I'm sorry.
He knew he'd fucked up.
Robert Romano had spent his entire day doing one of either two things; trying to get ahold of Peter, or working, trying to ignore the sick feeling that had embedded itself deeply into his gut, festering like an open wound.
He hadn't caught a wink of sleep the night before. No matter how hard he tried, sipping some whiskey, hugging a very annoyed Gretel, who'd had just about enough of his tossing and turning for one night by around 2, moving to sleep on the floor by the bed—even ducking out into the cold for a quick walk down his dark, empty street to try and clear his head, along with his heart, which felt like it'd had the wind squeezed out of it by some fat Mexican wrestler. And that wrestler had NOT clipped his fingernails.
And of course, he tried calling Peter. Several times, in fact. And when that didn't work, he tried emailing him. Then paging him, several times over. Hell, he even tried faxing him a couple of times. And he would have called 911 to give him a damn wellness check just to get ahold of him, but he figured that would probably earn him a pretty hefty fine for the misuse of emergency services to try and smooth things out with his boyfriend.
It was all no use though. He gave up around 5:30, accepting the fact that he'd just have to plow through work with a little extra coffee today. Whatever time he didn't use early that morning still trying to call Peter was spent sitting in his dark lounge, his eyes glued to his television screen, attempting to sit through whatever stupid infomercials happened to be on at that ungodly hour.
But he really couldn't get into whatever whatshisface was saying about some generic made-in-China product that probably only gets used once after it's delivered, and then is doomed to spend its life stuffed away in some dusty storage space somewhere. All he really wanted in that moment was Peter to be right on that couch with him, holding him, pressing soft kisses on his cheek or temple or at the top of his bald head, commenting on just how idiotic and pointless some of those As Seen On TV products really were, inevitably giving him a laugh or two.
But the truth is, he couldn't have Peter. Not in that moment—or for all he knew, never again. So, he got the next best thing.
A non-stick waffle maker. WITH a free recipe book.
And an oven mitt.
Robert must have managed to pass out at some point while Billy Mays was going on and ON about something, because before he knew it, Gretel was bombarding him with kisses, assaulting him with her big wet nose against his neck, her usual way of demanding food at exactly 7 a.m.. Naturally, it was a routine they were used to after about half a decade, emotionally devastating split-ups be damned.
Despite this wake up call, he still rolled into work a whole 20 minutes late. But of course, that could slide with ease, considering his position as Chief of Staff and Head of Surgery.
A fat lot that mattered now.
He should have seen it coming. Stevie Wonder could have seen it coming. It'd only been a matter of time until he fucked things up, curb stomped them into the ground—and for what?
Some exclusive position in the hospital that let him steal surgeries and immediately earned him the more expensive rooms whenever he got stuck there with the flu? Access to the good coffee in the break room? The rest of it was just hours of paperwork that made his mind go numb and his eyes dull after the first thirty minutes of it.
He realized now that he'd give it all up for that man. He'd skip town and move to New Zealand to raise sheep if it meant he could be with him. Not whatever the hell this was, this lack of communication, this cruel uncertainty mixed with nothing but heartbreak and suffering.
He'd leave it all for him. Right now, in fact. Robert would have barged right in to Anspaugh's office just to tell him that he could find himself a new Chief of Staff and cram his regards straight up his ass. Maybe even chuck one of his 7 cups of coffee for the day right in his face for how he fucked Peter the previous day.
But who's to say Peter would even want him back after their big disagreement yesterday? Robert had practically told the man that he was nothing compared to his lousy administrative position, in so many words. That he was too much of a coward, afraid of looking like he was running away from a fight after higher administration had given him the axe, more than likely expecting Robert to be driven out by the action as well.
But that's not true. That's not true at all, he wanted to scream at the man now. Peter Benton was worth way more than some dumb position, at County no less. He saw that now. It took just one sleepless, torturous night, but it was all so clear to him now.
For once in his life, he found something apart from surgery that really got his heart racing, something that made him want to wake up the next morning. And in that moment, he was so close to letting that thing go, like a careless child with a balloon.
He sighed, pausing in his internal revelation to take a sip of his hot tea. It was much later now, and if he couldn't get ahold of his lover, Romano was looking forward to nothing more than a hot shower and a good 16 hours in which he was dead to the world, passed out in his king sized bed with his dog. His head had been pounding throughout the length of the day, demanding sleep and a meal that wasn't coffee or M&M's, contradicting his stomach, which felt as if it'd been used as Satan's personal come rag.
He turned his wrist, rolling up his sleeve to give a glance to his Rolex. It read 7:45 p.m.
Robert stood up then, stretching, with every intent of making a quick pit stop to his office before he clocked out for the day. He had the day off tomorrow, the last one before the big Christmas shift, and he was planning to savor it to the best of his abilities.
He opened the door to his outer office, already able to feel the hot water of his shower pelting his freckled skin. He ventured towards his inner office to grab his shit and leave.
"Oh, Dr. Romano! I'm glad I caught you." Brenda said from where she was gathering her own things, also preparing to leave for the night. "Dr. Benton stopped by about 20 minutes ago. Said he had some things to give you. I think he left them in your office..." Of course, his assistant wasn't deaf, and probably knew damn well what had happened between the two of them not 36 hours prior.
Robert fixed her with a surprised look. He merely nodded to her in acknowledgment, wordlessly entering the room and shutting the door behind him. His tired, glassy eyes searched the room before they fell at last on a decent sized card board box. It was closed using only the flaps on all four sides at the top of it.
His heart sank in his chest as his mind, slow on the uptake on account of his own exhaustion, already able to decipher the contents without even opening it. 'Oh. So he honored that old cliché'
He sat on the floor in front of the box, tugging the flaps apart, opening the dreadful thing slowly, as if something would jump out at him and bite him right on the nose.
Just as he expected, those anticipated items were in there, the ones that were always sent back after a bad breakup. Robert's toothbrush, a couple pairs of his boxers and sweatpants, a shirt or two, and one of his watches. He noticed that his favorite sweatshirt was missing from the bunch, though. The one he'd snagged for 10 bucks at a thrift shop. It was a light gray hue, with "HARVARD" printed high up across the chest in bold red letters, had a hood, and was at least 3 sizes too big for the bald man.
Peter had always poked fun at his tendency to sleep in it whenever he stayed over, and had blatantly stolen it after long, always saying he'd give it back the next time Robert stayed over. He was always bluffing, though, and even had the nerve to wear the thing in to work on a few mornings.
Of course, Robert never really did mind. Or care to admit that the old, threadbare thing looked better on Peter than on him, any day of the week.
As he sifted through the last of it, though, he noticed something else at the bottom of the box, something that wasn't his. Or wasn't supposed to be his, anyway.
He held the navy blue scrub cap in both hands.
Those little golden saxophones looked like big blurry smudges as tears welled up in his eyes, clouding his vision greatly.
Our well known surgical hero, Robert Romano, held the fabric of the scrub cap belonging to our other well know surgical hero, Peter Benton so tightly that his knuckles whitened.
His heart clenched painfully as he began to cry, falling apart completely in the same room where it all began.
to be continued...
