Work Text:
Mac had no complaints with rain. Not with the way it pattered against the fragile, faulty glass of his apartment windows; not with the way it soaked into the pavement and trickled its way down the cracks, saturating the ground below; especially not with the way it naturally lulled him, muted drizzles and distant rolls of thunder interconnecting with Philadelphia’s never-ending bustle and offering him something more pleasantly mundane than a sunnier condition. And to be soothed after a long day at an incessantly bouncing Paddy’s was welcomed with open arms. He needed to be alone with the rain.
Personal space was a necessity now, it seemed, despite Mac’s general unfamiliarity with finding relaxation within isolation. It was possible that he was getting used to it.
It was not a bad thing, either, to be adjusting to the idea of being alone--even despite being surrounded by an environment that insisted otherwise. It almost did not matter that his recreated apartment included Dennis’s old features, or that some of Dennis’s belongings themselves were left behind and replaced where they belonged when he had wandered north. It almost did not matter that Mac still looked at these features and belongings fondly, albeit tinged with a yearning that he could not describe beyond a sinking gut. Maybe his anxieties were appeased by Dennis’s mock presence; Mac could convince himself that the presence of small things like t-shirts, candles, and books were placeholders for the other. Better yet, he could convince himself that Dennis had only put those things down for a few hours, that he wandered down the road for something trivial, though that fantasy never lasted more than a few minutes.
But even without Dennis, the apartment lived. There was light; there were people; there was life. Dee would come in and lean against the counter while she told Mac about her day, about her most recent romantic struggles, about how her brother had not called since he had taken off. Frank would sprawl out on the couch, Charlie doing the same on the opposite end, and they would laugh with Mac about the most trivial things, much akin to their typical routine. And all three of their laughs would be genuine; Mac did not always “play along” to indulge them. He wanted to be happy, and he truly was in some aspects, but his plummeted gut remained. His desire for more remained.
Every light in the world could be illuminating his apartment, every candle could be lit within its walls, and yet the life within some of its features would still be void.
So Mac came to the eventual conclusion that there was no sense in attempting to force life into objects that could not truly live unless by Dennis’s hand. Instead, he would crack a window while it rained, let the scent of precipitation seep through, and allow it to carry him to some sort of temporary closure until the sun peeked back out from behind the clouds.
One day, Dennis would come home. There would be warmth again--the kind of genuine warmth which radiated across the span of the entire apartment and enveloped Mac in something absolutely indescribable. There would be life in the things Dennis left behind, but also in the things that did not necessarily belong to him; he would touch Mac’s pillow, or one of his pens, or one of his jackets, and suddenly Mac’s entire world would fade to white. Every little thing would have more meaning than it had had before. Dennis would smile at Mac, wide and sincere, the corners of his eyes crinkling the way that they always had, and Mac would feel his chest go bump-bump-bump with so much adoration and familiarity that his head would spin.
There would be no void, and there would be no rain. There would not need to be.
Soft, golden sunshine would be more than enough for Mac if it was coming from the right place. And he was willing to wait.