Chapter Text
Mac almost forgets to be quiet when the gang comes back to Dennis and Dee’s place. He's a little inebriated, sure, but more than anything, he's buzzing off the high of making over a thousand dollars. In just three hours. It's fucking awesome.
The four of them sneak down into the basement after Dee grabs a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on top of the liquor cabinet.
He's not even thinking about how he barely got to enjoy Tim Murphy’s party, and how he didn't get to swim in his pool (which, okay, he's a little bitter about), because he's practically a millionaire. Pot sells too well around rich snobs, he thinks, grinning as Charlie passes him the bottle of whiskey.
After raising it to his lips, he chokes down a good amount, at least three shots worth, by his estimate. Immediately, Dennis’ hands are rubbing his shoulders, cheering in support of his chugging. He lets out a disgusting burp after, feeling the brown come back up his throat before choking it down because nothing is more embarrassing than puking drunk.
“You are on fire tonight, Mac!” Dennis laughs, snatching the whiskey bottle from behind Mac.
Mac turns around with a smile and does not look at Dennis’ wet, pink lips wrapped around the bottle.
Do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh.
He squeezes his eyes shut, lets the warmth of the alcohol burn through him like a punishment, and tries to jump back into his previous state. “Thanks, man,” Mac mumbles happily, because getting a compliment from Dennis is rare and makes his head spin with joy.
“Did you see Maureen’s keg stand? Jesus, I thought she’d die,” Dee joins, making grabby hands at the whiskey as Dennis leans to pass it to her.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sputters lightly. “She threw up right next to the pool, her dress got all soaked,” Dennis laughs, and his hands are no longer pressed against Mac’s shoulders, courtesy of Jack Daniels, but he's still sitting behind him.
Mac could lean back and land right against Dennis’ chest. Could nuzzle close, hair tickling Dennis’ chin. His head gets fuzzier and suddenly stroking his fingers against Dennis’ bare ankle at his side doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
He tests our faith – I shall remain strong and competent. I have not failed.
“You guys still a thing?” Charlie asks, shuffling around on the couch until his legs are stretched into Dee’s lap.
Dennis snorts, shakes his head. “God, no,” he tells them, scooting closer to Mac on the floor, his folded leg resting against Mac’s lower back. “I can't believe we were ever a thing in the first place.” Mac can feel his breath, faintly, possibly phantomly, against his neck.
This must have been how Eve felt. Swallowed by desire.
He shuts his eyes.
Thou shalt not – fuck, what was it again? Thou shalt not touch another man’s ankles? That's probably one.
“Was it the tooth?” Dee makes a pained face imagining it, passing the bottle back to Charlie. He doesn't bite, immediately handing it over to Mac.
Mac swallows like his life depends on it, downing another big gulp before Dennis’ hands are back on his shoulders and he curses himself for getting here.
He can barely register Dennis laughing behind him, bellowing out, “It genuinely smells like shit. Really. I can't believe I let her blow me, man,” while his slender digits dig into Mac like fucking daggers, or lightning bolts, whichever God was more likely to punish him with. “Slow down there, man,” Dennis chuckles, tone worried. He reaches over Mac’s shoulders, his head pressed near his neck, snatching the bottle out of Mac’s drinking lips. “Leave some for the rest of us.”
Dennis gulps down a chug of whiskey behind him. He can hear his throat contracting, or doing whatever it is throats do.
Judgment day will attack you and you will lose. It is not mortal to be weak.
“Sorry,” Mac murmurs, leaning away from Dennis. He's properly drunk now. Or at least he knows he will be soon. Knows how it'll settle in beneath his skin and let him think without God for a while.
He feels guilt more than joy these days. Despite his good night out, his fortune, his friends, and his pleasant buzz, he is begging for forgiveness of his thoughts once again because confession doesn't rid him like it used to. It isn't the same; seeing a man in a magazine and popping a boner is nothing compared to sensing Dennis Reynolds’ eyes on you across the room. His thigh pressed against the outside of your hip. His breath against your neck.
Mac accepts the way his skin burns when Dennis hugs him as a sign from God. A taste of Hell, of choking on desire.
“Wanna watch Predator?” Dee poses to the group, her voice slurring ever so slightly.
Mac shrugs, Dennis enthusiastically whoops, and Charlie’s already pressing up against Dee’s side to make room for Mac and Dennis on the couch.
The couch is too small for four people. Maybe not too small, really, Mac thinks, but too small for Dennis’ thigh to not touch his. Too small for Dennis’ arm not to be slung across the back of it. Too small for Mac to not feel like he is going insane, reaching for forbidden fruit he cannot even see.
It starts to kick in, the alcohol.
He gets warm first, all over, but mostly centered in his chest and face. His eyelids droop half-closed and he finds himself sinking against the couch, embracing the way his thigh burns against Dennis’ and rests against Charlie’s. There's a buzzing in his head, like radio static, blocking out anything he could possibly be conjuring up. Because it's just this. Right now. Sweating in a muscle tee with his friends and his clammy hands and there's no sign of God and Mac finds himself chuckling at the notion.
A world without God. Who would he be trying to impress, then?
He’d become a total degenerate.
His head lulls back, resting against Dennis’ arm, and he lets it happen because Dennis burns just as much as the couch does and he's pretty sure he doesn't want to kiss the couch, so he's probably safe.
Charlie falls asleep first. And to his credit, he lasts about twenty five minutes. Dee is a close second, resting her head on top of Charlie's while she snores.
Mac thinks it's a terribly unattractive sight.
“Just you and me, then?” Dennis taps Mac’s shoulder, as if to check he's still awake, and he points over at their friends.
Mac swallows a lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he whispers back, not nearly as casual as he was hoping.
He can feel their closeness more, now. Charlie and Dee’s souls are no longer taking occupancy and he's just sat here, resting his head against the back of the couch, wondering how many confessional booths he’ll have to go to if he just leaned against Dennis. Just leaning.
God shall never tempt you with the irresistible.
He does not have to think. Dennis shifts his arm down and leans it against Mac’s shoulder like they've done a million times. Mac leans into it. His head is too empty to think. Too full of yes and too devoid of pain.
His head slips against Dennis’ shoulder, squeezing his own arms tightly. It does not feel wrong. Mac is more disgusted by this than the inverse.
Cleanse me from this sin. I must know what it feels like.
He will beg for forgiveness tomorrow. Tonight, probably. He will hold his crucifix and mend the pages of his Bible together in his mind and he will remember the thoughts are not the sin. They are just a punishment, a test of loyalty.
And right now, Mac is choosing Dennis, and he knows that even God will understand because Dennis smells like church if he tries hard enough.
“How much did you make tonight?” Dennis asks conversationally, running his pointer finger across Mac’s bicep now.
Sharp breath in.
“Like a million,” he slurs out, one arm reaching out on its own to wrap around Dennis’ waist, squeezing at his side.
He's so warm it could kill him. But Dennis makes a sound of satisfaction and squeezes Mac’s shoulder, pulling him closer, and Mac cannot find it in his heart to try and cool down.
Predator is running on the TV like someone else’s life, passing him by in a flash while he tries to focus on what is in front of him. Because he has never felt safe in his life but tucked under Dennis’ arm gets him closest.
Fill me with clean thoughts and right desires — remove him if it is the only way.
“You're shaking, Mac,” Dennis whispers, voice gentle in the way he only gets around Mac. “You good, man?”
Dennis removes his arm and sits back, watching Mac curl back to sitting up straight.
Their eyes meet and Mac can not understand how anybody could deny themselves of this.
“I dunno,” Mac mutters, words blending. “We’re so close, sitting so close,” he notes, unable to shut up, teeth clattering.
“Yeah, dude. Small couch,” Dennis points out, and he's smiling like he's proud of Mac for something and Mac wants to kiss him so bad it hurts.
Mac wants to kiss him and tell him to walk away and never come back and he needs him more than anything and it's punching all the air out of him, leaving him staring right into the eyes of His creation, begging him to exercise control. To not glance at the apple.
“Hey. Mac, buddy,” Dennis snaps his fingers in front of Mac’s face, one hand now pressed against Mac’s cheek, holding him shakily in place. “You with me? You gotta pull trig?”
Mac shakes his head, wide eyes shiny as he stares at Dennis’ chiseled nose and scruffy hair. His bitten lips and sculpted cheekbones. God sent him here as a test and he's fucking failing.
It haunts me day and night.
And then Dennis is staring back at him, and his face is getting closer, Mac is pretty sure, unless he's just woozy from the whiskey, until he's so close that Mac can definitely feel Dennis’ real breath against his cheek. He gasps when Dennis’ thumb caresses his cheek, slowly smoothing down and in until the pad of his finger is pressed against Mac’s top lip.
He feels unwell. Dennis looks too beautiful to be true. Dennis feels too beautiful to be true.
“Den–?” Mac tries, voice getting caught in his mouth, threatening to come out but not quite following through.
Dennis shushes him, his thumb now swiping across Mac’s fuller bottom lip, face turned into a soft smile. “Beautiful lips,” Dennis whispers, almost to himself, but Mac hears.
Mac hears and Mac hopes God didn't hear because this is too private to be eavesdropped. He hopes God didn't hear and he forgets all about Adam and Eve and the stupid forbidden fruit or something and all the Psalms he’s been recalling for later, for before this moment, because this might be the end of him. For good.
“Den, I–” He tries again, caught by a voice crack.
“It's okay,” Dennis whispers, as if he knows what Mac is thinking. Because he probably does.
He removes his thumb.
Mac’s crucifix necklace is branding against his skin, he's pretty sure it's sizzling by now, marking him with impurity. Weakness.
“I don't know,” Mac slurs, quietly, and he can't take his fucking eyes off of Dennis' mouth, so slick and close and warm and Jesus Christ.
“It is, it's okay,” Dennis assures him again, and he's so close Mac whimpers with desire, pathetic and quiet. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he says, not quite asking for permission.
Mac breathes. He cannot move. Even if he wanted to smack Dennis across the face, he wouldn't be able to. “Okay,” he manages, all breath and nearly no sound.
Forgive me, for I have sinned. Make me pure again for I am ashamed. Forgive me, for it feels so fucking good.
Dennis kisses him like he might slip away. Hands pressed against his cheeks, lips pillowy and soft. Mac holds onto Dennis’ elbows like it's meant to steady them. He's trapping him, trapping him in this house, on this couch, in this hold. He's trapping him and he tastes like whiskey and strawberry chapstick. He's trapping him and Mac is letting him, melting into his impulses, sucking his mouth like it's always been his.
Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow — I do not understand how you could make me this way.
He doesn't pull away. Because if he pulls away, he’ll know. It’ll have already happened and he can't let it happen again because once is bad enough but twice means he understands his sin, his misdeed, and decided to flip God off.
The air from Dennis’ nose ghosts against his cheek. They deepen, Dennis printing his thumbs to Mac’s cheeks like he's trying to mean more to him than religion. And it's fucking working, Mac thinks, because Dennis licks inside of his mouth with a fervor he's never known.
Dennis pulls himself up, not breaking their lips, planting down into Mac’s lap quickly. They're scrambling now. No longer caught up in romance or pretty glances or gentle hands. It's just this, sucking on Dennis’ tongue and licking his gums with desperately parted lips. Dennis rolls his hips. Mac frowns into a moan and staggers his breathing.
No return.
It's fucking slobbery, animalistic, Mac’s hands guiding to Dennis’ thin waist and pressing him closer because it is impossible to be close enough. He rocks his hips, getting hard against Dennis, letting out a quiet moan into his mouth.
He has never felt this before. Such freedom. Pursuing pleasure for pleasure’s sake.
“Fuck, Mac,” Dennis whimpers against Mac’s mouth, perversely grinding their dicks together through thin layers of denim.
His name all exasperated in Dennis’ mouth makes him tremble.
Mac moans against him, digging his nails into Dennis’ shirt, bucking his hips against his movement. They're breathing together now, loud and labored, both trying so hard to be quiet enough to not wake up their friends next to them.
His head is quiet, drinking up Dennis on a Friday night because he fucking can. He can.
He kisses Dennis again, continuing to roll his hips up, reveling in how fucking tasty the friction feels against him. Their tongues swipe together filthily, so desperate for it, grinding against each other like it's the only way to live. Mac is pretty sure that's true by now.
“Oh, Mac, baby,” Dennis purrs, breath hot on Mac’s lips, one hand gripped against Mac’s chest.
“Please, please,” Mac begs, and he's not sure what he's begging for, but it's fucking something, anything, because he’s straining against the two layers covering his dick. He has never felt like this before.
Dennis knows him better than he knows himself because he's undoing both of their zippers while pressing hot kisses to Mac’s neck. Mac has to force himself not to moan, biting Dennis’ shoulder.
Dennis’ hand wraps around his dick and he shivers, full body.
No impure person has an inheritance in the kingdom of Christ or God. You shall not lie with a man as with a woman.
It is an abomination.
“Get off me!” Mac shouts suddenly, tucking himself back in, terrified. He pushes Dennis off immediately, making him land on the floor, tailbone hitting the carpet.
Mac can't describe his state now. Can only look at Dennis’ flushed face and visible erection and see disgust.
“Ow! What the Hell is your problem, Mac?!” Dennis shouts back, but Mac is already standing, already stumbling his way to the stairs.
Dee and Charlie stir awake. Dennis chases Mac up the stairs.
“Mac!” Dennis shouts after him, trying to catch his ankle as he speeds up the stairs.
Mac sees nothing in front of him because Mac is crying and scratching at his arms in agony. Mac wants to kill Dennis. Mac wants to lay in bed and recite Psalms until his voice goes hoarse and he forgets the way Dennis’ mouth felt against him.
Dennis gets to him at the top of the stairs, grabs his shoulder and turns him so they're face to face again.
“Get your fucking hand off me,” Mac slurs, squeezing his eyes frantically to remove those stupid tears.
“Mac, stop,” Dennis mumbles, and he's stumbling them into the kitchen, pushing him against the pantry door. “Stop, Mac. What’s going on, what happened?”
Mac’s trying to fight against him but the whiskey has loosened him up too much. He feels like jelly and he hates Dennis and he needs to be home. “Christ, get off me, fag,” Mac mumbles, words jumbled together.
Dennis’ face goes limp. “What the fuck, Mac?” He murmurs, still pinning Mac’s shoulders. “Are you kidding me? Really? You’re calling me a faggot? Fucking really?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Mac shouts back, and he knows he's still crying but he can't fucking stop. He needs to shower or scrub himself clean. Needs to see blood and show God that he knows this isn't real. That it can’t be this way.
“It means you were hard too, asshole,” Dennis spits back. “All that Jesus shit popped up halfway, huh? To lay with another man or some other bullshit? Give me a break. Newsflash, asshole — God isn't gonna strike you dead because you like grinding!”
“Fuck you!” Mac shouts, and he's sure Dennis’ parents can hear it, some kind of screaming, but he can't be bothered to care because Dennis is standing here, pretending like it's all bullshit. Pretending like Mac is gay. “Let me the fuck go!”
“Or what, huh? You gonna kiss me again? You weren't complaining five seconds ago, you dickhead,” Dennis spits back, bruising Mac’s shoulders with his grip.
“I’m wasted, dude. Barely know what I’m saying,” he counters, and he's not exactly wrong. He's not wrong. He's not wrong. This is all Dennis’ fault. Dennis’ perversion. His inhibitions were lowered. He can still be saved.
“Give me a break, Mac. You've driven bikes drunker than this,” Dennis cuts again, and Mac hates how close he is. “You are the most fucking frustrating person in the world. I fucking hate you, Mac. I hate you and your stupid fucking pocket bible and your ugly shirts and ratty shoes. Fuck you. You’re pathetic, you know that?”
“Let me go!” Mac fights again, and he finally wins; Dennis lets go of him. Mac wishes he hadn't.
Because now he has to leave. He has to leave and he finds his feet picking up speed before he can even process it, running out the door while wiping his stupid fucking tears away.
He slouches against a bench after five minutes of running. Holding the cross around his neck in his callused hands, he prays.
“Dear Heavenly Father; Please cleanse me from this guilt. Let me be pure again, for I admit my shameful deed,” he starts, still panting, tears dried against his cheek. “Sprinkle me with cleansing blood and I shall be clean again. Wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.” His voice trembles and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. It comes pouring out of him; repeated after every shameful masturbation involving Men’s Health magazines. “And after You have punished me, give me back my joy again. Don't keep looking at my sins. Erase them from Your sight. Create in me a new, clean heart, Oh God, filled with clean thoughts and right desires. Don't take Your Holy Spirit from me.”
He finishes like an idiot, blubbering through an Amen. His head rests in his hands as if the darkness will somehow absolve him. As if his sight is the only reminder of Dennis Reynolds’ face.