Robby rarely saw before, no tension between his brows, no alertness waiting just beneath the surface. One arm is thrown across the mattress toward Robby’s side, fingers curled as if even asleep he expects him to be there. The sight hits Robby harder than anything dramatic ever could. There was a time he thought he would never see this. The ordinary mornings, shared space, the quiet permission to stay.
He watches Jack breathe for a while, memorizing nothing in particular. Not because he’s afraid of losing it anymore, but because he finally understands he doesn’t have to rush through moments as if they’re limited. Jack stirs eventually, blinking awake. His eyes land on Robby immediately, they always do.
For a split second there’s confusion, the lingering fog of sleep and then recognition settles in, followed by something warm and unmistakably relieved. It still happens every morning, that tiny confirmation.Jack reaches out, pulling Robby closer by the sleeve of his shirt. The movement is automatic now, unguarded. Robby lets himself be pulled, settling into the warmth without hesitation. Neither of them speaks for a while.
It’s strange how silence used to feel heavy between them. Completely full of things unsaid, feelings carefully stepped around. Now it feels complete, like conversation isn’t always necessary to understand each other. Jack traces absentminded circles against Robby’s wrist.
"You slept through the night" he says softly.
Robby realizes he did. No waking. No restlessness. No lingering tension sitting under his skin.
"Yeah" he says "I guess I did."
Jack nods once, as if confirming something to himself, and closes his eyes again briefly. His shoulders loosen in a way Robby recognizes. The relief finally learning it’s allowed to stay. Returning to work had been easier than expected and harder than he admits. People welcomed him back loudly. Hugs, jokes, too many questions but what stayed with him wasn’t the attention. It was how normal everything felt. Charts still needed signing. Coffee still tasted terrible. Someone still laughed too loudly at triage. Life hadn’t paused while he was gone and somehow, instead of hurting, that comforted him.
He stands now at the central desk watching the familiar chaos unfold. Jack argues gently with Langdon over discharge instructions, calm but stubborn in that way Robby has always admired. The department moves around him like a living thing, loud and imperfect and alive. Jack glances up mid-sentence, instinctively searching and finds him watching. Their eyes meet, Jack’s expression softens immediately, almost imperceptibly to anyone else. A small smile flickers there before he turns back to work, reassured.
Robby realizes something then. For so long, love had felt like something fragile he had to protect alone. Something dangerous to admit, heavier the longer he carried it in silence. Now it feels simple. Not smaller, never smaller, just shared.
That evening they end up on the hospital roof again, drawn there without planning it. The city stretches below them, lights blinking on one by one as dusk settles over Pittsburgh. Cold air brushes against Robby’s face. He leans against the railing, watching traffic move like slow rivers of light. Jack stands beside him, close enough that their arms touch.
Robby reaches for his hand. Not carefully, not hesitantly but just because he wants to. Their fingers fit together easily, like they always had even before either of them understood why. There is no urgency, no countdown or fear hiding behind every good moment. Just two people who almost missed each other and didn’t.
Robby leans his head briefly against Jack’s shoulder. Jack doesn’t react with surprise anymore; he simply shifts closer, steady and warm. For the first time in a long time, Robby isn’t thinking about endings or survival or what comes next. He’s thinking about tomorrow’s coffee. About shared shifts. About arguments that will end in laughter. About waking up and knowing someone will still be there.His life no longer feels like borrowed time.