Chapter Text
The smallest bit of sun seeps through Dennis' window, caressing his face.
Warmth and daylight blinds him, instinctively closing his eyes tightly enough to see spots. He liked the escape that came with sleep, and the peace that came with the world around him disappearing. To be woken up to face reality was the last thing Dennis wanted right now.
His body betrays him, like it so often does. Pressing his face into the pillow as a stubborn attempt to somehow shut out his surroundings, he eventually opens his eyes to be harshly greeted by the almost offensive amount of light in his room. Dennis places a tired hand on his night table, fumbling around until he finds the alarm clock he never sets.
10:30 am
"shit."
Dennis wasn't the type of person who enjoyed life, let alone mornings, and why should he? Work at the bar was always slow. The only regulars at Paddy's were two old men with elbow length beards and shoulder length hair. Both of them were perpetually black out drunk and probably stuck to the table of the booth they shared with all the spilled beers and drool they were lying in. Dennis curls his lip in disdain towards such an unclean, embarrassing state, softening his expression after a moment trying to smother his judgement. At its core, the lives of these old men seemed enviable, consistent, almost safe to him sometimes. That is, of course, without the vulnerability of being unconscious in a seedy bar in south Philly. Either way, right now the last thing Dennis wanted to be, other than awake, was vulnerable.
A knock on the door brings Dennis out of his thoughts, "Uh, y-yeah?"
"Hey Den, it's Mac-" he can faintly hear Mac mutter something under his breath about the absurdity of his own introduction, and chooses to ignore it.
"-You almost ready dude? If you're late again Sweet Dee says she's gonna quit."
That comment strikes him as odd. If Dee were to quit she'd have Frank's money to fall back on, maybe even with all the luck she's accumulated over the years of everyone shitting on her she could become an actress. Dennis lets out a small laugh at the thought, pausing to try and figure out why what Mac had said sounded so strange.
why the hell would either of them care about Sweet Dee?
Dennis had no trouble with picking up Dee's slack whenever she called in sick, and one less person at Paddy's means he could get payed more. Although, there was a part of Dennis that didn't want to entertain the thought.
He would never say it to her face, but he did kind of like being around her. They weren't as close these days as they were in high school or even college, both the twins' busy lives often kept them apart from each other. Sweet Dee had been there for him, almost to an unhealthy amount during their childhood, and Dennis had a great appreciation for her because of it.
"Den, you still there?"
Dennis gets out of bed, flinging the blankets off himself, "Yeah man, I'll be out in a second."
At least it was an excuse to maybe feel productive and get out of bed. He knows all too well that he could spend the entire day in that bed, in those same sweatpants, just wasting away. Maybe Mac knew that too.
The drive to Paddy's wasn't something that Dennis had noticed much. Mac, trying his best to help a friend in need, let Dennis play whatever music he wanted. Though Dennis imagines his depression playlist was uncomfortable for Mac to listen to, with songs mentioning suicide and being 'big and small, and big and small again', he figures a couple of beers can loosen the tension, so he nervously cracks his knuckles and walks inside.
As expected, work had been slow, but by mid day the rest of the gang had started to get pretty lit, so Dennis felt considerably less pathetic to be drinking still relatively early.
Being drunk in the bar was his comfort zone, his little rut, dug out by the same rituals that he took part in, day in and day out, like clockwork. The fire in his stomach was the only thing that could keep him warm nowadays, and he wanted to add as much fuel to it as possible.
He's never necessarily "happy" just comfortable. And even though he tried desperately to stay present, and listen to everyone speaking, he was always a little disconnected, and a little too in his own head for him to get away with saying "nothing, I'm good" whenever Sweet Dee or Charlie would ask what's bothering him, or what he's thinking about, but its not like he couldn't control his emotions. If there's one thing Dennis Reynolds can do, its control his emotions.
'Stuffing it down with brown' was how everyone in the gang dealt with their trauma. No matter how close they felt to each other, none of them ever brought up the ugly underbelly to the secrets they kept. Whenever anyone in the gang actually had to confront something serious they just shut down, having no idea how to react, no idea how to comfort. Part of the reason why they all still hung out was because of how, for lack of a better word, awkward it was for each of them to be realistic about their situations.
Sure, letting on a little somethin' somethin' about your life is fine, but when all you have left of yourself is out on the table for people to judge, what do you have left?
What was meant as a passing thought had struck a cord with Dennis, shock and realization tugging him out of his comfortable social rut of passively observing those around him while trapped in his mind. He hates analyzing himself like this. The truth always ends up hurting worse than anything some well meaning drunk gay men or an old librarian could ever bring themselves to do to him.
Dennis can feel his throat closing as he lets out the smallest whisper to excuse himself from whatever incoherent story Charlie's in the middle of telling, stumbling his way into the bathroom. He doesn't know if the bile threatening to erupt from his throat is coming from the fifteen beers he drank trying to repress what had happened or the memory itself, and he doesn't want to know.
He turns on the sink and waits for the water to get cold, staring at his reflection. The sight of tears streaming down his face that he doesn't remember letting out, and burning in his throat slightly bring him out of his inebriated state.
"What do you have left?" Dennis lets out between choked sniffles, immediately contorting his face into a pained expression as he lets a sob silently rip its way through him.
Truth be told, Dennis had nothing left. Everything had been taken from him that he valued in regards to his personality. The years that he still had as himself were not kind to him. Even after what happened in the library Dennis had tried to keep his composure, controlling his emotions was the only thing he could do. Controlling his emotions is the only thing he can do. To let an outburst like this make its way past all his efforts to hide it just made him feel that much more horrible.
A slurred, loud, voice makes Dennis more aware of his surroundings, lessening the intensity of his state. He figures there's no real way he can explain away the tears in his eyes or the red in his face, nor straighten his posture out like his mother had always told him to do whenever he would cry about something.
Oh dear, sit up. Stop being so emotional, all the other children will start to think you're-
"Den? You okay man? You've been in here for-"
The door swings open, the sight making Mac's heart drop. His best friend, hunched forward, leaning in maybe a couple inches from the mirror, looking absolutely wrecked.
Mac tries to string together a sentence- or anything for that matter, from the mass of words and emotions whirling around in his head. Though, he's sure that nothing he says could make the situation better. Walking cautiously towards him, Mac gently places a hand on Dennis' shoulder, relieved that his attempt at comforting his roommate wasn't rejected like it so often is whenever he has the misfortune of catching him in an episode like this. Mac didn't mind when the offer of sympathy was rejected, he knows good and well that Dennis cares about him more than he lets on. He also knows that there's an entire life's worth of trauma he has locked away somewhere, so he tends not to take it personally.
Dennis knows his pain more than he probably knows himself, and right now Mac tugging on the sleeve of his button up, with a concerned look in his eyes, for some reason makes him lower any defenses he tried to put up the moment the other walked into the bathroom.
He doesn't recall when they both sat down, or when he decided to let himself rest his head on Mac's shoulder. But the way Mac's shirt felt against his face, the warmth coming from his body, and the faint sent of cologne from that morning was all he cared about.
The time they spent there, against the bathroom wall, felt separate from time itself. Both of them were entranced by how serene a bar bathroom could be when in the embrace of another person. Neither of them expected to spend the rest of the night together like this, but it didn't seem to matter.
Dennis could've spent the rest of his life sitting there, for all he cared. As long as he was with Mac, he would be fine with it.