Chapter Text
October, 1998.
All the lights were off, and Mac laid, soaking in that empty black. That’s how most nights went nowadays, either that or they were spent getting high with Charlie, chucking rocks at the passing cars. But on days he couldn’t sneak out, Charlie had to obey the ridiculous bedtime his mother set (what kind of eighteen-year-old has to be home by eleven?).
So Mac stayed in the darkness, contemplating how much power the lightbulb would take and if he could get away with running it—his mom would probably notice the bill having gone up. So he’d play it safe and keep it off like he usually did.
Back in high school, Dennis had figured out Mac’s mom would pick up the landline with a grunt and then hang up most of the time, so he’d given Mac a pager. Mac faintly recalls Dennis saying some shit like ‘I got a new one, so I don’t need it’, as if one would ever need to replace a perfectly working item. That’s one thing Mac never got about Dennis, the way he so easily replaced things; it seemed the moment he got off to college, never did he come to visit Mac anymore.
That’s what the pager was for, though—Charlie didn’t even know how to work one, so when it started beeping on Mac’s bedside table, his heart skipped a beat. That’s how it always went: Mac would get excited, and it’d be one of the stoners Mac had given the number to in case they wanted to buy some shit.
This time, though, this time was different. Mac knew the number that flashed on the screen by heart; he didn’t even need to write it down before silencing the thing (and thank god, because waking up his mom right now was a bad thing waiting to happen).
He hadn't seen Dennis for two years at this point, with Dennis graduating while Mac was just starting his senior year, and then being well into college now that Mac had finally graduated.
In those two years, they’d seen each other maybe a few times in passing in stores, always saying a quick hello, occasionally some mostly one-sided conversation on Mac's end, before parting ways.
It was like torture, knowing that despite having multiple breaks his first year of college, Dennis had not once gone out of his way to see Mac.
That might change, though, because why else would Dennis be paging Mac at eleven-thirty?
Mac ran down the stairs, making sure to keep his feet light because once again, mom being asleep was a good thing—he loved her, but as of late, she’d become a little too cigarette-burning friendly in her punishments, and those marks added up fast.
In this moment, Mac’s never been more thankful for the wall phone; he always messed up those damn rotary dials. It rang, and rang, and rang, and at about the fourth ring, Mac began to question why he’d been so excited in the first place.
Never once has he been thrilled to call Charlie, and Charlie didn’t abandon him at the drop of a hat. But then the ringing stopped, and that distinctive click as the phone picked up rang out. Mac’s stomach sank, anticipation mixing with the pure fear of talking to Dennis.
Silence, that’s all that played from Mac’s end; however, into his ear, he heard music and men screaming.
After a few more shouts, that’s when Mac heard it, like a choir of angels that Mac’s been missing out on for three months or so since that last awkward grocery store encounter. “Shut up, you assholes! I’m on the phone!”
“Den?” Mac inhaled heavily upon hearing the familiar scream—that’s good ol’ Dennis, alright, always commanding his ‘authority’ over others.
“Yeah.” The noise didn't die down in the slightest; if anything, it got louder. He could hear the angry exhale Dennis let out at that, and it sent a shiver down Mac's spine in a way he didn’t get.
“You—uh, paged me,” Mac muttered.
The exhale was replaced by Dennis’s now-annoyed inhale. “I’m aware.” Dennis was cagey, and Mac had to remind himself that Dennis is always rude–it’s probably not Mac’s fault. “I’m gonna come get you, alright?”
“Huh–what?” Mac choked out; this was the first time Dennis had initiated hanging out. It’d always been him inviting Dennis out, practically begging for the attention he hated himself for needing.
“Why?” It’s not even the vagueness that threw Mac off, it’s that Dennis was calling him out of the blue, which he never does.
“There’s a party and everyone here totally sucks, I want you.” Dennis knew how to hit it where it hurts. Mac wanted so badly to be wanted, and Dennis knew that, because Mac confided in him more than once. As much as Mac loved his parents, they weren’t the most ‘open’ with their affection, that’s for sure.
“Yeah…Okay,” Mac managed to choke out. This was rare, exciting. A college party; Mac never considered himself smart enough for college, or boring enough, he'd done his time in high school and gotten the fuck out. College, though, sounded tolerable if it was Mac accompanied by Dennis.
“I’ll be over in like…” Dennis trails off, thinking momentarily. “Just be ready, alright?”
“Yeah, I’ll be ready.” That’s the last word Mac got in. Dennis granted him one final grunt of acknowledgement before hanging up, leaving Mac to stew in the silence of the house.
Mac took a heavy breath, calming himself right before his feet moved without permission, practically racing him upstairs like his life depended on it. Instead, he carefully crept back upstairs, making sure not to make too much noise—sometimes the vibrations rattled his mom’s door, waking her up.
In the past, Dennis had always had things to say about Mac's wardrobe choices. And sure, Mac shouldn’t care that much, but Dennis was so smart; something about his opinion seemed so very important in Mac’s mind.
So for now, Mac would ditch the sleeveless shirts that took up about ninety percent of his closet, opting for a more respectable choice. A graphic-T with sleeves.
Once he had his combat boots all laced up, he went out and patiently waited on the steps.
The slightly cold wind hit Mac’s uncovered forearms, sending a chill worse than the one he feels from Dennis when he uses that low tone when he’s upset. Outside was as dark and drab as his bedroom, a dim flickering street light the only thing lighting up the sidewalk in front of him.
This part of town had always been considered a “bad” one, and compared to Dennis’s childhood home, it was really shitty.
It’d always been a question in the back of Mac’s mind. Why would someone as wealthy and disconnected from the lifestyle Mac lived ever choose to befriend him? Maybe it’d been for the weed, like most of Mac’s high school friends’, but it didn’t account for everything.
Sometimes Mac’s friendship with Dennis was nothing more than a projection of Mac’s feelings, something he’d punish himself for ever considering later; there were times, though.
Vague moments where Dennis had been so nice and friendly that he felt like a different person; hopefully, tonight was one of those times. At the idea, Mac bit the inside of his mouth, damaging more than a simple fidgeting motion. He sank his canines harder and harder until he felt the taste of iron slowly trickle in his mouth.
That has always been an effective method of snapping Mac back into faith, although abstinence was the best form; there was no avoiding Dennis, though. He was a magnet drawing Mac helplessly, like Mac was the same metallic flavor coating his tongue.
After about thirty minutes of waiting, Mac was ready to head back inside and cut his losses—maybe it’d been a cruel prank Mac hadn’t been in on. Seemed like a Dennis thing to do, and egged on by whatever frat he’d join, it was a sure-fire way to have some quick fun.
Had they mocked Mac’s excited stuttering after Dennis hung up that flirtatious tone?
Just as Mac stood up, a car zoomed onto his street, lighting up the road better than that shitty streetlight ever has. And sure enough, there was Dennis’s green range-rover. It came to a screeching halt in front of Mac's house, nearly slamming its nice shiny bumper into a pothole.
Mac distinctly remembers Dennis getting that car—right after graduation, his dad had gotten it for him as a gift, replacing the beater car Dennis had driven before. Almost into his twenties and Mac still hadn’t gotten his own car—he tried to console himself and say it’s normal not to have a car yet, only a year out of high school, but it didn’t work.
Trying to hide the childish excitement in his step, Mac approached the car; when he tried the passenger door, the handle rudely snapped back into place, the lock blocking Mac’s attempts.
The tinted window slowly rolled down, and there was Dennis, that beautiful face framed by his shaggy curly hair that Mac had so missed seeing daily. At some point in the last few months, he must have grown it out.
Dennis leaned over the center console, deep blue eyes boring into Mac’s soul. “Well, if it isn’t Ronald McDonald.”
“Dennis,” Mac warned, tensing up at the use of his legal name.
Dennis let out a small, sadistic chuckle before continuing. “Go back inside and get a few ounces, okay? I got cash. I already told my friends you’d bring some.”
Of course, there was an agenda; there always was with Dennis. He never hung out with Mac just to hang out with Mac. It was almost silly how hyped up Mac had gotten, and he should hold his faith closer if he slips at the smallest excitement.
“Yeah–okay, man,” Mac muttered, quickly turning on his heel to run back inside.
Part of him expected Dennis to already be gone once he returned, and the sigh of relief was audible when he came back and the car was still idly puffing exhaust fumes into the atmosphere.
It was almost awkward; the car was silent as Mac got in, Dennis pretty much ignoring his existence after getting a good up and down look at him.
Mac’s breath shook as he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt—was he supposed to make conversation? Sometimes Dennis preferred the silence; there’d been so many times they’d lie there, smoking for hours without a single word between them.
“Your hair looks nice,” Mac commented, attempting to break that thick tension. Dennis smelled like the most delicious cologne, layered with the faintest of cigarette ash and booze—utterly intoxicating, and not just from the tipsy driving.
“Thanks.” The reply was curt and calculated. “Your…shirt has sleeves.” It wasn’t a compliment, more of an observation – maybe a compliment if you take into account the numerous times Dennis had made fun of Mac for hacking off the sleeves of all his T-shirts.
“Yeah…” He glanced out the window, only able to look at Dennis through the reflection in the glass. It’d been so long since he’d been so close to Dennis, and god, how he’d forgotten the unwanted stir in his stomach that emotions brought on.
A mindless tapping began ringing out – Dennis thumping his fingers on the slick leather steering wheel, mirroring Mac’s more silent fidgeting. Was he also nervous? Dennis had never been the nervous type, always self-assured and confident, leading Mac astray without a second thought.
Maybe the time apart had been good for Mac, and this was a relapse that tried to denounce all he believed in; Dennis wasn’t good for him.
Charlie had asserted that before; he never hated Dennis, but throughout the countless times Mac brought him up in his absence, Charlie would let out another groan.
Their personalities always clashed, and sometimes Mac felt like he was the only thing holding the two's friendship together. Because sure, Dennis would ditch his cool friends to come hang out with Mac and Charlie, but he always clung close to Mac’s side, and he got in way more fights with Charlie than he ever did with Mac.
Mac might be viewing their friendship through rose-tinted glasses, though.
“How have you been?” When Dennis spoke, Mac could smell an intense mint; everything about Dennis was distinct, from his sharp features to his scent to his cunning ways. Mac could categorize it all in his head indefinitely. It was too intense, though, as if Dennis had downed mouthwash shortly before picking up Mac.
He could feel Dennis’s eyes on him when they stopped for a red light. “Fine, I guess. Same old shit, y’know?”
“Yeah,” Dennis let out a dry chuckle, eyes reconnecting with the road. “You uh–You got a girlfriend yet, man?” At that question, both of them mutually picked up the fidgeting. Mac’s shirt buckled under his tight hold, met by the chorus of rhythmic thudding against the wheel.
“I mean, like on and off, yeah. I can’t be tied down.” Mac was always more off than on with girls; a girlfriend felt like a performance to him, and an actor can only do so many plays without being burnt out. He didn’t get why anyone would want a girlfriend at this age; all girls felt whiny and needy to him, a disgusting feminine thing that needed his constant attention twenty-four-seven.
No thanks.
“Hm,” Dennis simply hummed in acknowledgement. “Wanna hear this kitty purr?” He suddenly changed the subject, and before Mac had time to question the meaning of the question, Dennis floored it into a turn, skidding across the pavement as he whipped onto the crossroad.
“Dennis!” Mac shouted out in a whiny way he hadn’t in years. “Why would you do that?!”
Mac’s nails dug into Dennis’s precious seats, and at his tense demeanor, Dennis let out an actual laugh. “Because look at you! Hah–Dude, you look mortified!”
“It’s not funny, asshole! You almost smacked the curb!” Mac was getting up to a shout at this point, and in a way, he was happy Dennis did that. It felt like the tension had finally broken a little, and Dennis’s evil little giggles were always a welcome blessing.
“Who cares? I’d just make Frank pay for it—he’s a real tool. If my mom yells at him enough, he’ll pay for anything.” Dennis shrugged as if that was a normal thing. Half the time, Mac’s the one paying his mom, hell, she even charges him rent–albeit a small amount, but still, rent nonetheless.
“Oh, come on, lighten up, you buzzkill,” Dennis added. And at the hand quickly making its way to Mac’s knee, his demeanor softened, melting into the soothing rub Dennis casually gave. “I don’t want my friends thinking I’m friends with someone who can’t take a joke.”
Mac gulped—Dennis’s college friends. This is a part of Dennis’s life Mac had yet to share in, and judging based on Dennis’s looks, Mac wasn’t going to fit in. “Right, right, I’m good–chill, I’m chill.”
“Good,” Dennis purred, giving a tighter squeeze right above Mac’s knee before pulling his hand away completely.
It was unusual. Mac was talking to Dennis; he knew that this was his Dennis, but he didn’t look the part. In high school, Dennis copied Mac for the most part; only his shirts were more expensive, with the sleeves intact. Mac had retained most of those T-shirts after Dennis graduated; he’d mentioned wanting a fresh start, and that meant new clothes, so Mac could have the old ones.
And he wasn’t kidding, because here was Dennis fucking Reynolds in a button-up, prim and proper, as if he was better than everyone.
Another odd thing Mac noticed was his complete and utter lack of Makeup. Not that Dennis would ever admit to his usage, but Mac always took note of his done-up eyelashes, even experimenting with eyeliner when he thought no one was looking in the boy’s bathroom.
Dennis had always been free in his self-expression in a way Mac could only dream of; it was almost disheartening to see that thrown away.
“Alright, we’re here, don’t blow this.” Dennis began as he parked: there were so many cars it was almost overwhelming—how many people were going to be here? “Give me the weed, too.”
He tossed over the bag, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say. Should he harass Dennis about money the first time Dennis invites him to hang out in years? Before he got the opportunity, Dennis rifled through his pocket, pulling out his wallet and slapping it into Mac’s hand.
“Take whatever, I trust you not to rob me.” The leather was hot in Mac’s hand, heated by Dennis’s ass. It sent a shiver down him that he hates; how many times would Dennis electrify him tonight?
“I know how much money I have down to the penny, seriously, dude, don’t take too much,” Dennis adds in a warning, and then he’s ditching Mac in the car.
Mac takes twenty over what he’d usually charge, because fuck Dennis.
When Mac got inside, Dennis had almost disappeared, curls sticking out from the crowd momentarily, and Mac chased behind him like a dog to its owner. “See? Told you I could get some.”
Had he even wanted Mac to come? It seemed like an unnecessary ploy that Dennis tacked on to play with Mac’s emotions. “Speak of the devil!” Dennis suddenly drew Mac into the conversation, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulder.
“Mac, Mac, comere, baby boy.” His voice slowly laced with an underlying mockery, coated by a layer of sugary sweet deceit that had Mac’s stomach churning.
“Hi,” Mac choked out, sweat beginning to prickle his forehead when Dennis’s fingers trailed down his shoulder and onto the blade, holding him possessively, like Mac was a prize.
“Mac, this is Brad, Brad, this is the man supplying your addiction,” Dennis introduces Mac to one of the three boys cornered in the crowded kitchen.
Brad, the man Dennis had focused on, scoffed. “You can’t get addicted to weed, dude.”
“And uh, that’s–Fuck uh–Whatever it doesn’t matter,” Dennis ignores Brad’s response and moves on to his dismissive introduction of his other two ‘friends’. “Come on, Mac, let’s go find somewhere to sit, kay?”
“Mhm, okay,” Mac mutters in return, allowing himself to be dragged away from the three quickly annoyed men.
Chills liked to permeate when Dennis touched Mac. Or rather, a disgusting buzzing feeling that afflicted his skin in a constant loop. Shooting that shiver down from the affected area (in this case, his shoulder) down to his feet, and oh, how it liked to make him feel like jelly.
“You’re so tense…” Dennis whispered, voice barely audible over shitty music and people talking. His fingers massaged over Mac’s shoulder as he spoke. “Are you nervous?”
“No!” Mac squeaked—totally not conspicuous at all. “Ahem–just… We haven’t hung out in a while. Gotta get back in the flow of things is all.” Mac would hold back on telling Dennis every time they hang out, he feels like he’s going to puke from a guilt he can’t quite put his finger on. Or that he already hates Dennis’s new friends just from the sight of them.
“Makes sense… let’s loosen you up, yeah?” Dennis’s tone was so condescending, treating Mac like he was completely clueless—and maybe he was. Suddenly, those hands turned aggressive, and Dennis roughly shoved Mac onto an empty chair before turning on his heel, disappearing back into the crowd.
And then Mac was alone. Usually, when Dennis did shit like that, it meant one thing: sit and wait. So that’s just what Mac did, sat and waited with the loud bass thumping in his ears, people bumping into his knees, mixing with it to truly overwhelm him.
Never in high school did Mac get invited to parties—not unless he was selling, and even then, they’d usually have him drop off the stuff, then get the hell out. He was completely inexperienced, all alone, trying to swallow that guilt as he scanned the crowd for any sign of Dennis.
Almost everyone had a solo cup, painting the crowd with red polka-dots in the blur of people; that was definitely what Dennis meant by loosening Mac up.
Only Dennis was twenty-one, and that meant real alcohol. Not that Mac hadn’t drank before, he was nineteen going on twenty, he’d be lame as hell if he hadn’t tried anything—he and Charlie had snuck their fair share of beers.
But parties like this, at least in the movies Mac watched alone on his DVD player, meant a whole new level: hard liquor. The kind of stuff you mix with shitty, cheap soda that barely masks the taste of nail polish burning down your throat.
Mac wasn’t this kind of drinker.
After what felt like an eternity, Dennis was visible again, a smile on his face, numerous items crowding his hands. And for a moment, Mac doesn’t even scan over those items, solely focused on Dennis’s face, a new red lipstick mark on his cheek.
Mac tried to ignore the way his stomach flipped in the same way it had the day Dennis asked out that chick to prom, and Mac sabotaged them by sleeping with her–he still thinks Tim Murphy did that, the chump.
“Chicks are crazy,” Dennis muttered, barely audible, but it still spiked a sickly sort of jealousy in Mac, and there was that temptation to rip off more of his own mouth in retaliation.
“Alright, here we go. You know how to do a tequila shot?” Dennis questioned, raising his voice to almost a shout.
“Yes?” Mac quirked his eyebrow—who doesn’t know how to take a shot? You just throw your head back and gulp it down, the simplest thing ever.
Dennis’s opinion seemed to differ. “No, you don’t. I can see it in your eyes.” What Dennis is holding down registers in Mac’s mind. His hand is crowded by two shot glasses, the other balancing a lime and a salt shaker.
“Watch,” Dennis calls for his attention, and Mac is undivided in an instant. “First, put the salt on your hand.” He dismissed the lime and shots to Mac, shoving them into his grasp. Mac nearly dropped it all on the floor as he watched Dennis lick a stripe from his index to his thumb.
Then, he sprinkled salt across it, giving another, slow, eye-contact-filled lick. “Then take the shot.” He continued as he took one glass back from Mac, quickly throwing it back with ease. The way his throat bobbed from the action caught Mac’s attention more than anything ever had. It was mesmerizing, and Mac had to rapidly blink the red from his face.
“Then, lime.” In an orthodox way, Dennis got the lime in half. And by that, Mac meant Dennis grabbed the whole lime and got half of it in his mouth, biting it in two before quickly spitting out one half onto Mac’s lap. The spit-covered thing wetted Mac’s thigh, but he didn’t care all too much, not when Dennis was darting out his tongue slightly, squeezing lime juice into his mouth.
“Got it?”
“Yea–uh—yeah,” Mac stuttered; he absolutely did not get it.
“Jesus Christ, okay here.” As always, Dennis saw right through him. As he did before, Dennis poured salt across the junction of his finger and thumb, only this time, he brought his hand to Mac’s mouth. “Lick it.”
Before his tongue could leave his mouth, Mac gulped harder than he ever had. Part of him wished the salt wasn’t there, so he could feel the natural flavors of Dennis’s hand hit his tongue as he swiped it between the digits. That’s why Dennis is bad for Mac; he gets him thinking like that, and no man should think about another man like that.
“Good.” And Mac’s thoughts melt away, nothing but a slave to his mortal desires. When his tongue lingered for too long between Dennis’s fingers, the hand tugged and twisted, turning to snap in front of Mac’s eyes. “Take the shot, Mac.”
Mac mumbled a quick apology that barely escaped his lips before obeying Dennis’s command, feeling the burn of tequila sting the bites he’d littered his cheek with.
A distraction from the pain came in, or rather a replacement; burning in the back of his scalp. Dennis had taken hold of his hair, tilting his head backward, and Mac quickly popped his mouth open when Dennis brought the half-juiced lime to his lips.
Once he’d decided Mac had enough juice, he let go completely. “Baby’s first tequila shot, congrats.”
“Thanks.” Mac coughed into his hand, trying to hold back the tears swelling in the corner of his eyes. It wasn’t even the alcohol, although that sting might play a part in it, but the intimacy that he knows two friends shouldn’t share. Dennis always pushed boundaries, and Mac knew he should say no.
Time and time again, he doesn’t.
For a moment, Dennis lingered in front of Mac, eyes drinking him harder than the alcohol that seemed to have no effect on Dennis’s quick-witted mouth. These were the moments that threw Mac off, had him questioning everything, and for a moment, Mac wanted to denounce everything in favor of being eye-candy a moment longer.
That’s when Dennis finally spoke. “You want another shot?”
“No—I really shouldn’t. If I go home smelling like booze, my mom will kill me.” Truthfully, his mom wouldn’t give a damn, but it sounded better than the truth: if you get me drunk, I don’t know if I could say no.
“Lame,” Dennis crossed his arms, rudely cramming his ass next to Mac’s on the already cramped seat—just small enough not to reach love seat status, just large enough that with Dennis’s small weight, they could squeeze together tightly.
Hands fly everywhere, undecided when the space Mac had been resting one arm is now occupied by Dennis’s thighs—he decides on his own lap, pinching his hand between his own legs, pinning it there as if it had a mind of its own.
As they sat in silence, Mac’s eyes fell on those three men, new friends, and he wondered if Dennis did the same things with them. Had they ever felt Dennis’s hands on them? His breath hitting their necks as he turned to face them, staring into their souls, waiting for the next hit of uncomfortable homoerotism.
“You've built like a whole new life here,” Mac stated; new friends, new living arrangements, new girls, new clothes—it was like he’d completely moved on. And even though he’d made such an effort to denounce his past, he’d still invited Mac over; was there a place in this new life of his for Mac? Surely none of these new friends had replaced him.
“I suppose so,” Dennis hummed. “I miss home, though.”
“You do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just miss anything but being here; this doesn’t feel like a home. Frank’s never did either, I guess.” When Dennis continued, Mac bit back a sigh. He’d gotten his hopes up again, because if Dennis missed home, surely he’d missed Mac.
That hand did have a mind of its own, because gradually it escaped the prison of Mac’s knees. “Well, it’s only, what, two more years?”
“Two and a half, I got a semester left.” Dennis quickly corrected, knee bumping into Mac’s as he spread his legs ever so slightly. It felt like permission, and Mac took it as such, letting his fingertips explore the top of Dennis’s knee.
The action felt dirty, as if Mac was doing something wrong by comforting his friend. “Right, right. Well—uh…If it makes you feel better, I could come up more often.”
He met Dennis’s eyes, already boring into him for the whole conversation, yet Mac had avoided them. Never once did Mac get his hopes up, but the way Dennis’s face stayed neutral still brought them even lower.
Then Dennis tilted his head with a hum, like the suggestion finally clicked in his head—or maybe he’d just had time to come up with some cruel scheme Mac would find out about later.
“Y’know, everyone here is a lot more tolerable when they’re doped up. I’ll have to bring you here to sell or something,” Dennis replied. And at that, his hand joined Mac’s, the tips of his manicured fingers grazing Mac’s knuckles in a way that sent electric shocks straight to Mac’s heart.
As fast as he could, Mac recoiled, tucking his hand back into the safety of his knees; he wasn’t going to do this, there’s no way he was that desperate.
“Right, I can come up whenever you need, really. I don’t have much going on,” Mac blurted out, and god, he sounded that desperate.
“If I keep buying from you, do I get a friend discount?” He could pretend he didn’t, but Mac caught the way Dennis batted his eyelashes—he was playing with Mac, and Mac knew it.
“Hah–maybe.” Mac would allow himself to fall for it tonight, knowing Dennis, he wouldn’t hear anything for another two years, and hopefully by then Mac would have a good catholic girl on his arm to set him straight. That’d always been what Mac dreamed would happen, a forced conversion to the right path.
A new song came blaring on, followed by numerous cheers—something popular Mac had yet to hear. “God, these imbeciles, they don’t know anything about real music.” Dennis scoffed.
“And you do? You didn’t know good music until I put you onto it.” At the teasing, Dennis punched Mac in the arm, playful but hard enough to sting.
“I knew good music before you,” Dennis began, slowly standing—Mac wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed that he was no longer squeezed tightly, thigh to thigh with Dennis. “Let’s ditch, I got cassettes in my car.”
Mac swallowed the non-existent spit in his dry mouth, staring up at Dennis through the shame drawing his eyes to the floor. If the conversation hadn’t been dry and awkward before, it sure as hell was now, seeing as Mac killed it with his silent, terrified stare.
“Mac?” Dennis questioned, flicking his forehead.
“Sorry—yeah, let’s go.” Before Mac could process any of the implications of being alone with Dennis, he was being grabbed at and tugged, pulled back out into that cold night.
It was like whiplash, the heat of his face being blasted by cold air once again. For a moment, Mac was going to question why he felt frost bitten, but by the pure black sky, he remembered it was probably nearing one AM.
This was okay. Mac had been alone with Dennis a million times, and if in those millions of times he could keep himself in line, then tonight would be no different.
“Alright, let’s hear your amazing music taste,” Mac challenged as they sat in the car. In the past, Mac would have never had to keep himself in check around Dennis, yet now it felt like he was a wild animal battling instinct.
It was weird, the way he didn’t even fully process those desires yet knew them like the back of his hand. This was all vaguely familiar to the people he sold to, drug users looking for another hit, desperate for that relaxing, fuzzy feeling encapsulating their bodies—that’s what Dennis was to Mac. Some sweet relaxation that often got replaced by anxiety, mixing in a horrible, addictive way, and Mac wanted to be high with it forever.
Dennis pulled out what seemed to be a hand-burned mix tape. “I call this ‘Dennis’s chick catchers’, girls love when a guy is in tune with his emotions and plays love songs and shit.”
“Interesting that you’d pick to play your love song mixtape around me, you homo.” Mac joked, but he knew deep down he wanted so badly for there to be connotations behind Dennis’s music choice.
“Hey, well, maybe you can take note, you never get any girls.” When Dennis looked at him, it felt like he could see straight through Mac, like he knew everything.
The car shook to life, and the heater automatically flicked on to blast Mac’s already warm face. “This is uh—shit, something new, I remember hearing it on the radio–I burned it after hunting it down,” Dennis stated after a few seconds of guitar, furrowing his brows as he attempted to remember the name.
This was infinitely better than the loud music blasting into Mac’s ears; as much as he liked loud music, it wasn’t as fun when surrounded by strangers, questioning why a man could possibly attract you more than a woman.
“That’s it! The Flys! That’s what the band was called,” Dennis suddenly shouted out, looking awfully proud of himself for remembering a band he went out of the way to burn onto a cassette.
Barely paying attention to the lyrics, Mac nodded along as if he got it. Dennis was horribly distracting, and Mac wanted nothing more than to hear him speak over the entire song. “I missed this,” Mac accidentally let out, quickly breaking eye contact upon realizing what he’d said.
“Yeah?” There was a tinge of humor behind that question, like Dennis had found whatever Mac said funny. They were getting uncomfortably close. Dennis was leaning onto the center console, inching closer, closer—Mac was going to throw up.
Suddenly, Mac felt interested in the music, trying to move his body a little bit to distract Dennis from whatever goal he’d landed on. “God, what is that?” Dennis snorted.
“Dancing?”
“You’re a horrible dancer, Mac,” Dennis stated as he swung his car door open, quickly hopping out; Mac watched in concern as he made his way around the hood. “Get out.”
“Why?” At his door swinging open, Mac was hit with more of that cold air, barely registering over the inferno that his body was at the moment.
Oh god, Mac was going to get erect, he was doomed—completely damned the moment Dennis leaned into the car, splaying across his lap to reach the volume knob. “I’m gonna show you how to dance properly, you idiot.”
“Oh.” That was all Mac let out before the music quickly picked up—he wondered if the people inside could hear it over their loud shouts and speakers.
Mac nearly tripped as he stepped out of the car, legs feeling like jelly, quickly melted by Dennis’s eyes tracing his body; ever analytical. And he wondered if Dennis’s stare was a good or bad thing at this point; how can something so wrong feel so right?
There was no more time to mull over any sort of motive; music blared in his ears, ‘got you where I want you’ harmonizing behind him, just as Dennis touched him in a way he never had before.
Truly, Dennis did have Mac right where he wanted him, hands around his waist, tugging him in close, pulling him further and further away from any sort of beliefs. “Den!”
“Mac,” Dennis replied, voice resonating in Mac's chest with the low hum he let out. “Here, you gotta be less stiff, man.” He slapped at Mac’s side until Mac forced his tense form to relax a little.
“Did you pre-game or something?” Mac questioned as he tried to move his feet where Dennis’s directed, giving slow, intentional kicks.
Dennis simply hummed along to the song in lieu of a response. As much as he wanted to, Mac couldn’t excuse this behavior with alcohol—he should have had more than a shot. “Did you never dance with a chick in high school?”
Mac, in fact, hadn’t. “Of course, dude. I got more pussy than you ever did.”
The next kick to Mac’s feet was harsher, a clear punishment. “You can grab at me, y’know-” Dennis’s sentence was cut short by louder screams ringing out from the frat, party hitting a new extreme that Mac was glad they’d missed out on.
“Great, I’m going to get no sleep tonight.” Dennis’s feet slowed as he stared at the house. Truthfully, without the makeup, Dennis had rather apparent eye bags.
“You uhm–” This was a bad idea, and Mac knew he shouldn’t be suggesting it. “You wanna come spend the night at my place?”
He’s hanging out with Dennis for the first time in two years, and already he’s getting Dennis back to his place—Mac hadn’t been to church in a long time, not since his dad went to prison and stopped taking him; maybe tomorrow he should change that.
This was a mistake, a thought lit up by the spark in Dennis’s eyes, something evil: Mac was inviting sin into his life. “I don’t want to be a trouble.” Dennis didn’t sound like he truly cared at all; it was just another masquerade of humanity.
“No, no, I’m inviting you, it’s fine.” The hands released Mac’s waist, and he really should be relieved. No good man longs for the touch of another like that. At this point, Mac was hoping Dennis would never call him again.
Dennis’s smile made Mac question why he would ever want to leave Dennis behind in his memory. “Awesome.”
“We haven’t had a sleepover since—jeez… Junior year?” Dennis scrunched up his nose as he thought back, an action that had no right to be as cute as it was.
There was at least one time Mac had come over to Dennis’s house; it was so nice, prim and proper, rich. It’d been almost embarrassing the first time Dennis came over to his house to smoke, and thank god he’d been distracted by the weed. “Yeah, I think so.”
“You’ll have to burn me a copy of your mixtape. I liked that song.” Mac commented as he stepped backward, carefully climbing into the car. He wasn’t drunk, nowhere near, yet his head felt so fuzzy; he was intoxicated on the worst drug: Dennis Reynolds.
Once Dennis got to the other side of the car, he flashed another smile, giving Mac another hit. “Yeah? Are you a chick, Mac?”
“Maybe,” Mac muttered under his breath, just low enough for plausible deniability. He would never want to be a girl, but sometimes it sounds like such a good option; if he were a girl, things wouldn’t be nearly as weird.
A silence fell over the car that Mac was almost grateful for. There was too much going on tonight, way too much for such little time—Dennis truly knew how to fuck Mac up. In an hour or so, he’d completely derailed Mac from his predestined tracks. Mac could feel things shifting in a way he couldn’t control.
Control had always been a key part of Dennis’s personality, so of course, this was inevitable: Dennis hijacking Mac’s emotions and severing any kind of ownership he had over them.
The drive back felt infinitely longer than the one there. Part of Mac questioned if Dennis had somehow gained the ability to control time and space as well, just to prolong Mac’s torture.
“You know the way to my house pretty good.” They were already turning onto Mac’s street, and Dennis hadn’t looked at his GPS even once.
“Of course,” Dennis replied, quite simply, as if it was obvious he’d know. He’d been a handful of times, memorizing the way that had Mac’s heart melting in that desperate, familiar way.
When Dennis parked in the same spot, Mac felt a little nervous. “You have to be quiet, okay? My Mom’s asleep.”
Dennis nodded. “Alright.”
The moment they got to the door, Mac felt like something was off; all of it was confirmed when he creaked the thing open.
There was talking coming from inside, classic sitcom music, and the smell of tobacco burning. It meant one thing: his Mom had woken up and was downstairs watching TV.
“Hey Mom.” Mac nervously greeted, voice too cheery for how they usually talk. At her silence, he took initiative and joined her on the couch, sitting closer than she’d normally allow, leaving Dennis to awkwardly stand in the doorway.
“I uh—sorry I left without asking, I didn’t want to wake you, and my friend Dennis–you know him, Frank Reynold’s son—he–Fuck!” After rambling too much, there came that sting, his mom’s cigarette nearly smoked to the tip, searing out on his arm. The pain isn’t even what affected Mac; it’s that he so pathetically yelped while Dennis was standing feet away.
“Shut up,” She let out the faintest of grumbles as she pulled her hand away, flicking the bud onto the floor. Like the good son he is, Mac quickly plucked it off the floor with his still throbbing arm.
His Mom lit up another cigarette, and Mac stood with haste, taking a step back. He wasn’t scared of his mom; he loved her, yet there was that aching need to get away. “Sorry.”
She let out another grunt, acknowledging him in that almost silent way they’d come to communicate. “Love you,” Mac added, and she swatted at him dismissively, cigarette still in hand—Mac didn’t understand why he flinched.
When Mac turned around, Dennis was standing there, the vaguest connotation of concern on his face as he stared. Ignoring Dennis’s expression, Mac gestured for Dennis to follow him upstairs; he wanted to forget that, as he always did.
In Mac’s mind, his Mother was the perfect parent; the only time that notion was challenged was when a new scar got created. It was harder to ignore them if they were fresh and stinging.
“Is that why you have all those little dots on your arm?” Dennis questioned the moment Mac shut his door.
“I guess,” Mac muttered in return—he didn’t want to talk about it. It was embarrassing, humiliating in the way he couldn’t take the pain. If he’d been better at remembering that his mom prefers the quiet, he wouldn’t have gotten it in the first place.
Every step Mac took was mirrored by Dennis, eventually joining him on Mac’s bed. “You’re going to get infected if she keeps doing that, man.” Dennis’s fingers trailed Mac’s arm so delicately that Mac wanted to cry.
He wouldn’t, not in front of Dennis; he couldn’t know Mac wasn’t used to someone being so gentle. Dennis was never the type of person to be nice or comforting; this was a rare display of empathy that Mac wouldn’t ruin with overwhelming emotion.
“It’s fine,” Mac replied with a heavy inhale as Dennis pulled the arm into his lap, mindlessly picking the ashes out from the burn. “It’s tiny.”
“That’s what she said,” Dennis whispered in return, barely holding back the little snicker.
“Really mature, Dennis.” Mac couldn’t hide the smile the immature comment had tugged onto his face, despite the sarcastic criticisms.
One thing Mac tried to ignore was Dennis’s weight, but it was at the forefront of his mind now that those thin fingers were holding his arm still.
Thin, that’s the only descriptor that could be used for Dennis. Ever since high school, he’d maintained that, and Mac hated how his mind wanted to use it as justification; the thinness vaguely reminded him of a girl, so that meant it was okay, right? Total bullshit.
“Maybe you should stay at my place sometime, get you away from that–”
“Don't.” Mac cut him off. “Sorry, just—I don’t want to talk about it.” He knew the next words to come out of Dennis’s mouth would be an insult about his mother, some sort of vulgar name only used for women they wanted to degrade.
A night away from home, though, might do Mac good; at some point in his life, he’d have to move out, and Mac needed to get used to life away from his mom.
For a moment, Mac worried he’d offended Dennis. The same fear that strikes him when he hears the flick of a lighter hit when Dennis stood up, taking a step away. Only there wasn’t any punishment, not now, all Dennis was doing was taking off his button-up—oh. “Dennis?”
“Yeah?”
Mac’s heart was racing. “Why’re you taking off your shirt?”
“I’m not sleeping in a button-up?” It slid down his shoulders, revealing a white undershirt. Two beasts fought inside of Mac, relief for that shirt being there, and the animalistic desire to tear off the second layer and see what’s underneath.
It was Mac’s turn to touch his arm, only he wasn’t gently wiping away the remnants of his mother's damage; rather, he was furthering it, picking at the wound. Stress always drew out behaviors like that, and Dennis was the main instigator as always.
Right, Mac should be getting ready for bed. He’d forgotten sleep existed because Dennis could deprive him of it for weeks, and Mac would thank him for allowing him to be in his presence.
“Can I sleep in the bed with you? Your floor’s going to destroy my back.” Dennis had already kicked off his shoes, approaching Mac again alarmingly fast.
In the few and far times Charlie slept over, Mac had shared a bed with him; this should be no different. “Mhm,” Mac could only manage a hum in response as he watched Dennis unbuckle his belt.
“It’s good to get out of that place for once. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the guys there are fun, but they’re loud as shit. I don’t think they realize that not everyone wants to drink a ton of calorie-dense beer and stay up all night, every night.” Dennis rambled off as he crawled onto the bed, swinging his feet next to where Mac’s head was going to be; thank god, Mac thought for a moment he’d have to feel Dennis’s breath on his neck all night.
“Jeez, yeah, sounds like it sucks.” Mac gladly drinks beer and stays up all night with Charlie, a thing they’d picked up in childhood—although back then it didn’t usually involve weed. It felt weird that Dennis would hate that, but he supposed it was because those nights at college were out of fun and not a mutual understanding of wanting to be away from home.
“It does,” Dennis replied in the darkness of the room; Mac was glad he hadn’t questioned that Mac never turned on his light. The moon vaguely lit the room up, joined by a close by street lamp, but it felt infinitely lighter when Dennis had joined him in it.
Now that he was lying down, Dennis’s thigh rubbing against his arm, Mac was beginning to question his choices. There was an exceptionally beautiful man in his bed, which anyone would acknowledge while looking at Dennis, only Mac shouldn’t be.
The ceiling was dull and fuzzy, a popcorn ceiling, and Mac tried his hardest to stay solely focused on it rather than the warmth radiating from next to him.
“Goodnight, Mac,” Dennis whispered, his low voice jolting Mac back to attention.
Mac’s arm hurt, his heart stung, and Dennis’s hot body felt like it’d burn him if he moved in the slightest, a taste of hell on his tongue. There wasn’t anything good about this.
“Night, Dennis.”
It was way earlier than Mac would usually wake up; he knew that only from the way he could see the sunrise. The moment he graduated, he never saw that sight ever again.
“Shit!” Dennis’s shouting was what woke him up, followed by the bed creaking as he quickly crawled off.
Mac sat up and watched as Dennis scrambled to get his pants on. “Everything…alright?”
“No! I overslept! I’m going to be late for this lecture—The teacher's a real bitch too, she’s way too into people being on time.” Dennis rambled, buckling his belt onto the tightest loop—he could probably get away with wearing a girl’s belt.
Mac shouldn’t think like that.
“You need help?” Mac wasn’t sure how he’d help Dennis, other than taking in his panic with a flustered stare: Dennis’s hair, while unbrushed and styled, was so nice to Mac, frizzy in a way he’d usually never allow anyone to see. It felt intimate to see Dennis like this.
“You can’t make me not late—Fuck–I’ll call you sometime, I gotta go though,” Dennis added, and with that, he rushed out of Mac’s room.
“Bye-” Mac let out a little too late. In the panic, Dennis must have forgotten his shirt. In a way, it felt like a token of a new chapter; out with the old, in with the new—or maybe just in with the new, Mac couldn’t afford parting with Dennis’s other old shirts.
Mac took his time hanging up the shirt, getting it nice and straight in his closet; it felt nice having a piece of Dennis’s new life hanging alongside the old that Mac clung to. Maybe there was space for Mac after all.
That is, if Dennis ever called again—Mac had his doubts.