Chapter Text
Dennis has spent 35 minutes now trying to get his hair perfect. There's always one piece off, one section he can't comb down. He's so mad about it that he could scream. Okay, well, he has screamed a few times, but he hasn't tried to break the mirror yet, so he considers that a win. He'd been trying to work on his anger for the last couple of months, after he got into a particularly bad fight with one of his friends. A part of him disliked his friends. Of course, he'd never admit that, in fear that he'd end up like one of the losers sitting alone at lunch, but it was the truth. He hung out with rich assholes, the football stars, the guys who banged every chick in school. Dennis had always felt isolated from them in some way. Like, even though he was also a rich asshole who banged chicks, he was doing it differently. He wasn't like them. Or at least, that's what he told himself. They only really hang out as a way to show off their status, a way to tell everyone else that they were superior. That's the only reason they were even going to this party tonight (and to get blackout drunk, of course.)
He checked his outfit again. Jeans and a gray sweater, his usual look. Even though they had money, Frank didn't like to spend it on expensive clothing. Most of Dennis's clothes were found at basic stores for half off. He didn't mind it, though. Would he like to wear designer brands? Sure. But he also didn't want to end up like those assholes who depend on money to look hot. He had enough going for him. Dee called for him downstairs, her voice screeching his name at full volume. He rolled his eyes and went to the top of the stairs, glaring down at her, ready to yell about not bothering him while he was getting ready. He noticed she was dressed. Like, really dressed. She was wearing a tank top and a denim mini-skirt, the one Dennis had always made fun of. She had put makeup on, glittery eyeshadow covering her eyelids.
“Dee, what do you think you're doing?”
“Uhh.. waiting on you? Duh?” She laughs sarcastically, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
“Remind me, Dee, when exactly did I say you were coming with me?”
“Well, I mean, you didn't-”
“I DIDN'T!” He yells, a little louder than he meant to. It didn't help that his hair looked wrong and his friends were late and he didn't even WANT to go to this party. Now Dee wanted to come?
“Don't be a dick, Dennis, I just need a ride.”
“Well, you're shit out of luck anyway. My friends are picking me up.”
“Oh, what, are you all gonna give each other blowjobs on the way?”
“Funny, Dee, real funny.”
They can vaguely hear some shitty song through the door. It's blasting from the run-down van parked in front of his house, stuffed to the brim with wannabe frat guys. They're obnoxiously loud. So. goddamn. loud. Everything about what was happening made him feel like a total dickhead. This could be his only chance to run away, to tell them to fuck off and go back to bed. But, of course, his friends yell for him to come outside, some offensive names getting thrown into the mix. So, he fakes a smile and walks towards the door, throwing his keys at Dee.
“If I see even a minor ding on my car after this, I swear to God, Dee, I will murder you.”
He walks outside, joining the group. He tries to push back the thoughts that all of this is going to suck and that he'll wanna leave after 20 minutes. He takes a beer, the taste of it hitting his throat unpleasantly. He had a love-hate relationship with drinking. He hated the taste of it. He loved the feeling. He liked blacking out and forgetting everything he did. But most of all, above everything positive, he hated feeling like Frank. The only way to get rid of that thought was to drink more. So, he did.
When they get to the party, it's packed with people. The smell is overwhelming. It's a horrifying mix of weed, alcohol, vomit, and mothballs. String lights are hanging from the ceiling, an attempt to build an “atmosphere.” Usher is blaring from a speaker somewhere. A drunk girl is attempting to dance on an uninterested guy. Beer pong is being played in the kitchen, which Dennis tries to avoid at all costs. He takes a shot. And another. And another. They all suck. There are way too many people crammed into this tiny house. It feels sticky. And sweaty. And disgusting. He tries to loosen up, awkwardly dancing around the floor, but it doesn't work. He can't break that stiffness, the strange feeling he has of not belonging. His friends have all cultivated in the kitchen now, joking around with each other and drinking. He wished he could just be comfortable. He wanted to joke around, too. Another shot down the hatch.
He thinks that he should probably be hitting on girls left and right. Some of them have definitely caught his eye. Most of them had a similar appearance-brunette, brown eyes, and kind of dirty-looking. He'd always end up with a date at the end of the night. Quick, unsatisfactory sex with a girl he hadn't felt feelings for at all. It wasn't their fault. He had always felt weirdly about women, like everyone was lying about actually feeling any attraction to them. There was never any flirting or long conversations, or teasing. It was always straight to sex. He liked the feeling of people knowing about his sexuality. How his friends would talk about their recent hook-ups, how they would rate girls' bodies. He liked the validation of bagging the hottest one. It didn't matter that he felt nauseous when the night was done, or that he had one magazine stuffed under his bed that he wasn't ready to address. All of that could be pushed down. Another shot. This one burns like a bitch, like he had chugged straight nail polish remover. It's not until he tries to walk to the other side of the room that he realizes how drunk he is. And sick. And tired of being trapped in this stupid fucking party.
He walks aimlessly. He doesn't know where he's going, just that he has to get out of there. He walked for so long that he ended up at the dirty, run-down park at the end of the neighborhood. Kids used to play there all the time, that was, until it was taken over by the homeless. He sighs in relief. He's finally alone, allowed to relax, to unclench his fists and close his eyes. That is, until a sound comes from the slide.
“fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
It's a man's voice. Dennis tightens up again. It could be some rabid, feral homeless guy ready to bite his dick off. Or, worse, a ghost. He didn't believe in ghosts, but he changed his tune when alone at a park in the middle of the night. He tried to put on a tough face, knowing he couldn't fight.
“Look, man, I don't want any trouble-oh.”
The guy standing in front of him isn't exactly who he pictured. He's brunette and scrawny, wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and dirty jeans. His hair is messy, and he smells overwhelmingly like weed. Like, Dennis could've gotten a secondhand high just by smelling him.
“Sorry, man, thought you were a cop or some shit.”
He turns back, returning to the playground. For some reason, Dennis follows. He can't explain why. It's 2-something in the morning, and he’s following some random guy into a kids' playground structure. Weirdly enough, he's more relaxed than he had been all night. He sits next to him. If anyone had come by, they would've thought they had been close friends their whole lives. The guy rolls a joint in silence and takes a hit. He looks out into the night sky, the only light coming from the street and the stars. He passes it to Dennis. Dennis can't see his face all that well, but he can make out his main features. Brown eyes. Brunette hair.
“I’m Mac, by the way.”
“Dennis.”