The smile on Beck's face is dangerous, he thinks to himself sometimes. His lips are poisonous.
But then the voice fades and he closes his eyes again, the blurry image of Beck's outline printed on the back of his eyelids, before light peals through the darkness, blazing it away, burning the image. He sighs, fists unclenching from the sheets as drowsiness takes over again. Unconsciously, he moves closer to Beck – but only because it happens to be cold at four o'clock in the morning.
Suitcases are strewn over the floor, piles of messy and creased clothes are toppling over on the bed with Robbie in the middle. Beck's on the floor, his brow creased as he looks back from the bed to the floor, before he sighs and rests his head on his hand.
"Is packing usually this much work?"
"Kind of, when you've moved in with someone," he says, though he really doesn't know. Honestly, he thinks it would be easier for both of them if Beck just hurried up with it. Beck nods, clearly only half-listening, before finally pushing the suitcase nearest to him away.
"Too small," he says.
It happens because Beck holds his hand, just underneath the table one time.
"What?" he'd said, and Beck had just leaned in, far too close, and said:
"Shh." It came out like a whisper. "Just trust me."
You're the girl here, a voice sounding suspiciously like Rex tells him.
"Of course," he mutters to himself. He stares down at the cup of coffee in his hands, watching the last remnants of steam swirl into the air. It dawns on him that he's still talking to himself, even if there isn't a puppet right beside him.
(But that's only when Beck's away.)
They're lying on Beck's bed, heads together on the pillows, arms touching but legs spread out all over the bed – shoes still on, getting the sheets all dirty. Full House is playing, colourful images to play against Robbie's half-closed eyes and noises that run together into a calming hum. He can feel himself drifting off to sleep, his head about to fall on Beck's shoulder.
"Hey, Robbie, you're falling asleep." An empty thud to his arm. Another one.
"I know," he mutters, but opens his eyes anyway, watching Beck smirk. "Why do you even watch this?"
"I like it," is all he says.
"So why am I watching it?" Beck grins, nudging him with his elbow and inching just a little bit closer to him. He taps him on the shoulder again, and Robbie feels warm, comfortably hot through his shirt.
"Because you like me and making me happy," Beck says. He shakes his head, pretending it isn't true.
The time when Beck is and isn't there starts to blur together; it's all just a combination of familiar aromas and half-dilated pupils in the early morning, hypersensitive ears being kept awake by the drip drip dripping sound of rain and longing skin itching either to be touched or to be in the cold, fresh air – he can never tell.
Even when Robbie's sure that he isn't there, so sure that he checked each room and rang his phone to ask, where are you now?, it still feels like he is. The way his sent has touched everything in the apartment, staining it, to the way his smile has broken the mirror, so that Robbie only sees Beck's grin when he looks at it.
He never really misses Beck when he's away, just snuggles up to the last remnants of him and closes his eyes and dreams, light sleeping where the sounds from the outside world get tangled up in his head and he wakes up, shallow breathing and feeling as if no time has passed at all.
The first time Beck kisses him he is drunk, and he tastes like vodka and caffeine and it sends a chill down Robbie's spine, lights his fingers on fire and he can feel absolutely every sensation in his body. And as he continues all he can think is danger, stop! except he stopped having truly coherent thoughts a while ago.
But then he pushes Beck away, his palm feeling light as it rests on his chest, and he looks up at Beck, straight into his eyes, and shakes his head. And Beck looks surprised, almost worried, with his mouth still open as if he was exhaling invisible smoke and his red lips that make Robbie's other hand clench, but his eyes are soft around the edges, and he thinks that maybe Beck understand his actions more than he does.
"You should go to bed," Robbie says softly. Without another word, Beck turns around and starts to walk towards his room, stumbling lightly and making soft little noises any time Robbie catches him. Finally, they reach his bed, Beck immediately falling back on it with a soft thud, and looking at him so that Robbie starts to wonder whether this really is a dream.
"Stay with me," Beck says suddenly, grabbing onto Robbie's sleeve.
"Ok," he says, already starting to lie next to Beck – rigid. "Ok."
(The only time Robbie truly ever feels lonely is when he's with Beck in his bed, feeling as if he's miles apart from him and miles apart from consciousness to sleep.
His fists clench in the sheets.)
When he goes outside of the apartment for what seems like the first times in days, maybe even weeks, all he goes to is the local chemist to get some more sleeping tablets. And everybody he sees almost seems to stop on the street and stare at him, asking are you all right? over and over again, and he nods sighing and saying, yes, yes, I'll be fine if I get the tablets. He offers them a smile. Really.
He hands the money over to the chemist and waits, feeling weary and tired as if he's been up for hours, until finally the chemist comes back with the packet and he smiles at him, walking away and stuffing the pills in his back pocket. He's about to walk back home (is it his home? He can't really tell anymore) when he looks along the path, drying puddles of rain water in the cracks of the pavement, and he feels cold, and a voice reminds him that he needs food, anyway.
He walks into the apartment with two plastic bags banging against his knees and the packet of sleeping tablets still in his back pocket feeling heavy and clunky and he sees Beck, sitting on the couch as if he never left at all. He looks over at Robbie, his eyes widen, and he hops up, going over towards him, but Robbie just stands still, not even dropping the bags to the floor.
"Hey, you look terrible," Beck says, cupping his cheek in his hand. Robbie meets his eyes.
"I know," he says, and then Beck grins, and he feels himself into that same paradox, the one where when he's with Beck, he's outside time and place and in a completely different world.
And then he kisses him, and Beck kisses back, and the shopping bags drop to the ground, a slight thud on the carpet that neither of them really cares about.
"I love you best," Beck tells him one day. He nods, sighing, and turns back to the newspaper. He feels Beck coming closer, but doesn't look up, just tries to bury himself deeper in it, the black and white words a blur, all of them starting to look like an optical illusion and making his head spin. Beck presses it down against the table, raising his eyebrows at him, before sitting down on the newspaper.
"I swear to god you're one of the only people who still reads newspapers," he says. He rolls his eyes at him, pushing him off the table and picking the newspaper back up. Beck just leans down closer, talking in his ear.
"I do love you, you know," he says. And Robbie nods just to shut him up, still not looking at him, just at the newspaper as he takes a section of it out.
"Do you want the comics?" he asks, handing it to Beck. He just grins.
Sometimes, when Beck's away, he counts airplanes, anytime he sees them or hears them going over his apartment, up in the sky.
One, two, three, four airplanes, he counts. I wonder if that's Beck's. And he doubts that ever of them are, particularly as he never knows which days Beck is flying away, time blurring and number's repeating themselves over and over, never moving forward.
But then he thinks, not really caring as he follows a passing plane with his finger pressed against the window, I wonder if he'd think of me, I wonder if he knows this is where I am.
He can still feel Beck's fingertips against his skin no matter how many days have passed, as if they're burned, melded, tainted, imprinted – he's fumbling over words at the thought of all of it, of them, wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans as he tries to figure out everything.
It's love, a voice tells him.
The word's too simple for them, he decides.
It rains a lot when Beck's away. The window always fog up, revealing little pictures that he'd forgotten about; the ones he drew when he was happy, maybe, or probably just drunk. But it makes him feel safe, warm, to see those pictures, to know that time has passed after all.
He sits on the bedroom floor, wearing one of Beck's multiple flannel shirts that he always leaves behind because he knows Robbie likes them, and waits.
The dial tone blocks out the rain.
Disclaimer: I do not own Victorious. The title and description are from the band Huma, and the song I Caught Myself by Paramore. Also, credit goes to Brea (aloxi) for the whole Beck and Full House thing, and any other canon credit goes where it is due.
A/N: First time writing Beck/Robbie and fanfiction in general for a while. Review/PM me if you have questions/hated it/liked it, etc.