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Frank groaned, eyes blinking open slowly to the grey morning light slipping through the blinds. He could feel the warmth of a body behind him, and his face was buried in someone’s neck. Someone who smelled like a mix of pine, hand sanitiser and a hint of sweat… he smelled enticingly familiar, like home. Frank turned his head up slowly.
Robby’s eyes were already open.
“You’re up,” Robby said quietly. He propped himself up on one elbow. The light caught the grey in his stubble. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than lost sleep.
Frank moved to scramble away from Robby, trying to put as much distance between them as possible, already stammering out apologies. Vaguely, he registered Abbot groaning as he sat up, woken by the sudden movement.
“I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have had to come last night— I don’t know why I fucked up so bad last night, I should’ve known how deep to cut I’m such an idiot I’m sorry—” he gasped out.
Instead of looking angry, Robby’s face just softened into something like concern.
“Frank, honey, I don’t care that I had to get up in the middle of the night— I would have done that for any of my friends. I care that you felt you had to turn to self harm, instead of getting help from one of us.”
Frank sat there, dumbfounded. Friends? Since when? He wasn’t aware he and Robby were even on the level of acquaintances, let alone friends. He was shaken out of his daze by a gentle grip on his forearm, manhandling him between Abbot’s thighs to be facing Robby. “Wha—” he yelped.
Abbot shushed him. “Come on, kid,” he murmured. “You look like you’re about to bolt at any minute, and anyone who’s known you for more than a day knows that you thrive on physical touch.”
Frank couldn’t argue with that, slowly letting himself lean back into Abbot’s warm chest, desperately trying not to think about how nice the muscle felt pressed up against his back.
Robby shuffles closer until their knees touch, and places a gentle hand on Frank’s thigh. Frank opens his mouth to speak but is almost immediately cut off. “I know you’re probably overthinking this, so just let me talk for a bit first, okay?” Robby rumbled.
"I want to apologise first," Robby said, his thumb tracing slow circles on Frank's thigh through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. "When you went into rehab six months ago, I told myself I'd visit. I packed a bag twice. Drove halfway there once. And then I turned around."
Frank's brow furrowed. "You what?"
"I was scared," Robby admitted, and the word seemed to cost him. "of facing you. I felt like it was my own fault for not noticing, for reacting poorly, and for not making you feel like you could confide in me. So I stayed away, and told myself you didn't want to see me to stop the guilt. And when you came back, the guilt got even worse — you looked so tired and worn out, I knew something was wrong, and all I could think about was that if I had been there during rehab maybe your recovery would have been smoother. I couldn’t even look at you, because I felt like I didn’t deserve to be close to you after distancing myself when you needed me most."
Frank's throat worked. "I noticed," he said quietly. "I thought you were angry at me."
"I was angry at myself," Robby said. "And I'm sorry. That's not an excuse. You deserved someone showing up, and I didn't. I'm not going to make that mistake again. I shouldn’t have blamed you for shutting us out last night— it was my fault for not making you feel safe enough to come to me.
Abbot's arms tightened around Frank's ribs— not constricting, just present. A reminder that he was there too.
"Can you tell me?" Robby asked, voice gentle. "I want to hear your story, from your perspective."
Frank looked down at his own hands, trembling slightly. "Back injury," he started. "You know that part. They gave me a prescription for thirty pills to take as needed." He let out a hollow laugh. "I needed them a lot. Then I needed two. Then three. Then the prescription ran out and the pain didn't, so I found a guy who could get more."
"The funny thing is," Frank continued, "I didn't even like how they made me feel. Numb, and fuzzy, like I was watching myself from behind a glass door. But the alternative was worse. When I tried to stop, the withdrawal hit me like a truck. My heart would do this thing where it would race and then almost stop. I couldn’t work because of how badly I was shaking and sweating, and obviously if I took time off work to get through withdrawal I would have to come clean to you about my addiction. So instead, I just kept taking them."
He paused, swallowing hard. Abbot's thumb was rubbing small circles into his hip now, grounding him.
"I only started cutting after rehab." Frank confided. "It felt like my life was over. Everyone I ever cared about had left me— Abby, the kids…you. I barely had enough money to scrape by for rent, but the thought of going back to work terrified me. I had panic attacks about it for weeks. My landlord warning me about starting eviction proceedings if I didn’t pay rent in the next two weeks was the final straw. I went back to work, and I hated every moment of it. I could feel judgemental stares from everyone, and by the time I got home my skin felt like it was crawling. I was so desperate to feel clean again that I got out a razor and cut. Then… it just became a habit."
"It's not about wanting to die," Frank said carefully, looking between Robby and Abbot. "I need you to understand that. I don't want to die. If I wanted to die, I'd have done it properly. This is—" He struggled for words. "It's like a pressure valve. The anxiety makes my skin feel too tight. My brain won't shut up. And when I cut, it all goes quiet. Just for a minute, long enough to breathe."
He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the bandage Robby had wrapped last night. Then, very slowly, he rolled up the other sleeve. Older scars laddered up his forearm— some thin and white, some wider, puckered. A topography of bad nights.
"That's not even all of them," he admitted.
"Show us," Abbot said softly from behind him. Not demanding, just a request.
Frank hesitated, then nodded. He shifted position, pulling away from Abbot just enough to push down his sweatpants. His thighs were worse than his arms— crisscrossing lines, some pale and silvered with age, others still pink, and three at the very top of his left thigh that were barely scabbed over. Fresh, from two nights ago.
Robby made a small sound— not disgust, not pity. Something closer to grief.
"Can we?" Abbot asked, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nightstand.
Frank nodded again, not trusting his voice.
They worked together silently. Abbott cleaned each fresh wound with gentle hands, dabbing antiseptic while Robby cut strips of gauze and medical tape. Neither of them asked why Frank hadn't mentioned these last night. They just bandaged him, thigh to thigh, then rewrapped his arm with fresh gauze for good measure.
When they were done, Frank was trembling. Not from cold, but from the unfamiliar weight of being seen.
Robby set the first aid kit aside and took Frank's hands in his. "I'm going to say something," he said, "and I need you to not run away before I finish."
Frank's heart kicked against his ribs. "Okay."
"I've been in love with you for years," Robby said simply. "Jack has been in love with you for about eighteen months. We've talked about it— the two of us. A lot. We didn't say anything because you were in the middle of something, and we didn't want to pile on. But last night, watching you bleed out on the floor, I realized that waiting for the right moment was just another way of being a coward."
Frank's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Both of you?"
"Both of us," Jack confirmed from behind him. His voice was low, steady. "Not in a competitive way. In a ‘we want to take care of you’ way. Together."
Frank turned his head to look at Jack, then back at Robby. His brain was short-circuiting. "I don't— I don't know how to do that. I don't even know how to be in one relationship. I'm a mess. I cut myself to feel something. I'm withdrawing from benzos. I have nightmares. I wake up screaming sometimes—"
"Good." Robby said, and Frank stopped cold.
"Good?"
"We're not looking for someone easy," Robby said. "We're looking for you. Nightmares and scars and all. You don't have to be fixed to be loved, Frank. You just have to be willing to try."
Frank stared at him. Then, very quietly, he asked, "What would that even look like?"
Jack answered first. "You keep living in my apartment. You don’t have to spend every moment with us, unless you want to. But you sleep in our bed when the nightmares are bad. You eat dinner at our table. You let us remind you to take your meds and go to your appointments. And when the noise in your head gets too loud, you come find one of us instead of a blade."
"What about—" Frank's cheeks flushed. "Sex?"
Robby's mouth quirked. "What about it?"
"I don't— I haven't— it's been a while," Frank admitted. "And I don't know how that works with three people. Logistically."
"We figure it out together," Robby said. "Slow. No pressure. No expectations. We go at your pace. If all you ever want is to be held, we hold you. If you want more, we talk about it first. Every time."
Frank's eyes burned. "You can't promise that. You don't know what I'm going to be like six months from now. A year. I might get worse before I get better."
"Then we'll be there for that too," Jack said simply.
Frank broke. A slow crumple, like a building finally coming down after standing too long on a bad foundation. He leaned back into Jack’s chest, and Jack wrapped both arms around him, solid and warm. Robby leaned forward, cupping Frank's face in both hands.
"Can I kiss you?" Robby asked.
Frank nodded, barely.
Robby's lips were soft and warm and patient. He didn't try to push or deepen it, just pressed his mouth to Frank's for a long, gentle moment, then pulled back enough to rest their foreheads together.
"How was that?" Robby murmured.
"Good," Frank whispered. "Really good."
Then he twisted slightly in Jack’s arms, looking up at him. Jack raised an eyebrow. "My turn?"
Frank nodded again.
Jack kissed differently than Robby— slower, more deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of Frank's mouth. One of his big hands came up to cradle the back of Frank's head, fingers threading through his hair. When they broke apart, Frank's lips were tingling.
"That was—" Frank started, then stopped. Shook his head. "I don't have words."
"You don't need words," Jack said, smiling softly. "We know."
The three of them sat there for a while, tangled together. Frank's shaking gradually stopped. His heartbeat slowed from rabbit-fast to something steadier.
Eventually, Jack’s stomach growled— loud and insistent— and Frank surprised himself by laughing. A small laugh, rusty from disuse, but real.
"Alright, alright," Robby said, standing up and offering Frank a hand. "Time for breakfast.”
Frank let himself be pulled to his feet, leaning into Robby as they waited for Jack to reattach his leg. Together, they stumbled to the kitchen, with Robby’s hand on his waist, and Jack hovering behind them like a safety net.
The kitchen was small and cluttered. Robby found the coffee maker without being told where it was (he'd been here before, Frank realized. Multiple times). Jack opened the fridge and pulled out eggs, butter, and a half-empty carton of milk.
"I'm making omelettes," Jack announced. "Sit down. Both of you."
Frank sat on the couch, sinking into the cushions with a groan. Robby slumped down next to him— too close, deliberately, their thighs pressing together. Frank didn't pull away.
Jack cooked with an efficiency that spoke of practice. The kitchen filled with the smell of butter and onion and something green from the back of the fridge that was probably still good. Frank watched him move— the way his shoulders rolled, the concentrated furrow between his brows— and felt something crack open in his chest, like a window being unsealed after a long winter.
Jack poured coffee into three mismatched mugs and slid omelettes onto plates— fluffy, golden, stuffed with cheese and what turned out to be bell pepper and mushroom. He set them down gently onto the coffee table in front of them before collapsing on the other side of Frank, reaching over and resting his hand on Frank's knee.
"Eat as much as you can," Robby said quietly. "No pressure. Just try."
Frank picked up his fork. His hand only shook a little.
The first bite was good— really good. The second was even better. By the third, he realized he was actually hungry, and that felt like a small miracle.
They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need to be filled. Robby cleaned the pan while Jack finished his coffee. Frank finished most of his omelette. Not all, but most.
Frank set down his fork and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand (manners were for people who weren't running on four hours of sleep and emotional whiplash). "I've been thinking," he began.
Robby and Jack both looked at him.
"I'm staying on night shift," Frank said. "I know you're going to have opinions about that, but hear me out. I'm better at night. My reputation on day shift—" He made a face. "Everyone's waiting for me to fall apart. At night, I'm just another resident. No one watches me or expects anything."
Robby nodded slowly. "Okay," he said. "I understand. But— can you check in with me every morning? Just for my peace of mind. Text, call, whatever. Please don't go more than twelve hours without letting me know you're still standing."
"I can do that," Frank agreed.
"Good," Robby smiled. Then he set down his coffee mug. "Because I'm taking a brief sabbatical. Two weeks, maybe three. And I'm moving in here for that time."
Frank blinked. "What? Why?"
"Because I'm tired of the ER. Being under continuous stress for so long has made me… an asshole, honestly. I think taking time off would be the best thing to do for myself and everyone around me. And because my lease is up at the end of the month, and I'd rather be near people I love than rattling around my own empty apartment."
Frank's breath caught. People I love. Plural.
Robby stood up, rounded the tiny table, and pulled Frank to his feet. Then he kissed him again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into Frank's hair. Frank made a small, surprised sound and then melted into it, hands coming up to grip Robby's shirt.
When they broke apart, Jack was watching them with soft eyes. "My turn again later," he said, and Frank laughed— really laughed, breathless and bright.
"Yeah," Frank said. "Okay. Later."
Robby pressed one more kiss to Frank's forehead, then stepped back. "We've got the whole day," Robby murmured. "Let's start with a shower. Together. No sex— just soap and water and someone to lean on."
Frank smiled widely. "Yeah," he grinned. "Okay. Yeah, I'd like that."
Abbott was already herding them toward the bathroom, big hands gentle on Frank's shoulders. "I'll wash your hair," he declared. "You look like you haven't slept properly in weeks."
"I haven't," Frank admitted.
"You will tonight," Robby said, and the promise in his voice was absolute. "You're not alone anymore, Frank. None of us are."
The bathroom was small and steamy within minutes. And Frank, for the first time in eight months, let himself be held without apologizing.