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Getting Mac to watch a new movie felt like pulling teeth sometimes.
Dennis grit his teeth and tried to ignore the man's fidgeting. Final Destination 4, starting off strong with a cool fucking car race, slowed down by banality. The fuckers should've just died at the track; he didn't get why Death drew it out like this. Boring, screaming women, idiot men stumbling their way through their short lives… Dennis wanted to try his hand at controlling Fate. He'd have them pulverised, like, so fast.
Mac groaned and slid his ass forwards on the couch, head tilting back, arms restless and brushing against him.
"I don't get—"
"Watch the fucking movie, Mac."
His friend, who he had to remind himself that he did indeed care for, grumbled and sighed. He shifted. Shifted again.
"What?" Dennis snapped.
"These guys are pathetic, Dennis."
"Yeah. They are. Now we get to watch them die."
"I don't—"
"Mac."
"I don't get why we couldn't have watched—"
"Predator? One of the other five movies we've rewatched every week for the past twenty years?"
"Yeah!"
Dennis glanced over, annoyed. He startled to see Mac staring at him, intense, his too-long hair flopping over his forehead.
"You love those movies, Dennis! Why—"
"Can you—" Dennis stopped himself. He told himself it was because he didn't want to deal with the petty, wounded looks he'd get if he told Mac to shut up.
He'd felt heavy lately. He didn't care to think about why.
He sighed, looked back at the screen just in time to see some oversaturated guts. Boring.
He tried again. "I just want to watch a movie with you, okay?"
Mac didn't reply. He felt movement. Shuffling sounds.
His friend was way too close when he spoke again. "I like our movies, though. Why'd you put on the fourth one, anyway?"
He didn't look. Stared at the screen. Screaming women.
"There's no action, Dennis! Just wimps tripping over themselves. I haven't even seen the first one."
"You don't need to. They're contained stories."
"But—"
Dennis snapped. He pulled away, turned to face his friend. He was sprawled across his side of the couch, taking up too much space, cheek in hand. He looked twelve years old.
"Does every movie have to have beefcakes and guns for you to pay attention, Mac?" His voice nearly broke on the name. There were threads inside him, spinning into knots.
"Yeah!" Mac blinked. "Yeah, dude, that's what I'm saying!"
"Well, I want to watch this." Dennis growled, looking back at the screen. Except… he didn't. Not at all. This movie fucking sucked; he couldn't admit that, though. He, at least, had a fucking attention span. He could withstand one stupid movie to protect his dignity. He could even pretend he liked it. Anything to keep Mac down. In his place.
He heard the beginning of a whine. More rustling, more fidgeting.
"Fuck." Dennis snarled.
He was a beacon of patience. A paragon of righteousness. He forgot these things instantly as he shoved his elbow back into Mac's chest and… elegantly, yes, casually and elegantly slid over onto Mac's lap, grabbed his hands and held them tight around his middle.
Mac yelped, gripping his waist.
"Can you see?"
Mac didn't reply. He was breathing hard.
Whatever. He didn't care.
He tried to focus on the movie. Things were happening. Yep. He could pay full attention, with Mac still behind (and beneath) him. Arms around him. Solid. Not moving.
Mac shifted. Shuffled back slightly, moved his thighs to accommodate Dennis's weight.
Someone was about to get killed on screen. It was… probably a tense moment. Narrow misses that Dennis couldn't give a shit about. He tried, though.
He tried until he heard a quiet, strangled moan behind him.
Mac's arms tightened, squeezed. His hips moved. He was hard.
Ah, fuck.
Dennis went to snap at him, tell him to stop.
That heavy feeling in him, though. The one that had been haunting him all week. Arms around him felt good. He could never admit it out loud… He watched someone lose their guts on screen at the same time as he felt his lift inside him.
It was… relief, maybe.
Mac pulled him down. He felt his breath, wet against the back of his shirt. He tried to keep still as his friend ground his hips up against him.
He could feel how hot it was. He felt it grow; like the steady glow of hot coals when the fire went out. Except… in reverse? Fuck. His head was clouding over.
He didn't like it when that happened.
"Dennis..?" Mac squeaked. He could hear him shut his jaw too hard. He must be afraid of breaking the spell, like Dennis would kick him out if he spoke.
He would, usually.
They could have something. They could lie too close in the bed - it was too small for the two of them, they never got around to replacing it. They could share breath, Dennis could keep his eyes closed and let it happen, as long as he didn't acknowledge it.
They could jerk off together. He wouldn't look, but he'd know. He'd feel every movement, know that he still had the power. He just had to keep it. Keep it stable. Keep the strings tense, the ones that bound the two of them in place.
He had to do this, to stay sane.
It made sense. Really, it did.
The pressure, though… Mac's arms binding him down. Not holding him - if he was holding him, that would be 'Romance', and romance would break them. No. Nothing tender, just…
Dennis jerked as Mac thrusted a little too hard, his arms slipping down, biting down on the back of his shirt when those tight, clenched, muscled arms pressed into Dennis's raging fucking hard-on.
His breath stuttered. He clenched himself against a moan, tried to think about how Mac was biting his shirt, that could ruin it, if it tore— he opened his mouth to tell him off, but thought about Mac biting his skin instead.
This was… better, probably. Better for them.
Mac had found a rhythm. His hips moved in pained circles, Dennis could feel the sweat on his back. Damp patches on his clothes - in more than one place.
Mac's arms had stalled. His hips were doing the work.
Hips, hardness pressing, he could almost feel it inside him it was so hard. He tried to casually shift so that Mac's arms would press down on his aching dick.
The man had to be stupid. He leaned forwards with a strangled whine, his arms lifting to wrap around Dennis's chest instead.
He growled, grabbed Mac's arms. They stilled. Was he going to throw them off…? Slap him, push him out the door, slam it closed or slam him against it first?
Neither of them knew.
To the sound of crashing and screaming from the TV, Dennis wrenched Mac's arms off him and let his body make the decision.
He pushed off of Mac just long enough to turn around, straddle his thighs, grab Mac by the back of his head and push himself close - close enough that their eyes wouldn't meet.
Their hips met a little too hard and Dennis pretended not to notice himself shaking as he pressed their more than a little tented jeans together.
They gasped in unison. Held still for a second. Mac gulped, and Dennis knew he was about to say something.
"What's happening in the movie?" He growled.
"W-what?"
"Mac, I can't see the movie, what's happening?"
He held still. Tortuously still. Waiting.
Mac gulped again. Dennis felt arms circle his waist, light, not quite squeezing.
He found he wanted them to squeeze.
"Well, uh…" He waited. "This chick is, um.. they're running? They're in a shopping mall, or something—"
Good enough. Dennis adjusted himself and twisted Mac's hair in his hand as he ground his hips down.
It was awkward, at first. Mac kept stuttering, their hips were uneven. Usually so in sync, Mac and Dennis were stumbling their way through something new.
Like the movie, he thought, and grit his teeth.
No. If they were gonna do this, he'd make it good. He'd end their story in the awesome car crash, not trailing after stupid, flaccid catastrophes that made no god damn sense.
They would die in flames, together.
He gripped Mac's neck with his other hand, pressed his thumb against the front until he could feel the thrumming of his shaking voice as he tried his best to describe the scenes on TV.
He ignored Mac's awkward pushing and listened to his heart beat. He scheduled his movements around it. Like conducting an orchestra. He closed his eyes and played with the thought of Mac's breath so close to his, thin skin flushing red beneath his grip.
He growled into Mac's ear, relished the full body shiver, and the man turned to putty beneath him.
He'd found a rhythm now. Felt Mac follow it, find his place. Their jeans made a frustrating texture between them, tight and rough with either not quite enough friction or just enough. Just enough.
He felt himself flatline when Mac's zipper rubbed against him just so. He thought about it— about pulling it down. Releasing them. Feeling how wet Mac had become, just from being near him. There'd be a damp spot on his underwear.
His thoughts ran haywire. He picture himself sucking on it, the damp spot, tasting day old sweat, worn fabric, salty precum, biting down on those stupid, thick, cock blocking jeans that burned between them.
He thought about letting Mac hold him down. His weight, his arms locking in place around him, his teeth in Dennis's neck and fuck, Dennis would let him do anything if he'd just move right now. He'd probably let Mac inside him, let him fuck him from behind, biting down on fake leather to keep himself from screaming.
Mac's recounting of the movie had turned into faint whining, his mouth wet against Dennis's neck. They held each other - Mac around his middle, Dennis around Mac's throat, his legs trapping them together. He felt his friend shake, hips stuttering, and the thought of him cumming in his pants untouched made Dennis release his grip to shove his fist in his mouth as he came, the hot, heavy burning inside releasing finally. Finally.
They were pressed together through the come down. He could feel his heart beat in his jeans, shuddering as sensation slowed and he felt the growing cold.
He didn't notice when he did it, just felt Mac's giddy, surprised smile as he kissed the corner of his friend's mouth. Hand on his cheek, breathing close, grateful for Mac's stupor that kept him from responding too suddenly.
He traced Mac's jaw briefly before he gripped it and turned Mac's head away from him as he pulled back. He got up, pretending his thighs didn't cry out in pain from being in an uncomfortable position for too long.
He didn't look, didn't say a word as he left. His room was cold, his clothes were ruined.
But Dennis felt light.
He had to sleep quickly, before he had time to think. He had control, still, probably. Tomorrow, he'd make sure Mac knew that. Make sure nothing changed. Nothing had to change.
The space between thinking and sleeping was warm.
The cold of tomorrow could wait.