Chapter Text
(“C’mon, man, stop hogging,” an annoyed Dennis spoke, snatching the joint Mac had, in fact, been hogging. “I’ve got Chem right now. You know I need this.”
Mac giggled and nodded as he let out a powdery cough. “Sorry, dude. Didn’t realize I was still holding it.”
Dennis took a hit, much too big, held it for much too long, coughed up half a goddamn lung because Mac’s face looked stupid and he had enough smoke in his system to suffocate major organs.
“Don’t you, ever, like—” Mac started, smacking his lips together. He looked away, over Dennis’ shoulder into the field behind him. “Like, do you ever wish I was, like, a girl?”
It took him by surprise. The way Mac seemed intensely serious, so contemplative and explorative, his eyebrows knitted and lip pulled between his teeth. “Why?” Dennis asked after what was probably a few too many seconds.
Mac shrugged, took the joint from him and took a drag. “I dunno. So we could date or something,” he said, like it was the most normal goddamn thing in the entire world. Like he’d just asked Dennis to pass the bread rolls at Thanksgiving dinner.
He couldn’t breathe for a little while. Dennis remembers staring at Mac staring back at him and thinking about reaching over. Maybe to hit him, to curse him for ever bringing this shit to the foreground, to shout that this was supposed to be a lonely realization, not a fucking first-day-of-school ice-breaker. Maybe he wanted to reach over to touch that freckle on his nose, or the cigarette burn on his shoulder, or his anxious upper lip. Dennis had no fucking clue what he wanted to do.
More than anything, probably, he wanted to tell Mac that he didn’t give a fuck about whether he was a girl or not. He likes him like this. All boyish and gross. If Mac were a girl, Dennis wouldn’t like her as much. Dennis wouldn’t want to kiss her or let her run her hands across his waist while they danced in his empty basement or let her play with his hair while he pretended to be asleep. Those are things reserved for Mac. Boy Mac. Dennis liked that Mac was a guy, despite the terrifying implications that came with it. It might never be enough to be like this, it will never be enough, so he saves mini moments in his pockets and stores them away in a glass box once he gets to the constructed safety of his bedroom. And yet, yet, he knew that him being a guy would always be a problem for Mac.
He’d averted his eyes away from Mac’s lips. It took a ridiculous amount of strength. “Nah, not really.” He didn’t lie. The full truth would have probably sent Mac into full-on fist fight mode and he wanted to avoid that. This felt like an inbetween.
Mac nodded, mouth pressed into a tight line, and took another drag. “Yeah,” Mac mumbled back, shaking his head like he’d said something as absurd as he did. “Yeah, me neither.”
That had definitely been a lie. Dennis knew it was. Mac knew it was.)
(Last day of senior year, the gang brought vodka-filled water bottles to school.
It was a challenge of sorts. See who could last the longest without getting in trouble, without getting caught. Charlie got caught immediately, purely because he unscrewed the cap while his woodworking teacher was right next to him. Vodka is easy to smell even amongst wood shavings.
Dee got out half an hour after because some chick in her gym class stole a sip thinking it was water. Dee never did know her name but the day she does, she’s getting that bitch back.
Mac and Dennis were the only ones who took the challenge seriously. Too seriously, maybe. They chugged the rest of their drinks during lunchtime with incredible amounts of encouragement from Dee and Charlie. Needless to say, Dennis learned that being near blackout drunk in pre-calculus is not preferred.
Mac had his remedial geometry class at the same time, rooms positioned across the hallway from one another.
Dennis can still see the way Mac waved at him through the door’s window panel sometimes when he gets drunk enough. All bubbly and needy, motioning for Dennis to come out and join him in skipping.
It was an easy decision.
They wandered through the school’s empty hallways, arm-in-arm, singing and laughing, drunk beyond comprehension. Barely afternoon and absolutely blasted, mostly on each other, when they eventually collapsed against a row of lockers in the basement.
“I’m so glad I met you, man,” Mac mumbled, his head resting against Dennis’ shoulder. He grabbed Dennis’ hand, locked their fingers together. Dennis still doesn’t know why, but he let him. He let Mac hold his hand. “I can’t believe you’re gonna be gone soon.”
“M’not dying, dude,” Dennis laughed back, nudging him. “I’ll be so frickin’ close. You can come visit me.”
“You’re just gonna— gonna forget ‘bout me,” Mac mumbled, secret slipping, letting out a deep sigh and holding their intertwined hands up against his knee. He scraped Dennis’ skin with the pad of his thumb. An intimacy unspoken, unreal, existing in a captured moment only for them.
“So fucking stupid,” Dennis said fondly, if it’s possible to fondly call somebody stupid, and squeezed his hand to confirm it was real. “Not gonna forget you, man. I couldn’t.”
Mac got more annoying, rested his chin on Dennis’ shoulder to tearfully stare at him. “Everybody forgets ‘bout their high school friends, Den. It’s, like, a rule in college.”
Dennis just shrugged. “Says who, Mac?” You’re not just some high school friend, idiot.
“I dunno,” Mac whispered, lifting his chin, allowing Dennis to take that small gap of space and turn his head towards him. “Just. History. I think,” he slurred, eyes so intensely and obviously focused on Dennis’ mouth. He squeezed Dennis’ hand tighter. “I’m gonna miss you.”
“You won’t have to,” Dennis murmured back, smiling lightly, staring back at Mac with an adoration he couldn’t quite explain. Still can’t quite explain.
“I miss you everyday, man. Whenever I don’t see you, I miss you.” Looking back, that’d been a little much. In that moment, it had been exactly what Dennis needed to hear. “I love you, dude. You know that.”
“I do,” Dennis confirmed, blinked for the first time in a while, and bit down on his bottom lip. “Mac?”
“Hmm?”
“You won’t forget about me, either?”
“Never, Den,” Mac whispered back, earnest enough to make Dennis doubt any time they’ve ever fought, as if wrestling is an extension of love, an appendage of it. He raised their joined hands to his lips, unafraid, and left a kiss on the back of his palm.
Dennis couldn’t say anything. Words would’ve made it weird. He knows he probably should have pulled away, called him a creep, whatever, but he couldn’t. He didn’t fucking want to. And, sure, maybe part of him was banking on losing contact with Mac after high school. It would make all of this more palatable, a more-than-friendship easily left behind in favor of hot college chicks.
But Dennis turned red instead, rested his forehead against Mac’s, their hands back to Mac’s knee. “Thank you,” Dennis whispered, and he could barely see Mac’s reaction so up close, but he could see him dart his tongue between his lips to wet them.
“For what?” Mac asked, just as quiet, leaning in, leaning in, leaning in, breath hot on Dennis’.
“You. This. I dunno. Just… Thank you,” Dennis said inelegantly, his outer shell not yet fully built up, still half-normal, half-vulnerable.
[More than anything, Dennis regrets the way he stayed disillusioned all these years. Mac was able to escape, come out, begin life at forty. But Dennis has been trapped in this inflating bubble for so long, maybe since birth, and forty-seven seems to be the age for it to pop. His world is different now. His world is going to be so, so different.
All he wants is to be eighteen again. All he wants is to shake himself and scream at himself and maybe bitch slap himself because closing himself off has never done any good. He wants to be eighteen and he wants to tell Mac he loves him, too. He knew it was true then. No matter how uncomfortable it made him. It was fucking true.]
Mac smiled, nodding, almost kissing, so close, his breath vodka-infused and hot and his hands sweaty and slippery. So fucking close. Dennis felt the rush in his stomach. Scared. Dennis had rarely been this scared before.
Afraid to be himself. Always afraid to be himself. Not afraid to be gay but terrified that people would know, would see him and think yeah, that makes sense. Dennis was deathly afraid of people pretending like they understood him. He gets very few things, agency over very few things, and an image is the one thing he can control. So he pretended to be somebody else instead. It’s always easier like that.
But not around Mac. No. It was never easy to be anything around Mac.
Dennis snaked his loose and shaking hand to rest against Mac’s neck, rubbed his fingertips against Mac’s scalp, gently guided him close enough that he would bet real money that their lips touched as Mac’s opened in a gasp.
And the bell rang. The fucking bell rang.
They jumped apart as if somebody had contorted their limbs into this very position. Magnets placed too close together. They had no control over what they were doing. Surely. Suddenly two feet apart as students walked out of their classrooms and passed them with no clue. No clue that Dennis’ heart was banging around in between his fucking ears.
Mac’s chest was rising and falling, eyes wide. Dennis could tell he was looking for a way to make this unreal, to ensure that he could stay straight, normal. Dennis forced his hand, seduced him, made him believe he was a girl with his clean-shaven face and feminine perfume. That was all.
They didn’t say anything for ten minutes. Ten whole minutes spent staring from each other to the kids in front of them and back to each other. A silence so heavy it would have broken their backs even if carried together.
Dennis attempted to support it, shortening the gap once everybody had filed into their classrooms. “Wanna go outside and smoke?” He asked, tentatively, like the possibility of being beat up was intensely real.
Mac took a second to stare at Dennis’ mouth before flickering his eyes back up and nodding. “Yeah. Yes. Let’s smoke.”)
Dennis is certain that there are very few things worse than realizing you are, and perhaps always have been, in love with your obnoxious shit-stain of a roommate at a point in life where you should already be settled down and paying some kind of mortgage on a big house in the suburbs.
Waking up in a pile of your own vomit might be one of them.
He’s lucky he sleeps on his side, because choking was a very real possibility. One he would like to avoid unless Mac is here to take care of him.
Mac. Mac. Mac.
Mac who left in a rage last night. Last night? Two nights ago, maybe, Jesus, how long has he been drinking? Mac, who he kissed. Mac, who he almost-kissed a million fucking times. Mac, who he could never reassure because he had never wanted to.
He can’t really think too much about Mac, though, because vomit smells fucking gross and it’s all over the side of his face and Jesus Christ, his head feels detached and pressed down all at once. There are chunks of macaroni in the mess. Chunks stuck to his face. Liquid in his nose. Holy fuck, he should not be getting this fucked up at his age.
But he had a good reason. He really did. Stupid Mac. Jesus, how is he gonna deal with this sober?
Carefully, he lifts his head. Immediate bout of bile. His entire body hurts, sleeping on the floor with old bones will do that, but it’s nothing in comparison to the way his head is pounding. Horrendous. Like a cat is crawling around in his skull, scratching at his brain matter.
Somehow, he finds a way to crawl over to the bathroom. He strips out of the t-shirt clinging to his frame, soaked in sweat and puke, and half-asleep, he tugs down his boxers and kicks off his socks. Ignoring the insistent voice in the back of his head reminding him that Mac would’ve had Tylenol and Pepto ready for him, he fights his way inside the shower and doesn’t care to let the water run warm. Something needs to wake him.
He’s in love with Mac. Maybe. Something as close to love as he can manage, really, because love might be out of the equation. His hands won’t spread out all the way. He can’t live without Mac. His stomach feels horrendously empty and ridiculously full at once. He doesn’t want to live without Mac.
Jesus. Dennis is pretty sure he’s dying. Alcohol poisoning is a thing after all. He closes his eyes and lays his head against the cold tile of the shower floor.
(“Pull trig, man, it’s okay,” Mac soothed, hand rubbing Dennis’ arm as Dennis’ body curled in on itself, steady stream of water covering his half-naked body. “I can do it for you?”
Dennis shook his head, shivered, half-coherent, and stuck his fingers down his throat.
Mac pet his hair, held it back like some sorority chick at her first frat party, soothing his free hand over Dennis’ back. “It’s okay, man. I got you.”)
Dennis throws up again. As a product of every single time he’s ever been in this situation, now noticing Mac’s absence, maybe. Or perhaps as a product of a total blackout. Or both. Probably both, he thinks with a stupid chuckle, letting his bile drip down the shower drain.
He needs a plan.
Not a stupid one. Not one where he can manipulate Mac’s desire or make Danny as jealous as Danny has made him. A plan that shows Mac he was sincere. That calling him over and kissing him wasn’t some ploy to get rid of his asshole boyfriend. Mac needs to realize that Dennis isn’t afraid anymore.
Even though he is. He’s very, very afraid, and he doesn’t even understand why or what he really wants or how he’s gonna get it — but he needs Mac back. He needs to stop feeling sorry for himself, days spent drinking like some pathetic heart-broken teenager, and pull himself up no matter how impossible it seems. Because he’s not sure how long this has been buried inside of him, buzzing awake every few years to remind him that it’s still relevant, before finally exploding with noises that are both egregiously beautiful and incomprehensibly ugly. He needs Mac. He’s never admitted that he needs anybody, not even himself, and this makes him weak.
He sits against the wall of the shower and lets out shallow breaths, his chest balloon-filled. He’ll just go to Danny’s house. In this state. Whatever. He can probably drive.
Danny’s house — where the fuck is Danny’s house?
He never even bothered to ask or investigate. He really should’ve. He needs to make some terrible romantic gesture, god dammit, and his lack of knowledge is not helping in the slightest.
As soon as he gets out of his shower, Dennis downs five Tylenol and three Peptos, and quickly starts a terrifying search for his phone in a pair of clean boxers. It’s not on the couch, not underneath the couch, the coffee table. He ventures into his bedroom and doesn’t find his phone either.
Curiously, morbidly, he peeks into Mac’s bedroom.
As clear as daylight, his phone rests on top of the mattress. That’s not good.
Dennis can’t remember anything. Not at all. He can’t even remember what day it is or how long he’s been out for. He trudges towards the bed, lip pulled between his teeth as his headache heightens to a stabbing in his temples.
He turns it over: March 15th. Alright. He hasn’t been conscious for two entire days.
His Messages app is open as soon as he unlocks his phone. Mac’s name is an obvious taunt immediately. He should spare himself the embarrassment of scrolling through another bout of drunken texts but he really can’t, almost like a compulsion.
Macc can you come back?
Sent twenty minutes after Mac left on the 13th. Not too bad.
And then, thirty minutes later:
Fine I don’t evenwant to talk stout you
to you
can youtell Danny i think he smells bad
and is ugly
????? Did you do it
Right. Okay. Humiliating.
Dennis is looking through his fingers as the string keeps going, evolving into recollections of memories, evolving into murderous threats to Danny’s property, evolving into begging.
ifI say I didn’t mewan it eill you comeback
Fuck this.
He gets up from Mac’s bed, sufficiently motivated and humiliated, grabbing at his tight head.
There’s something about feelings that Dennis has never excelled at. Something about them that he’s never wanted to excel at. It’s been easier (for who, he’s not sure) to just ignore that part of himself in favor of creating a fake Dennis who can pretend not to care about any of that. Once life gets hard, real Dennis retreats and fake Dennis takes over. But life has been too goddamn difficult lately, lately meaning the past twenty fucking years, and real Dennis is just as much a part of fake Dennis as he isn’t.
And it’s terrifying not knowing if you’re allowed to feel; even worse, not knowing if you are feeling.
(Junior year, Dennis was at the nurse’s office after he fainted during gym class. Dehydration, he stated.
Mac walked him down, explained to the nurse what happened with a solid amount of anger, sat with him, asked for a wet towel, pulled that stupid curtain around them and stared at Dennis for permission. Fake Dennis was real, even then, just less developed. Just as needed, but not as refined. And Dennis has always needed things to be refined, pretty, perfect.
But Mac didn’t wait for fake Dennis to kick him out or for real Dennis to nod, he just grabbed Dennis’ hand and brushed his thumb over his knuckles with a smile that told Dennis exactly what it meant to feel something beyond yourself.
“I can grab you a bagel from the caf,” Mac whispered, like their own little secret. “I’ll even steal a few of those little humming cups you like.”
Dennis laughed, quiet, didn’t stare down at their hands. “Hummus?” Dennis clarified, eyes scanning Mac’s face for any dishonesty, any hint of betrayal.
“Yeah, whatever, the gross stuff,” Mac huffed back, kept his thumb in the space between Dennis’ knuckles.
Dennis rolled his eyes like he’s done a million times just to ignore the fact that he got a stomach-drop feeling as he realized several terrifying things at once. Mac is his safe place. Mac is an asshole. Mac is indecent and weird and blunt. Mac is beautiful. Mac is here, always here.
He swallowed a breath and nodded. “Sure. Thanks, man.”)
He makes it back into the living room somehow. His eyes are misty, shoulders tight, stomach howling as he tries not to puke again. And through a haze, he manages to dial Dee.
She picks up after two rings, possibly a record for her, and snaps an immediate, “What?”
“Where does Danny live?” Straight to the chase. No need for meandering conversation.
Dee laughs and the sound is fucking ear-splitting. “You’re not gonna kill him, right?”
“No. Do you know his address?” He pushes again, hoping to fucking God that Dee might know. Otherwise everything relies on Charlie or Frank and he’s fairly certain they don’t even know their own address.
“Yeah, Mac invited us over for dinner a while ago. Nice guy.”
“What?” Dennis spits back. “When?”
Dee breaks a glass on the other side of the call and Dennis has to sit through a series of goddammits with a knotted stomach before he receives his answer.
“God, I don’t know, idiot. I didn’t write it in my fucking journal,” Dee groans. She takes a second, putting her phone on the speaker. “The day after I came over, I think.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Is quickly followed by: “And why the fuck wasn’t I invited?” Dennis spits, the increased heart rate going straight to his temples. He inhales sharply through his teeth as he waits for the painkillers to set in. He briefly wonders if Mac still has that expired Percocet they used to use in emergencies.
It’s pretty quickly ignored in favor of Dee’s screeching laugh boasting through his phone’s speaker. “Are you dense? Jesus, Dennis, last I checked — You sent him a dick pic.”
Dennis cringes at just the thought, the action, the memory of it. The Grindr app that he swiftly deleted. The fear in finding out that maybe this isn’t just for vanity — maybe he needs something more and has never realized. “I forgot I told you that,” he just groans. “Something happened. Worse.”
“Worse?” Dee inquires, and Dennis can tell she’s smirking or contorting into some other similarly obnoxious facial expression mocking his misery. “What could be worse?”
“Lots of things. Just send me his fucking address,” he spits back before quickly acknowledging his less-than-fortunate position, adding, “Please,” much to his own dismay.
Dee chuckles. Dennis can’t think about all the scenarios she must be imagining right now. “Fine, loser. I’ll send it to you.”
Dennis sighs in relief and eyes the uncovered pastries still placed on the dining table. Two have been eaten. That’s fine. Fuck, they’re probably stale as hell. Is this even gonna work now? He couldn’t spit it out the first time — Jesus, maybe he’s just not capable of spitting anything out.
(He used to be.
Not often, not well, but he spit a few things out back in his day. Lying in bed, covered in sheets too hot for the sun blasting outside, unwillingly accosted by Mac.
He pulled the blankets back, foregoing any motions of tenderness, and found him with wet eyes dripping on Mr. Tibbs. “What?” Dennis had croaked out. Whether that was in genuine confusion or anger, he can’t exactly remember.
“What’s wrong, man? You didn’t meet me on the court. I waited an hour,” Mac said, confused, slightly angry, but primarily concerned, dumping the basketball under his arm in the corner of the room. He crawled into bed next to him, shoes kicked off, and bit the inside of his cheek.
“Yeah. Forgot,” Dennis mumbled. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Dennis didn’t need to expand, Mac knew he was talking about Ms. Klinsky. He’d seen him like this twice before. Dennis also knew Mac didn’t really understand why it upset him so much — they always used to talk about fucking older women. Sure, she was gross, but Mac high-fived him when he told him. He accepted it. For two months, Dennis decided he was proud of his conquest.
Until he saw her in the hallway, randomly, for the first time since that day, and remembered the phrases she whispered to him. How fucking gross he felt.
“Oh,” Mac had said, body turned to Dennis. “I can stay. If you want.”
Dennis looked up, blubbery, definitely unflattering, and wiped his eyes to look at Mac’s. His bottom chin wobbled as he nodded and pulled Mr. Tibbs closer, burying his face back into his belly. “Okay.”
It wasn’t everything, he could never tell himself everything, but it was something. There have been too many almost-somethings since.)
As soon as he hangs up, Dee does send him the address, with an added Get yo mans and he almost calls it all off just to not get shit like that ever again.
Society Hill. The fucker lives in Society Hill. Trust Fund Kid, no doubt. Assshole. Dennis could not hate him more.
He debates texting Mac to let him know what’s about to go down, but decides against it once he realizes that Mac suddenly gained the skill of free will within the past week or so, and he does not want to be greeted with an empty place.
All he can manage on his skin at the moment is a t-shirt two sizes too large and a pair of sweatpants he forgot he still had. This will have to do.
His stomach is still killing him. Jesus, he should eat something, but somehow eating feels worse than whatever is happening now. The pile of macerated food on the floor in the living room is certainly not helping.
He toes over to the cupboards and finds an old Chinese takeout container. Sans grace, he chucks the pastries into the container and closes the lid without finding out if they were damaged in his animalistic flinging, his weakened eyes only set on the car keys dangling on the hook by the front door.
Hungover car rides are not good. That’s probably the best way to describe it. Not fucking good. He’s swerving pretty severely and he’s only halfway there. He’s fairly certain he drove right past two red lights, but he couldn’t say for certain. The world doesn’t seem to be quite on his side today.
Within six minutes, he’s had to make three stops at the side of the road because puking seemed imminent. It wasn’t. Just dizziness and no Liquid IV supplied by Mac causing him constant delusion.
But he’s almost there. Five minutes.
He eyes the container in the passenger seat. Holy shit, what is he even gonna say?
I know I couldn’t answer you before, and I still kinda can’t, but I made you these and it was really fucking hard so come home, you asshole.
I didn’t mean to kiss you but I really did mean to kiss you so can we maybe just do it again? Also, I made you stuff. Please say you understand so I don’t have to say anything else.
I went on a bender after you left. Feel bad for me. Eat my pastries and come home.
Genuinely nothing seems even remotely doable. He’s gripping the steering wheel and he’s approaching a townhome on a street with no fucking parking and he wants to dissociate for a good thirty minutes and end up back in his car with Mac at his side. He can’t do this. He’s extremely certain that he cannot fucking do this.
Because it seems stupid now. The tarts are stale. He’s certain. Maybe they went bad, God, he has no idea how long they’re supposed to last, and he’s more scared now than he was that time he thought he killed Charlie with a goddamn gunshot. But fucking Portuguese egg tarts — that’s what’s gonna make him confess his… something for Mac?
Goddammit. He feels sick. He’s managed to park the car two streets away and he feels sick.
How does he feel about Mac? He’s in love with Mac. He is. He’s not. Not in the way other people are in love with other people. Not in the way that makes you float or feel good or smile or laugh. In the way that rips you apart at the seams and mimics hatred closely enough to get all jumbled in his brain. He hate-loves Mac. Love-hates him. Hates to love him. God, what is happening?
He’s on foot. Somehow, he managed to step out of his car and traverse this rich ass neighborhood on foot. He must look like a zombie. He feels like one. He wants to kiss Mac but he puked and didn’t brush his teeth. Fuck, he didn’t put any makeup on. Mac is never gonna take him back like this. Goddammit, he should just turn back. Do this later. In two days. One day. One week. One year. Let Mac know what he’s missing, so that Dennis can show up on Danny’s doorstep with a killer revenge look and Mac will drape against his chest and beg to be taken back.
His feet have other thoughts. Selfish thoughts, mostly, because a year without Mac sounds simultaneously calming and completely, devastatingly, lonely. He can’t deal with that.
Maybe his mouth will form words without the need of brain-help. Maybe he’ll just open the door to a crying Mac. That’d be nice.
Mac doesn’t really cry the way Dennis does. When Dennis cries, everything stops. It has to. When Mac cries, he does it in the same way he laughs. Or shouts. Unforgivably open at all times, even dishonestly, moving on as quickly as it came.
(Dennis caught Mac once when he made a surprise visit on the weekend home from college. Mac’s mom opened the door with a cigarette huff and Dennis sprinted upstairs to see his best friend and he was immediately faced with Mac crying, staring at his dad’s picture on his nightstand.
“Hey,” Dennis had frowned, voice too stern to be comforting another human being. Mac looked up, eyes red. “What’s up?”
Mac shrugged and wiped his nose. “I miss my dad,” he just sniffled. “It’s fine, I’m good,” he laughed, straightening up. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Yeah, I wanted to– I wanted to surprise you,” Dennis chuckled, sitting down next to Mac, unsure of what to do. Because Mac always held him, touched his hand, hummed him terrible songs, when he cried.
But Mac didn’t have full-body shakes or a blanket pulled up to his eyebrows. He was just… just sitting there. Crying because he could, because he felt like he was allowed to, because he didn’t need to hide from himself in that way Dennis has always needed to.
[Because, fine, maybe Mac lies to himself about everything. He’s not a badass. He’s not straight. He’s not a very good Christian. But he believes those things about himself, and sometimes, that’s really, genuinely, enough. But Dennis has never known what to believe about himself. Hasn’t even ever tried to believe anything aside from needing perfection, always improving, always better, always more. And as soon as that comes tumbling down, he becomes inconsolable. Mac misses his dad so he cries for half an hour. Dennis can’t find his favorite foundation so he doesn’t go outside.]
Mac hugged him and he fought the urge to pull away, closing his eyes and embracing back without wanting to. Mac sat back, wiped his nose and his eyes again and smiled. “Are we gonna go to your place?”
“If— Yeah, if you’re up for it,” Dennis said, trying to remain nonchalant.
Mac perked up and nodded. “Let’s go, man. I just got some new bud from my cousin and it’s supposed to be straight-up body-melting.”
It was body-melting. Dennis barely remembers falling asleep on the basement couch but he still remembers the way Mac’s body was draped over his own.)
Danny lives in a townhouse.
A fucking townhouse in Society Hill. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Millionaire. Goddammit. Dennis is almost fifty and still freeloads off of his father for extra expenses.
What if he can’t compete? Fuck, what if he can’t compete with Mac’s rich, funny, handsome, put-together, kind, open-minded boyfriend?
He stares at the container in his hands, at his feet, at his tired, wilting, fingernails, at the door in front of him. There’s a goddamn wreath. Dennis hates wreaths. Stupid wreath.
He’s fairly certain this is a stupid idea.
But he’s given up on too many things in life. Has left too many stones unturned and has driven too many people away. Mac isn’t supposed to be one of them.
He walks up the steps and stands as tall as he possibly can on Danny’s front porch, taking a deep breath in and out of his nose with his eyes squeezed anxiously closed.
The worst that could happen is that everything goes back to the way it was before he came over. Mac is still mad at him. Mac doesn’t hear him out. Mac shuts the door in his face and he retreats like a sick puppy and probably drinks himself to death by accident because Mac isn’t there to hum pretty words into his ear or stick his fingers down Dennis’ throat. Dennis will climb back into his car and drive home with his mask pulled all the way up and he will deal in whatever way he needs to.
The best thing that could happen is also kind of the worst thing. Mac listens to him. Mac hears him. Mac takes him back and expects Dennis to become open. Dennis knows that’s the only way this, any relationship, could ever work. Dennis also knows that he’s in an abusive relationship with his own feelings and Mac’s neediness, Mac’s bossiness, might actually do him in.
He rings the doorbell.
He takes a step back, dizzy, suddenly, eyebrows knitted in fear as his heart begins to pound inside of his fingertips, blood rushing to his head. He can’t do this. Fuck, he can’t do this. He’s standing here like an idiot, container in hand, and he’s very certain he cannot do this.
When the door swings open, a very cliche thing happens to Dennis.
He freezes up, time slows down, his eyes widen and his heart gets caught in his chest. Mac is standing in the doorframe, dressed in his boxers, a t-shirt, and his favorite robe. Mac is standing there and he looks tired and bored and yes, Dennis thinks, I might have a chance.
“Dennis?” Mac asks, confused, eyeing him up and down. “God, you look terrible, man, are you—”
Mac is cut off by Dennis’ sour stomach dribbling bile across Danny’s front porch. His esophagus burns with the repeated vomiting, and he’s not sure if it’s just because he’s horrendously scared or because he might need to visit a hospital for his gastrointestinal symptoms.
Dennis wipes his mouth with his wrist and coughs, cringing at himself, holding the container away from his body so as to not fill it with bile.
“Jesus, dude,” Mac mumbles.
“I know,” Dennis croaks back, clearing his throat. “I’m— I think I’m dying.”
It gets a subdued chuckle from Mac. One he immediately covers up with an angered frown. “What are you doing here?” He crosses his arms and leans against the frame. His legs looks fucking incredible.
Here goes nothing.
Dennis holds the container out. Says not a word. Mac looks down at it like it’s his first time seeing any object at all, arms still crossed, not really refusing to take it, but confused on why he would even need to.
“Uhm,” Mac says, eyebrows arched. “What’s that?”
So much for not talking. So much for Mac just getting it. “Portuguese egg tarts,” Dennis manages, swallowing more bile, shaking the container slightly. “I made them. For you.”
“Dennis, I’m not—”
“Just shut up and let me finish,” he croaks back, squeezing his eyes shut. Mac is reaching for the door handle and Dennis quickly steps forward to hold the door open. “No, fuck, sorry, I’m not— Just let me say things.”
“Fine, dude. But you’ve got, like, two minutes.”
Dennis straightens up, takes another step back. “You remember when we were watching that British baking show you showed me?” He tentatively asks, raising his eyebrows. Every goddamn word feels like a challenge. Mac nods. “And, like, there was this episode with the little egg tarts. And you— you said you wanted to make them. And I said you couldn’t, like, it’d be too hard for you or I called you stupid or something—”
“This isn’t sounding much like an apology for two nights ago—”
“Goddammit, Mac, it’s— These stupid tarts, they’re— I fucked up when I said that. And I wanted to— to make them for you so we can, maybe, like, make them together next time. So it’s, like, it’s how I feel,” he stumbles out, completely fragmented, shaky. He’s fairly certain he’s running completely gray. Fuck, this isn’t making any sense. So much for practicing. Goodbye forever, Mac, he supposes.
Mac frowns in confusion. “You feel… tarts about me?”
Dennis groans and shakes his head. “No, fuck, I just— I put all this time into it and I fucked up a million times but I was still able to, like, get it right at the end. Because I tried and I was… I was careful. And that’s— I want that. For us. With you. And I can’t— maybe I can’t say the words you want me to say or— or— whatever, but, man, I can’t do this. I can’t do this without you. And I— I kissed you because I,” he pauses, unsure of what to say, unsure if he’s ready for the L-word, ready for the commitment. He glances over at Mac. Mac, who has a few fingers subtly draped over his lips. Mac, whose cheeks are tinted red. “I didn’t kiss you to get rid of him. It just— it felt right, okay?”
Mac chuckles, and Dennis freaks out for half a second. Mac is laughing at him. Tarts. Fucking egg tarts, holy shit, what was he thinking? The epitome of romance for Dennis Reynolds is fucking egg tarts?
“It’s fucking stupid, I know—”
But Mac shakes his head, finally takes the container. “No,” he manages, voice small, scoffing with a smile, “No, dude, that’s like—” He runs a finger under his damp eye, “It’s so romantic. You made them for me. You do tart me.”
“I’m not sure if that’s—”
“No, man, that can be, like, our thing. I tart you. Kinda sounds like heart.” Alright. Fucking weird. Dennis lets out a surprised laugh at the idea. “Aw, dude, this is— I don’t even know— But you’re for real? This isn’t some ploy to get me back in the apartment so I can do our laundry and buy us booze, right?”
Dennis narrows his eyes. “I did not humiliate myself just to get you to do laundry.” He wants to say many terrible things but he just bites the inside of his cheek and watches Mac’s shimmery eyes and toothy smile and that’s enough to get the offended part of him to shut up.
“Okay,” Mac laughs back awkwardly, back in high school again. “Yeah, that’s—”
“Mac, babe, who is it?”
Danny.
Dennis’ heart drops, entire body running cold as he stares at Danny coming from behind Mac. His eyes flicker between Mac’s wide eyes, eyes that seem to have forgotten about his boyfriend in the first place, and Danny’s possessive body stood directly next to Mac. He’s wearing goddamn khakis.
Maybe this isn’t real. Mac said he loved Danny. They’ve been together for longer than either of them have ever held down any real relationship. Dennis can’t exactly blame Mac if he doesn’t know what to do right now.
Mac just looks at Dennis with wide eyes and pulls him inside the house.
“What’s going on?” Danny grits out, his nostrils flared. “What is he doing here?”
Mac shoves the tarts back in Dennis’ hands and pushes him on the couch. “Can I talk to you? Privately?” Mac asks Danny, tying his robe up and biting down anxiously on his bottom lip.
Danny stares between the two of them. Something akin to relief washes over him and Dennis almost wants to break his nose. The insinuation that he would be relieved to be free from Mac is revolting.
Because, fine, yeah, he’s felt it before. About two dozen times. After a certain amount of time with Mac, one begins to wonder what life is like without Mac. And at first, it’s pretty good. More chill, less demanding, quieter. Eventually, everything becomes dull. Even the lack of the shower running starts to feel like a taunt.
Maybe that’s just a Dennis thing. Whatever.
They go into the adjacent room together and Mac shoots Dennis a little wink before entering and Dennis immediately knows he has nothing to worry about.
But being left alone with his thoughts, his awful fucking thoughts, right now is not preferable. Mac accepted his tarts. It means something. Fuck that, it means everything, actually, but now he has to find a way to stop wanting to kill himself in response to the fact that everything is going to change. One bed? They’re probably gonna have to share a bed. Mac is gonna want to hold hands in public or kiss in public or kiss in private. Not to mention sex. Dennis is nearly fifty years old and suddenly terrified of sex. Because the only time it’s ever meant something was when he was drunk out of his mind on his couch giving Mac a sloppy handjob.
He hears Danny shouting behind the closed door. He smirks, self-satisfied, and rubs his temples at the same time because he really needs to lie down in a very dark room and sleep with no time limit.
Danny comes out of the room after a short five minutes and stops right in front of Dennis. “Fuck you,” he spits, but it’s hard to find a man in khakis any type of threatening, so Dennis just lets out a sly laugh. “I hope you two crash and burn.”
“Oh, you’re too kind, Daniel,” Dennis taunts back, unable to wipe the grin off of his face.
He doesn’t mention the part where he’s scared shitless, unable to keep his mind from unraveling into a hypothetical situation three days from now in which he treats Mac like the sticky gum on the bottom of his shoe. Deep down, not that deep, Dennis knows that this cannot go as smoothly as he wants it to.
“Your friends are fucking animals, by the way. Broke three of my wine glasses—”
“I don’t care,” Dennis interrupts with a scoff. “I’m never gonna see you again. Do you understand that? We are never gonna fucking think about you again.”
Danny scoffs, turns slightly red, and crosses his arms. “Whatever,” he mumbles back, biting anxiously at his fingernail. “Go wait outside. I don’t wanna smell your fucking vomit breath anymore.”
“Fine by me, man.” Dennis gets up and rolls his eyes, heading for the front door. “Your place reeks of lavender. You might wanna cool it on the essential oils.”
Dennis opens and shuts the door without another word, taking a melancholy seat on the top step of Danny’s porch stairs.
Being inside was better. Being outside leaves him with a pile of his own bile and too many thoughts to count.
(“I can tell you don’t actually care,” Maureen had said, her arms crossed, sitting at the edge of Dennis’ bed.
Dennis grinded his teeth together and reached out for her, a hand on her shoulder.
She swiftly shook it off.
“What are you talking about? Of course I care,” Dennis mumbled, shifting forward until his head was resting on her shoulder. “I love you.”
Maureen just rolled her eyes and shrugged her jeans back on, effectively pushing Dennis off. “You don’t. It’s fine. I just think we should— I don’t know. Maybe we should break up.”
Dennis sat back, astonished, staring as she got dressed slowly like she was waiting for him to say something beautifully manipulative. “Okay,” he just shrugged. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”
She blinked a few times in surprise, like the reality of her own suggestion had set in, before she firmly nodded. “Yeah. Fine. Now you can ogle Mac all you want.”
“I do not ogle Mac!” Dennis managed to shout back as Maureen opened and shut his bedroom door.
He didn’t care. And he did ogle Mac.)
It’s been like this longer than he can imagine.
He wonders how much Mac remembers. If he recalls all the near kisses, the fervent denials, the non-platonic moments they tried so desperately to make platonic. Dennis has been in this game for far too long, has seen it as a game for far too fucking long, and maybe he is ready.
This doesn’t mean they need to get married and live in the suburbs (God, they tried that, and it was not pretty), it just means they don’t have to suppress their impulses anymore. Dennis doesn’t need to pretend he doesn’t want to reach over and scratch Mac’s scalp. He won’t have to deal with the inevitable swipe of mayonnaise on Mac’s upper lip whenever he eats a sandwich, because he’ll be able to smooth it away.
This is good. It’s a wonderful fucking thing Dennis gets to have. Fuck what other people think, really, even Fake Dennis, because this is too real and too important to be influenced or seen by others.
I tart you. Dennis chuckles. One day, he might be able to actually say the real words. Maybe not. Maybe tart will mean more than love in the end, and maybe Mac will be able to deal with that.
Just then, Mac appears in the doorway with his bag and an anxious smile.
Dennis immediately gets up, stumbling, but eventually facing Mac without the ability to look away from his messy hair and light stubble. “You, uh, you look good.”
Mac smiles, pressing his palm to Dennis’ cheek and softly leaning in until—
“Stop,” Dennis mumbles, pulling away, taking a step back to the point where he nearly falls off of Danny’s porch.
“What do you mean stop? Dude, I just left a steady life for you because I thought this was gonna be different, but if you were just lying to me—”
“Shut up, idiot, no, I just— I’ve been throwing up all morning and I’d rather not infect you with vomit breath,” Dennis laughs back, shoving the tarts back in Mac’s hand.
“But when we get home—”
“Yeah,” Dennis confirms, laughing still, linking an arm around Mac’s without thinking too much about it as he leads the two of them down the small porch steps. “But first, I gotta overdose on painkillers, man. My head is killing me.”
“Missed me enough to binge-drink?” Mac teases, poking at Dennis’ side as they walk back to the car, any semblance of true contempt completely absent from his tone. “I can drive us home.”
Dennis hums and leans into Mac, nodding against his sleeve. “Yeah. Home.”
Dennis passes out in the passenger seat, but vaguely makes out Mac telling him that the pastries are stale as fuck. As soon as they come back home, Mac plops him down on his bed and removes his shoes in an attempt to get him semi-comfortable.
At this point, nothing is a question.
Mac drops four Tylenol at Dennis’ bedside and a glass of water, beginning to wander away. Dennis catches his wrist as he gulps down the painkillers.
“Stay,” he mumbles, much to his own dismay, unable to control the part of himself that enjoys being vulnerable. Thankfully, that part also enjoys getting zero sleep and successful love confessions.
Mac never hesitates. He plops down next to Dennis on his back and pats at his shoulder. “Goodnight, Den.”
Dennis groans and reaches behind him for one of Mac’s hands, “Just, here—” he pulls his hand over his chest, holding it as Mac’s body heat grows behind him.
“Aw, dude, do you wanna cuddle? You could’ve just—”
“If you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I’m gonna vomit all over you, Mac,” Dennis mutters out, fingers tangled into Mac’s, pressing his mouth to Mac’s knuckles.
“Okay, okay, got it. Goodnight. I love you.”
Dennis chuckles before mumbling out a very quick, “I tart you,” and ignoring how absolutely stupid he feels as the words leave his mouth.