Chapter Text
Dennis is thirty-six and has a fever of 102.
He rubs his tired eyes with his knuckles. The bed is warm, but his whole body is freezing, despite being cocooned in several blankets. Slight tremors envelop his muscles as he lies helplessly against the pillows, desperate for relief that he isn’t sure will ever come. He woke up this morning with a sore throat and a headache wrapped around his temples, a warning sign that he couldn’t ignore. He remembers rolling over to tell Mac, but that simple movement in itself was enough for his vision to darken and his heart to palpitate, the room spinning violently.
Since then, Mac’s been on high alert, bringing him salty crackers to munch on and monitoring his heartrate with his smart watch. There’s an app for everything now, which is exhausting, but Dennis is grateful Mac’s able to keep track of it in real time. POTS consumes so much of both of their mental capacities that Dennis isn’t sure how Mac keeps up with it. He’s got his own life to worry about, but he’s never once hesitated to worry about Dennis’ wellbeing too.
He doesn’t know how this – him – doesn’t drive Mac away.
“Your heartrate’s a little high,” Mac says softly, carding his fingers through Dennis’ hair. He’s lying on his side, the oversized sleeve of his Eagles hoodie dangling from his wrist as he continues the soothing motion.
Dennis coughs, rubbing his throat. “Don’t feel good,” he whispers.
Mac presses a featherlight kiss to his temple. “Do you feel like you’re gonna pass out?” he asks. “Cuz if you do then we need to lose some of the pillows to get you more flat.”
He shrugs. He doesn’t really know the answer, not this time. His symptoms are easier to deal with by themselves, not when they’re coupled with… all of this other stuff. All this stuff that no one, especially Mac, should have to worry about.
The world tilts, and he blinks away the tears, wiping at his nose and eyes. Nausea swells in his stomach.
“Den?” His voice is laced with concern.
He hates this.
He hates this so fucking much.
He doesn’t understand why his body just can’t be normal for once.
“Gonna faint,” Dennis murmurs.
Mac wordlessly tosses most of the pillow cave Dennis has been lying in since this morning, leaving him with one solitary, albeit flat, pillow cushioning his head. His heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he breathes the best he can, closing his eyes tightly to stop the swimming vision. He feels like he’s on a ship in the choppy, never-ending ocean. He coughs wetly, and that’s all it takes for his world to go black. Sometimes, the darkness embraces him, welcoming him home. Other times, like right now, he craves the light of day and the warmth he feels when Mac holds him, always comforting him and keeping him close.
“Come back to me, Den.” The voice is one thousand leagues under the sea.
When he comes to, Mac is mopping his sweaty brow with a cold washcloth. He gives him fever reducer and water and more blankets.
Dennis, despite everything, smiles on this dreary February evening as Mac wraps him up in his arms and hugs him tightly.
Dennis is forty and pushes the shopping cart slowly through the store.
The lights overhead buzz in his ears and are bright as hell. He contemplates stealing the dark sunglasses perched atop Mac’s head, so much so that’s he reaches out for them, but he stops himself. He shakes his head, blinking away the spots in his vision. The alarm on his watch beeps frantically, and he feels Mac’s warm hand on his arm in an instant. Immediate goosebumps.
“You okay?” he asks. “You’re flushed. Let’s lie down.”
It’s one thing for this to happen at home or at the bar. He can lay down with no questions asked. Mac will watch his heartrate and time how long he’s out for, and then they can go back about their business as best as they can. Sometimes, Dennis is worn out, and that’s okay. Other times, he bounces back fast and like nothing ever happened. But this is a grocery store on a Saturday afternoon, and there are so many people brushing past them. They blur around him.
Dennis hunches over the cart, ducking his head down and closing his eyes tightly. He breathes in and out. In and out. In and out.
His legs go numb.
His stomach swims.
His heartrate skyrockets.
Dennis drops to the floor, sideways instead of forward or backward, smacking his head against the side of a shelf full of cereal.
The impact splits his skin. Blood pools on the tile.
Not that he registers any of this, not really.
He feels Mac’s hands on his face, tapping his cheek and grabbing his chin, telling him to come back, that he’ll be okay, to just breathe.
Feels the frantic, nervous energy in the air. Knows this is bad, worse than it’s been in a while.
Because they’re not at home, and they’re not safe, and Dennis knows this. Can register this even while floating away.
When he fully regains consciousness, he’s in the ER getting sutures on the right side of his head.
And Mac is a mess.
Tears stream down his cheeks as he whispers prayers to himself, hands folded in front of him. Dark purple smudges beneath his bloodshot eyes accent the waxy, grey color of his skin. He’s noticeably trembling in his t-shirt and khaki shorts. It’s supposed to be a lazy summer day. All they wanted was some ice cream, beer, and orange juice.
“Mac?” His voice is hoarse.
“Dennis? Oh thank God,” Mac says, jumping out of his seat and immediately rubbing his hand over Dennis’ forearm. “How you feeling?”
He blinks. Clears his throat. The nurse stitching him up tells him to hold still for just a little bit longer.
“Spinny,” he tells him honestly. “Sick.”
“They gave you some Zofran, like, ten minutes ago. It should kick in soon.”
Dennis nods. “You okay?”
“Yeah, dude. I’m fine,” he brushes off.
Mac doesn’t like to talk about it – this – anymore than Dennis does. It’s not the first time he’s ended up in the hospital, and it won’t be the last.
“When can we go home?”
Mac rubs him thumb over Dennis’ skin. “Soon.”
“Okay. Good,” Dennis breathes out. “Mac?”
“Yeah, Den?”
Dennis looks at Mac, taking him all in. “I love you.”
Mac leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too.”
Dennis is forty-one and munches on Goldfish crackers at the bar.
The Ziploc baggy has pictures of pumpkins and ghosts on it. Mac packed them for him this morning, along with applesauce, electrolyte packets, and a copious amount of water. He stores the bottles in the fridge in the back office so they stay cold the way he likes and forces Dennis to drink one every two hours. He pisses now more than ever, but staying hydrated helps with the symptoms, and he’s trying really hard to have less of those.
It's not like he can actually control them, not really at least, but this is his attempt at regaining some control over his life.
POTS has taken away any sense of control he’s ever had or felt. The episodes are seemingly random and triggered by virtually nothing, which makes it that much harder for him to feel normal. He wants to be in control of everything, especially his own body, but that’s not the case a vast majority of the time. He can be vigilant all he wants. But, the truth is, he’s got this thing, and the thing likes to be in charge whenever it wants, and he has to roll with it.
He doesn’t have any other choice but to roll with it.
A tingling sensation washes over him.
Shit.
He stops eating his snack and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Come on. Don’t do this.
“Den?”
He bites his bottom lip. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods once, afraid of making anymore movements.
Jesus fucking Christ. He hates this. He hates this so much.
“Am I burden?” Dennis finds himself asking. He can’t help it. The question comes flooding out of his mouth faster than he can control.
He looks at Mac on the other side of the bar, a rag in hand. His eyebrows furrow. “No. Not at all, Den,” he says.
He sounds honest, sincere, but Dennis isn’t sure how that’s even possible.
“Really?”
Mac nods. “What’s going on?”
Dizziness creeps up and flutters over his body, but he brushes it off.
He’s in control. He’s in control now.
“I just…” He swallows thickly. “I don’t get why you’re still here… with me.”
Mac looks like he’s about to smile but doesn’t. He looks mostly confused. “Because I love you, Dennis.”
“But why?” he asks. “All I ever do is… fucking faint and annoy you and make you do things you don’t wanna do.”
“I’ve never done anything I don’t want to do,” Mac answers simply with a shrug.
Dennis sighs. “You’re not getting it.”
Mac drops the rag. He reaches out for Dennis’ hand, and Dennis takes it reluctantly. He melts when Mac rubs his thumb over his knuckles.
“I understand what you’re asking, dumbass. But I don’t feel the way you do. Your whole life isn’t POTS. It’s just a part of it.”
He scowls. “A shitty part.”
“Yeah, but it makes you you,” Mac says, and, fuck, he’s so fucking sappy. “And I love you.”
“So I’m not a burden to you?” Dennis asks quietly.
Mac squeezes his hand. “No, Den. I swear.”
Dennis nods. Blinks rapidly. Both of their watches go off. “Good, because I’m about to pass out.”
“On it,” Mac says, taking control.
Dennis is forty-four and comes to in Mac’s arms.
He’s lying on the floor in the kitchen. He smells bacon and eggs. He tries to scratch his cheek but fails.
Mac’s gentle grip tightens. “Your heartrate is still high. Let’s just lay here for a few more minutes.”
Dennis breathes out. His head is fuzzy. He tugs his numb legs closer toward his chest. “Did I fall?”
“Yeah, but I caught you.” Mac’s breath tickles the back of his neck.
Dennis hums. “Thanks.”
Mac kisses his hair, undoubtedly a curly mess. “You’re welcome.”
They lie there a while longer, as promised. Mac helps Dennis sit up and then carries him to the couch, where a nest of blankets and pillows awaits him. Mac makes sure he’s mostly flat but bundled up the best he can, just the way he likes it. Dennis settles in, burying his nose in a quilt that smells like weed and two types of cologne.
“Breakfast is ready when you can stomach it,” Mac says as he takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch. “I’ll heat it up for you.”
Dennis nods. He curls into a loose ball. A Hell’s Kitchen rerun plays on the TV. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Mac shovel scrambled eggs covered in ketchup into his mouth. He grins as Mac takes a swig of coffee.
“What?” Mac asks with a smile.
“Nothing. Just…” Dennis’ voice trails off. “I love you.”
Mac rubs his blanketed shin. “I love you too, Den.”
But Dennis shakes his head. Tears swell in his eyes. He ignores how fast his heart is beating. “No, Mac. I really love you.”
Mac puts the plate down on the coffee table and instantly climbs behind Dennis on the couch, burying his nose in Dennis’ neck. He peppers kisses on soft skin, and Dennis shivers at the touch. He wants nothing more than to spend the rest of his life like this, with Mac by his side.
“You mean everything to me, Dennis,” Mac whispers.
“You mean the world to me,” Dennis whispers back.
He smiles like an idiot when he hears Mac chuckle. “Quit trying to one up me, Den.”
Fuck. He loves him way more than the world.
Dennis is forty-seven and lies on his back on a mid-December night.
Their tree twinkles, red and green lights strung dutifully along the branches. It’s an artificial tree, built from the same box they’ve had since 1999, but it’s theirs. It’s always been theirs. A Christmas Story is on, just like it always is this time of year. Dennis has already watched it three times since the day after Thanksgiving, but it’s his husband’s favorite holiday movie, and it always makes him smile, and Dennis really likes it when his husband smiles.
Mac is enthralled in the movie, staring like he’s never seen it before. Dennis observes him instead of the film from the comfort of Mac’s pillowed lap and wonders how he got so lucky. They finally tied the knot last October, just a couple days before Halloween. Their wedding was small and quaint and held inside the dirty walls of Paddy’s Pub, but there aren’t enough words to describe how perfect the day was. Of course, everything is perfect with Mac by his side.
Dennis feels his heart flutter, and this time not for bad reasons, but rather good reasons. Because he’s in love with a man named Ronald McDonald, and a man named Ronald McDonald – now officially Mac Reynolds – loves him back.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” Mac teases. He breaks Dennis’ trance by carding his fingers through his shower damp hair.
Dennis rolls his eyes.
“You down there thinking sappy thoughts again?” Mac asks, and, okay, so what if Dennis has been a little more emotional lately? He can’t help it. He’s married now.
“Shut up,” Dennis says, smiling up at his husband. He starts to twist the wedding ring on his finger, marveling at how it feels, to be known and loved without fault or question.
It’ll be a part of him forever, just like Mac.
“This is perfect, y’know?” Mac’s voice is warm on this chilly winter night, soft and sweet.
Dennis nods. He does know. He knows that this – their life together – is amazingly, beautifully perfect, and there’s nothing – and he means nothing, biological or not – that can ever ruin it. Mac is here, and Dennis is here, and that means more than anything the world can throw at them.
“Who’s being sappy now?” Dennis asks.
Mac traces his fingertips over Dennis’ collarbone; Dennis shivers at how light and tender the touch is.
“I love you, Den,” Mac whispers, like an unspoken prayer.
Dennis grins. Everything slides into place.
“I love you too, Mac.”