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Most of the time, things go wrong.
Mac is starting to realise this truth, midway through his forties. Things just go to shit. All the fucking time. And these days, he spends his life looking around at ten ton towers of shit baring down at him, because it's all gone so horribly and stupidly wrong. Sure, he's out as gay now. Big fucking deal, it's old news. And sure, he's working on his prejudices and trying to be a better man, but goddamn it, allow a man some self pity every now and then.
He's not depressed. At least, he doesn't think he is; he's just spent the past month dwelling on what's gone wrong. His own dad hates him because he likes dudes, Dennis hates him even more because Mac's been pining for him too hard for too long, and Charlie has given up on him, and now spends all of his time with a geriatric old douchebag, getting high as balls from various different household chemicals and hanging out in sewers.
Mac's tired of it. He's sad too much of the time, and feels the opposite of badass; he feels goddamn lonely.
So that's the painful, stupid truth. Most of the time, things go wrong. Sure, it's probably all part of God's plan, and He's sending a heavenly sign that Mac should make the wrong things right, but he's been exercising his holy endowment of free will quite generously, lazing around and allowing himself to lose things that could have easily been kept.
When it all boils down to it and the complications and overthinking has evaporated, it leaves the one overruling problem: Charlie.
It seems only natural. Charlie's his oldest friend. Charlie was his first kiss, when they were both teenagers and stealing their parents liquor, sad about not having girlfriends yet so resorting to each other. Charlie never left him for a whole year to go to North Dakota, because Charlie can't even leave Philly without freaking out. He's always been a constant to Mac, but these days, he's not a constant at all. They still do schemes together and hang out at Paddy's, but they haven't been authentically Mac and Charlie for years, all because Mac was too wrapped up in a whirlwind unrequited crush that he clung too for so long, ignoring the one person who's been there since day one.
He's full of regret. He misses how things were. This is something he can change, and something he will change.
One night, Mac finds himself driven to put all of these thoughts into practice. After they close the bar, the gang leaves one by one, leaving Charlie to do the dirty cleaning work and Mac, lingering in the bar, having told Dennis to drive home without him.
"Things are weird," Mac says. He's leaning against the bar, watching Charlie clean up peanut shells and beer bottles, his chin resting in the palm of one of his hands.
"No shit," Charlie cracks a little laugh, dropping beer bottles into the bin bag he's holding. "I know things are weird if you're staying to help me clean up."
"Oh— No, dude, I'm not helping you clean. That's Charlie work," Mac immediately waves off with an awkward chuckle.
"Then things aren't weird," Charlie raises an eyebrow, looking over at Mac with a weirded out expression.
"They are, though." Mac sits on a barstool, following Charlie with his gaze, watching him walk from table to table, wiping the surfaces and gathering trash.
"What things?" Charlie asks. "You're being totally vague, bro. Like you're talking in riddles or something. And don't get me wrong, riddles are great, but I'm tired man, I'd rather you just like... get to the point."
Mac itches his eyebrow, chewing his lip. "It's nothing, really—"
Charlie turns to face Mac with his face set in a deadpan expression, tired eye bags drooping a little. "Stop saying useless things and spit it out," he says with a scolding frown, huffing a breath and continuing to clear up the beer bottles, walking table to table. "You're making me all worried, being so serious and stuff."
Mac hesitates. He wrings his hands at his front, watching Charlie clean up. "It's just..." he starts, and for a moment, wonders if this is a bad idea. Maybe he's been overthinking for months, and this isn't necessary. Maybe he's just having a total mid life crisis and this is gonna be the move that fucks up so much more.
He can't tell. He can never really tell when it comes to Charlie these days, not like he used to.
"It's just..." Mac tries again, exhaling a huff with slight ambivalence. "...Things are weird with us... Y'know?"
Charlie bites the inside of his lip and swallows, as an anxious lump of saliva rises. He doesn't react visibly though, tying up the bin liner of beer bottles and trash, before walking behind the bar to wash the glasses. "Yeah, I know," he says after a moment, using the silence to process the words and the implications behind them.
"You do?" Mac winces a little. He's unsure how to read Charlie's tone; uncertain if he's angry, sad, or disinterested.
"Yeah, I wasn't born yesterday," Charlie mutters, itching his hair and sighing heavily, the air puffing through his mouth before his lips purse. He leans on the counter, pausing with the cleaning, and finally meets Mac's eye. "What's your angle, man? Like, what are you doing?"
Mac shrugs a little. "I— I miss you, dude."
"What is it, has Dennis rejected you again?" Charlie disregards Mac's words bitterly, sniffing in pride and turning his attention to washing the glasses in soapy water.
"Come on, Char— No..." Mac rubs his bicep. "No, it's not— it's not like... I just— I just wanna fix things, okay?"
Charlie grits his teeth, but his jaw feels shaky in its tension. He says nothing, washing out beer mugs and leaving them to drain.
Mac watches Charlie wash the glasses with lingering eyes, face briefly creasing up in something nigh on desperation. "Charlie, please... Hear me out, would you?"
"I never said I wasn't listening," Charlie speaks quietly, focusing on the dishes but very much listening. He's not sure if he wants to hear what Mac has to say, because he's pretty damn sure it's going to hurt— and Charlie's tired of hurting.
Mac nods stupidly, feet hooking around the legs of the stool and hands resting on the bar, fiddling awkwardly, erratically. "Do you remember when we first kissed?" He asks, feigning casualness with a laugh, but the laugh is shaky, and squeaks a little with anxiety.
Charlie was right. That hurts like a fucking bitch. "Yeah," he says shortly, not wanting to let the hurt show on his face or in his voice.
"And— And the party? With the high school kids?"
"I remember," Charlie huffs a breath. It's intended to be a forced laugh, but doesn't quite get that far. "...Obviously."
Mac shifts a little. He pauses, clasping his hands atop the bar. "It was good, right? Those days were good."
"Yeah, Mac, those days were great," Charlie says. He means it. They really were great; he and Mac were joined at the hip. There were a lot of drunken kisses, that Mac always claimed to forget, and they were the closest they've ever been.
But his tone comes out as sarcastic, because those days abruptly ended when Mac decided that pining for love that wasn't there was better than accepting the love he already had.
Charlie's lip wobbles. He bites it, and stares into the dish water blankly.
Admittedly, Mac hasn't been able to read Charlie well recently, but right now, he can read him like a goddamn book. So he does the right thing, for once in his life— "I'm... I'm sorry," he says, his voice quiet and withdrawn.
Charlie shakes his head. "Don't do that," he mumbles, really trying to keep himself together, but his mind and body try and do otherwise, shaking, ready to lash out and scream, or cry and sob. It's never a sure certainty which it'll be. Charlie doesn't know his own goddamn emotions well enough to prepare.
"Don't apologise?—"
"No!" Charlie shouts, throwing down the washcloth into the sink, water splashing onto the bar. "Don't apologise! You never fucking have, and it's too late to start now!" He gesticulates aimlessly, desperately trying to get his point across.
Mac holds his hands out, both in self protection and in a soothing nature, attempting to keep Charlie calm. "Okay, okay, I‐I won't," he swears, looking at his upset friend with an earnest yet uncertain look. "I... I won't."
Charlie exhales shakily, pressing his palms to his eyes. "You— You can't just do that man, coming in whilst I'm doing Charlie work and making me all f-fucking sad n' shit, it's not fair!"
"I wanna make things right, dude, I swear— I don't know what else to do." Mac leans over the bar to touch Charlie, to offer some bastardised comfort, but decides against it and sits meekly back down.
Charlie nods silently, gathering himself, pressing his eye sockets as if he's physically pushing back the tears that want to emerge back into his stupid skull. "I'm not drunk enough for this," he mumbles after a minute, hands flopping from his face.
Mac nods, and immediately starts walking behind the bar to get Charlie a beer out. Charlie waves his hands aimlessly, stumbling over an incoherent exclamation of annoyance. "Don't— huh? What are you doing?"
"Getting you a drink..."
"I can get my own drink, dude!" Charlie snaps, and takes the beer out of Mac's hands, gritting his teeth.
"Woah, Charlie— bro, I was just being nice..." Mac defends himself, sighing at the reaction.
"You're acting like I'm Dennis," Charlie bluntly says. "Like— like a trained puppy or something. Just be Mac, I don't need all that... Crap." He twists the bottle cap off and takes a swig, gulping the cold beer thirstily and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mac looks at Charlie and chews his lip with a frown. "Okay," he says after a moment, itching the back of his neck awkwardly, feeling somewhat useless.
Charlie walks out from around the bar past Mac, going to sit on a barstool. Mac follows, sitting beside him.
There's a moment of quiet. It feels tense. Words held suspended in the atmosphere, unspoken and ghosting between them.
Charlie licks his lips in preparation. "I fucking missed you, idiot," he mutters, looking down the neck of the beer bottle and swirling the liquid mindlessly in a circle motion. "It literally could've been so— I mean, so different," he continues. His face looks sad, because he is sad. He has been for years. The words that'd been hanging in the atmosphere get vocalised, but they somehow weigh even heavier on the air now.
Mac looks at the bar and nods. "Yeah. I know," he says, instead of apologising again, although his instinct is to do so. "I should've just... Y'know?" He gestures aimlessly, fingers pointing towards Charlie loosely, gently.
"Yeah, you should've," Charlie says quietly. "I mean, I've been right here, man, I mean— you must've known, right? I'm not exactly subtle." He laughs at himself with a tone dripping with self depreciation, somewhat hollow, blunt.
"I wanted to," Mac insists immediately. "I really did, it was just... I was so goddamn homophobic, I–I figured it'd be better to pine after somebody who didn't like me back and not have to face actual gay feelings and shit, than pine after somebody who did."
"We literally almost banged at that party," Charlie splutters a weak chuckle, remembering clearly the weight of Mac's sleeping head upon his chest. It hurts to reminisce, so he tries not to. "You can't just play the homophobia card all the time. We already did so much gay shit, you didn't— didn't have to—" he cuts himself, giving up on articulating his point at risk of overstepping a boundary. A tired exhale slips out, taking a moment to sip his beer and saviur the taste on his tongue
Mac listens intently, taking it all in. He actually stays quiet for a moment, letting him talk and think and drink, shutting up and not debating the point — because Charlie's right. There aren't enough excuses in the world. Mac fucked up, he abandoned Charlie, and that's really all there is to it.
He hesitates for a long moment, before resting his hand on the bar between them, palm upright. A peace offering. Maybe a bit more. Reconciliation.
Charlie looks at Mac's hand and feels his chest twist in an aching clusterfuck of emotions. He looks at it for a long moment, and Mac doesn't take it away. Patient. Waiting. Tolerant. Trying.
Slowly, Charlie slips his hand into Mac's.
He looks down the neck of the beer bottle as a desperate form of distraction for his brain to focus on, lest the intensity of feeling grow too much to cope with. It's overwhelming, it crowds Charlie's brain with a fog that's grown deeply unfamiliar. He's not been used to any sort of touch from Mac, beyond platonic; unhappily platonic, at that.
"...Isn't it a bit late?" Charlie says quietly after a moment, breaking the silence with a conservatively spoken sentence.
Mac pauses. Shrugs. Looks at their hands held on the table and encourages the fog to overwhelm him. He bathes in it. "Better late than never."
Charlie's lips tug into a brief, faltering smile. "Asshole..." he whispers, and takes a sip of his beer, trying to deflect the urge to burst into tears.
Mac's eyes linger on Charlie, his eyes set in a soft and sincere and kind of sad expression, quiet and unfamiliar and warm. He squeezes his hand, swallowing a lump in his throat. "I always had a thing for you, you know that right?" He says with a breathy chuckle, breaking the quiet. "Even when I was pining for Dennis. Always."
"Jesus goddamn Christ, that's so gay," Charlie breaks into a weak laugh, a more permanent and comfortable smile twitching onto his lips. He adds, with an amused huff, "...You had a funny way of showing it."
"So did you!" Mac exclaims lightly, smiling as well from the contagion of Charlie's.
"Shut up!"
Charlie's gaze eventually drifts from the neck of his beer bottle to Mac, looking at him properly instead of from the corner of his eye.
The two keep eye contact for a moment or two longer than it feels like they should. Charlie's expression falls from a smile into an earnest one. As does Mac's. The atmosphere feels quiet.
Charlie makes the first move. He leans across, keeping Mac's hand held, and kisses him boldly. And he's nervous, he's not even sure if it's a good idea until Mac kisses him back, nose pressing into each other's cheeks.
Mac's chest flutters so much he almost feels nauseous, a shaky lump in his throat and goosebumps on his arms. He turns on the barstool, leaning closer in, his hand slipping out of Charlie's to rest on his jaw. He savours the scratchiness of his facial hair— it feels rough to the touch but comforting to the flutters in his chest.
They break apart. A little shared, exhaled breath, shaky and overwhelmed.
"Fuck..." Mac whispers, hand staying on Charlie's jaw. He's leaning so far, he practically falls off his barstool, jolting with a stumble to sit back upright.
Charlie snorts a little laugh, reaching a hand to touch Mac's arm mindlessly, spluttering at his clumsiness.
"Shut up! I'm trying to have a moment," Mac exclaims, standing up with a grumpy sniff and pulling the barstool closer, sitting back down. "Asshole. Your breath smells," he adds, just to get a jab in.
"It was funny," Charlie defends. "And my breath is fine, you're just an annoying idiot—"
Mac cuts him off with another kiss, smushing their lips together and cupping Charlie's face.
"Hey," Charlie mumbles against Mac's lips, although he doesn't pull back, kissing him back almost immediately. "I was... in the middle of—..... being mean....." His words are broken up by kisses, his brow twitching, hands resting on Mac's broad shoulders as their lips move sweetly.
"And I... was in the.... the middle...." Mac starts, between kisses as well, muffled and only just legible. "...of being.... cute.... shut the fuck.... up..."
Charlie snuffles a laugh, tilting his head a little, hands slipping to hold Mac's neck. "I... I've gotta clean, Mac..." he murmurs against his lips. "We can do this later..."
"And we can do this now," Mac whines, sulking, kissing Charlie again with a firmly knotted brow.
Charlie keeps the kiss, their lips locking for a long moment. But then, he pulls back. "Later, Mac," he says quietly, rubbing his thumbs against Mac's stubble.
Mac keeps his eyes closed, nodding in a slight movement. "M'kay," he replies, brow knotted as his brain slowly acknowledges what just happened. His cheeks tinge a gentle pink.
Charlie nods, echoing Mac, and slowly sits back, hands slipping off him. He picks up his beer and finishes it in one long gulp, standing up from the barstool with admittedly wobbly legs that are unstable with nerves. He walks back round to behind the bar, and picks up the washcloth, washing the remaining few beer mugs out.
If Charlie's honest, he mostly pulled back because his brain needs time to catch up. He just kissed Mac. He just kissed Mac. It feels surreal, and a little scary and a lot good, and his brain is whizzing in foggy circles. He focuses on the feeling of the bubbles from the dish water popping against his hands.
Mac watches Charlie with wide, soft eyes, brow tightly caught in a quiet frown as he thinks. This could've happened at least a decade ago, even longer ago if he'd not been so full of masculine pride and intolerance. It makes his chest hurt in a lot of different ways, and his stupid fucking eyes feel wet. He wrings his hand, and licks slightly over his bottom lip at the distinct taste of Charlie.
His face scrunches up a little, but he straightens it, holding the back of his hand to cover his mouth and nose as it does so. A harsh breath slips; an unfortunate giveaway.
Charlie looks up at Mac's shaky breath and sees tears and feels worry immediately grab his stomach, unforgivingly. "Mac?"
"I'm fine," Mac sniffs, wiping his eyes adamantly, looking away in shame. Guilt.
"Bullshit," Charlie says, his eyebrows tugging together in a frown. "What's wrong, why are you crying? My breath can't be that bad," he laughs awkwardly, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Mac splutters a stupid breath, shaking his head and looking away more. "I'm— I swear, dude, it's fine, it really is, I'm just—" he swallows a lump in his throat, rubbing his tears away so harshly, it irritates the skin of his eyes, making it red. "I'm just fucking angry at myself, y'know?" He tries to laugh.
Charlie's face softens in a confused and sad sort of way. He looks around, unsure what to do, placing the last clean glass to drain and drying his hands off on his t-shirt, walking back around the bar, slowly sitting down on the same stool as previous. "...Why?" He asks.
"Because we could've done that f-fucking years ago if it wasn't for me," Mac says obviously, voice a little thick, wobbling as he speaks.
Charlie bites his bottom lip, running his hand through his hair awkwardly. "It's fine, Mac," he tries to reassure. "Like, yeah wasted time and all that, but... I mean, it's not like we're gonna die tomorrow. Not that old yet," he tries to lighten the mood.
Mac sniffs, still looking away from Charlie. "We're in our forties," he says quietly. "We've known each other since like, kindergarten."
Charlie sighs quietly, trying to think of a response with a somber heaviness to his chest, mostly because Mac's upset, partially because of the fact that he's got a point.
He wants to help though. So he rests his palm facing upwards on the bar, next to him. "...Better late than never," he reminds, softly, chewing the skin on the inside of his cheek.
Mac sees Charlie's hand from the corner of his eye. His heart twinges, humbled at gesture, and nods a little. He slips his hand into Charlie's, fingers squeezing between the knuckles.
It's a quiet moment. Mac notices that Charlie's hands are sweaty, a little residual dampness from the dish water clinging to his skin. His knuckles are rough and his cuticles look bitten, with dry, thick skin that rises in certain areas and then ebbs into thin, red patches.
"We should lock up," Charlie breaks the silence, because he's not used to silence. He's not used to sincerity like this; it's going to take some adjusting. Their hands slip away from the other. "You wanna come back to mine and huff glue?"
"Absolutely," Mac nods immediately. He still looks at the bar, wiping his cheeks and nose a final time as Charlie gets to his feet. "Is that like— is that us sorted? Are we good?"
"I mean," Charlie shrugs casually. "Just because I kissed you doesn't mean I suddenly forgive you or something. Still think you're an asshole." He speaks with a conversational tone, standing behind Mac and resting his elbows on his shoulders.
"Right," Mac mutters, voice reserved. He leans backwards nonetheless, as Charlie leans on his shoulders.
"...But, y'know, there's totally things to do to make up for it," Charlie adds. "And I've always thought you're an asshole. So it's cool. Just swear you won't start drooling over Dennis again or something, that shit was getting so tiring."
Mac exhales a gentle sigh of relief. "That's a really fucking long winded way of saying that we're cool."
"Shut your mouth," Charlie scowls. He messes Mac's neatly gelled hair up with both hands in defiance, before standing back.
"You dick!" Mac exclaims. He whips around with a sulky pout pursing his lips and his brow tugging in an irritated frown.
His frown softens though, as he looks at Charlie, standing there with a smug, shit eating grin, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Mac's always loved Charlie's smile, specifically the way it makes his cheeks ripple with little dimples that are just visible beneath his facial hair.
"You look like an ass," Charlie snickers, both at Mac's expression and at his hair, tousled and messy, sticking out at all angles with greasy, gel coated strands. He turns away, walking for the door. "Let's go, I'm not staying here all goddamn night. Think I don't have shit to do?"
"Like what, huff glue? Eat cat food?" Mac stumbles up, following after Charlie like he's his shadow. He speaks sarcastically nonetheless.
"And drink beer, and make sure the piss buckets are empty, and get Frank to fuck off so we can hang out in peace," Charlie lists on his fingers, completely immune to Mac's sarcasm.
"Oh—" Mac blinks. His instinctive reaction is to make a joke about Charlie taking him so literally, but his words make his ears perk up. "You're gonna get Frank to go...?"
"Yeah," Charlie says obviously, twisting the door handle of the bar as he looks back at Mac, and seeing his hopeful, meek expression. "Oh, dude, get your mind out of the goddamn gutter."
Mac splutters a defensive sound, gesturing uselessly. "Well, what else am I supposed to think?"
Charlie huffs a sigh and pushes open the door. "We've literally just kissed. Calm down, bro," he teases, walking out of the bar and fishing into his pocket for the keys, waiting for Mac to exit. He does, if a little grumpily, and Charlie closes the door behind them both. "Having said that, I mean... If you wanna get high and drink beer and like, kiss n' stuff..." he trails off awkwardly with a shrug and a little dusting of pink on his cheeks.
Mac grins. He doesn't say anything immediately but he does smile mischievously wide, leaning against the closed door. "...You have such a way with words." It's clearly sarcastic, and Charlie hears it loud and clear this time, narrowing his eyes.
"Dick," He insults, lightly albeit, and starts to walk, gesturing for Mac to follow.
Mac hums, musing in agreement, walking right alongside Charlie on the sidewalk, the sky dark and sky polluted, street lamps and a constant city glow lighting the path they walk. He ruffles Charlie's hair, and Charlie bats his hand away with a light scowl.
"Dumbass," says Mac.
The walk back to Charlie's is long, neither of them having a car to drive. Walking is nice though, and it lets Mac enjoy the nigh on peaceful solitude shared between them. It's a much better atmosphere than before.
Mac doesn't think about Dennis that evening, not even once, not even when Charlie shyly slips his hand to hold Mac's. He just walks happily alongside Charlie, thinking about the dumb dimples of his cheeks and how he has so many more freckles than he'd ever cared to realise, and how his facial hair is scruffy but not too rough to touch.
And sure, they're not as young as they used to be, but walking together with the promise of huffing glue and drinking beer and making out makes them feel like they're so much younger.
Mac was right. It's definitely better late than never.