knotsandknives:

“Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you?”

Robert glances over, surprised. Joseph isn’t looking at him, gaze focused sightlessly across the still water. It’s a quiet night at the docks, moonless and warm. The deck of Joseph’s yuppie yacht is littered with various bottles in various degrees of emptiness. They haven’t spoken a word in nearly an hour, Robert would estimate, judging by the shifting position of the stars. There’s an aura about Joseph tonight, heavy and tangible. Robert’s left him alone, not because he isn’t curious. He just knows Joseph can never keep quiet for long.

“A world without this pretty face? Nah.” Robert preens, teasingly, causing Joseph to huff a laugh. “What’s up, kid?”

Joseph still hasn’t turned to look at him. He rests his forehead on the railing, legs dangling off the side of the boat. Joseph’s silent again for a spell, long enough that Robert starts getting antsy. He reaches for one of the bottles of zinfandel, taking a generous swig before bumping Joseph’s shoulder with his own, finally pulling his attention away from the water. Robert offers him the bottle, and Joseph accepts with a wane smile. Robert watches as he takes a deep pull, head tipping back, stray droplets of wine escaping the corners of his mouth to run down his throat. Robert leans in to catch them. No sense letting good wine go to waste.

Joseph sighs softly when Robert pulls away, passing the bottle back. He turns away again, shifting subtly enough that they’re no longer touching. Robert’s growing more concerned by the second. Joseph is the clingiest fucker he knows. It’s gotta be bad if he’s the one shying away from contact.

“Joseph,” Robert tries again, careful to keep his hands to himself, no matter how badly he wants to pull the younger man into his arms. “What’s wrong?”

Joseph shakes his head, draping his arms over the railing, fingers linked loosely in front of him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says, finally, voice almost quiet enough to be lost in the whisper of the gentle waves lapping at the boat. “I was just thinking.”

“I gotta remember white wines make you all weepy,” Robert mutters, glaring at the bottle in his hands. Joseph’s head swings around, eyes blazing in the dim pier lights.

“I’m not ‘weepy’,” he barks, tone harsh. “People can have thoughts and feelings without being weepy. Emotion is not a weakness, or a burden you have to bear, Robert.”

Robert holds out his hands, placating. “Whoa, hey, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying, the white makes you melancholy.” He’s still surprised by Joseph’s outburst, but Joseph seems to be over it.

“Maybe my life makes me melancholy,” he says, voice more resigned than angry now. Robert laughs, unwisely. It earns him another quick glare. Joseph shifts again, farther away, arms crossed over the railing now, posture more closed off than ever. He’s really in a mood, one Robert wishes he’d picked up on sooner. One that definitely isn’t amenable to teasing.

Robert bites back a host of snarky replies about how Joseph’s typical “Mr. Sunshine” demeanor doesn’t lend itself well to his newfound emo ‘tude. This seems like a real dolor, rather than a cheap wine-induced funk.

Robert mirrors Joseph’s position, still a safe distance away. He thinks about Joseph’s original question, taking it more seriously than before.

“I used to,” he says, lowly. “Wonder about it,” he elaborates when Joseph makes a face. Robert grimaces in a way that might be construed as a smile, by anyone who doesn’t know him as well as Joseph. “I’m sure Marilyn thought so. Val probably still does, to be perfectly honest.” He gives a weak chuckle, prompting Joseph to slide closer, fingers brushing his elbow. “When you’re on the wrong side of a weeklong bender, laid up with your wife crying downstairs and your kid crying in her crib, out of work for the fifth time in a year, the thought crosses your mind.” Robert shakes his head, now the one to search the water for answers. “There’s no doubt that they would have been better off without me. And maybe it would have contributed to some butterfly effect shit where my being gone would have led to the cure for cancer or world peace or something like that.” He shushes Joseph when he protests, catching one of his hands between his own. “But no matter how many times I thought it, how many times I may have wished it were true, I always figured there had to be a reason I was here. A reason to stick around.”

“Was there?” Joseph asks, whispers, really, like the words are too hard to speak aloud. Like Robert’s answer holds the weight of the world. “Because sometimes I feel like all I do is hurt people. That all I’m capable of is hurting people. Mary. You. Myself. No matter what I do, someone’s going to -”

“Are you going to let me answer the question?” Robert interrupts, not really annoyed. He just needs Joseph to stop talking because every word is like a barb, pricking and tearing at Robert’s heart.

“Sorry,” Joseph breathes, twisting Robert’s fingers painfully tight in his grasp.

“There’s a reason.”

Joseph waits, expectant, eyes searching Robert’s for all of three seconds before he can’t take it anymore. “Well!? What is it?”

Robert smiles, gently, pressing their foreheads together. Joseph is warm, like he always is, and he smells like a sea breeze, like he always should. “You really gotta ask me that?”

They’re still for a moment, gazes locked, breathing out of sync. Then Joseph’s eyes fall closed, and he sighs out a breath that tastes of weariness and wine against Robert’s chapped lips.

“I guess I don’t.”

Robert doesn’t ask for Joseph’s reason. He’s just gonna make damn sure that it’s him, for as long as Joseph needs it.