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Dennis watches Mac scarf down a Hershey’s candy bar – plain for fuck’s sake – and yawn about half a billion times, even though they both slept for over 12 hours, curled up on Dennis' thick memory foam mattress. Dennis has a valid excuse, having spent the last three nights riddled with emptiness, but Mac’s been sleeping just fine; Dennis knows that for a fact. He watches Mac mope in front of the TV, eyes heavy and drifting off every few seconds, only to snap his drooping head up from his chest and wince.
He watches. He’s an observer by nature, and he knows exactly what is about to happen, just like he always does because he's God, and God knows. Why else would he give Mac Tylenol PM before bed and make sure the blackout curtains are tightly closed? Why else would have a heating pack on standby? And, seriously, why the fuck else would Dennis tiptoe around his own Goddamn apartment, trying desperately to be silent as his socked feet glide across the floor, unless something big was about to occur?
No one else notices; they never do. Charlie, Dee, and Frank are virtually useless and dumb as shit, but Dennis gets Mac. Understands when he’s angry or exhausted or giddy or hurt. It’s the reason Dennis keeps them home from the bar two days in a row, claiming that Charlie’s doing general maintenance. It’s a shitty lie, one that Mac himself can probably see straight through, but he doesn’t say anything about it. When Dee calls Mac’s phone to scream at them, figuring Mac will answer, Dennis ignores it and then ignores it four more times, silencing the device before it causes more trouble. Mac looks grateful, and he should be. Dennis doesn’t do this for just anyone.
Dee’s a fucking bird, though, so of course she comes over to shout at them instead.
“Let’s go dickbags!” she screeches, and Dennis shoves her into the hall, clicking the door shut behind him. “What the hell?”
His sister rolls her bird eyes. “Grab Mac, get in your douchey Range Rover, and head to the bar. Charlie’s making pickled eggs.”
“Pickled eggs? Are you fucking kidding me?”
That’s it. He’s gonna smash her into a billion pieces.
“No. I am not kidding you, fart nugget,” Dee mocks, and Dennis rolls his eyes. Fart nugget? What are they? Seven? “We gotta get going, though. Frank’s craving eggs.”
“Go away, Dee. We don’t want you or your stupid pickled eggs,” Dennis says. “Mac’s getting a migraine. I don’t see any reason to make it worse than it already is.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because, unlike you, I have friends. I’ve been his roommate for over twenty years, stupid bitch,” Dennis spits, still keeping his voice quiet.
Eventually, Dee leaves, and Dennis finds Mac bundled up on the couch, murmuring about a nap.
He doesn’t crack open his eyes again until almost midnight, and, when he does, they’re glazed over in a foggy, familiar pain that Dennis recognizes immediately. Probably an 8 out of 10 right now. Dennis glances over at him from his side of the bed, watching Mac squint in the darkness of the room. He takes off his glasses, sets down his phone, bright screen dulled to where he can barely read it, and grabs the Excedrin from the bedside table. He shakes two green and white pills into his hand and gives Mac a glass of water.
Mac takes the medicine without a word. Dennis warms the heating pack, rubbing it in between his hands. He signs ‘L’ for left and then crosses the tips of his middle and index finger for right; Mac crosses two fingers, rolling onto his side to face Dennis as he gently places the heating pack, now wrapped in a hand towel, on the right side of Mac’s head. Mac melts into the warmth; Dennis finds himself tugging the comforter up to Mac’s chin anyway; Dennis doesn't like being cold, and he hopes the gesture helps Mac.
He whimpers, squishing himself as close to Dennis as possible. Dennis flinches hard. He likes his own space and isn’t fond of being touched unless he initiates it first, - because that's how it's always been - but Mac is hurting, so he ignores his own tingling, singing skin and blossoming fear. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of, but try telling that to his brain. Dennis focuses harder on consoling Mac, wrapping his roommate in his arms to take back control. Does he ever even have control? He lightly rubs Mac’s hipbone.
Dennis lets Mac bury his face into his (Mac’s) hoodie. Dennis makes sure the heating pack is secure and in place.
The whimpering stops, washing away some of Dennis’ worries like an ocean wave to a shore. Mac’s mouth hangs open slightly, but Dennis doesn’t care about the drool coating the fabric. Mac is sick. Mac is in pain. Mac has had a rough couple of days, and it doesn’t matter that Dennis hasn’t been sleeping or eating or carving the flesh on his thighs when Mac isn’t looking. None of that matters; not really, anyway. It’s not like he’s going to stop self-destructing just because his roommate is there to help sooth his irrational worries.
Dennis wishes he could find a way to slide out from under the suffocation dampening his brain, muting his muscles and sending his neurons up in flames. He is about five seconds away from absolutely flipping his lid when Mac apparently startles himself awake, looking at Dennis with bloodshot eyes. Mac pokes his index finger into Dennis’ chest with a curious expression written on his face, right where his heart is – or maybe isn’t. He isn't sure he has a heart. Doesn't think there's anything in his God Hole.
Dennis shrugs his shoulders. He briefly holds up the a-okay signal with both hands, stating that it isn’t a big deal.
Mac, also using both hands, taps his two index fingers together. ‘Hurt?’ he asks.
He shakes his head. His heart starts beating faster. It might explode.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
And Mac, stupid, foolish, brownie eyed Mac, holds his right hand in front of his mouth, fingers outstretched and waving slightly, telling Dennis that he can talk if he wants to. He’s here. He’s listening. Mac, who thought it was a good idea for them to learn a tiny bit of sign language for moments like these, where they’re both hurting and not wanting to acknowledge it out loud. Mac, who has a migraine and is curled in a ball practically on top of Dennis. Fucking Mac.
Dennis signs ‘hurt’ again and points at his forehead. Mac doesn’t feel well. He doesn’t have to deal with Dennis’ self-loathing too.
Mac nods, tucking his face into Dennis’ neck and breathing shallowly. Dennis feels the rise and fall of Mac’s chest, feels how alive Mac is beneath his skin, how his heart seems to beat normally as if nothing’s wrong. Is anything wrong? Dennis doesn’t know. He never knows. It’s all a charade anyway. He’d fall apart at the seams if Mac weren’t here, and he knows it. Right now, in the privacy of his bedroom with Mac nestled against him, silence soaking into his skin like a wet blanket, he feels safe enough to admit it.
Mac’s soft breathing fills the room and seizes the gap in his Dennis’ God Hole, just enough so he can sleep too.