Work Text:
One
They're six, on a field trip to some boring as shit museum, and Charlie is wriggling around next to Mac, completely ignoring whatever their teacher is saying about staying together or some shit. His eyes keep darting around the room, anxiety all over his face, and he's muttering something under his breath too quietly for Mac to catch. Finally, a little frustrated with the kid's antics, Mac leans over and whispers, "What?"
"This place is awfully big," Charlie states nervously, looking a lot like a caged animal. "Don't wanna get lost."
"You won't."
"You don't know that!" Charlie's voice echoes off the walls and Mac waves his hands, shushing his friend, not wanting to alert the teacher. They're already on thin ice from the frog incident yesterday. He doesn't know what to do to calm his friend down, so he panics and grabs Charlie's surprisingly cold hand. The smaller boy immediately shuts up, looking down at their joined hands, and seems to relax a little bit at the sudden contact.
He's quiet the rest of the trip.
Two
They're eight and Mac is standing in the middle of his living room, watching as his father is hauled off in handcuffs. Behind him, he can hear his mother light a cigarette, turning the TV up another notch, pretending like everything is normal. It's not normal, not even close, because his dad is being taken away. They weren't going to play catch like those kids on the TV, they were never going to take that trip to Coney Island (not that Luther ever said they were, but Mac always thought it'd be an awesome trip), he can't even invite his dad to career day (though drug dealer probably isn't what the teacher had in mind when she asked for volunteers, but Mac's dad is awesome and so is his job and that teacher can eat a dick). He no longer has a dad to do those things.
It hits him right then, the fact that he no longer has a dad, and he feels his eyes start to burn. He really shouldn't cry, his mom needs him to be strong, she has just lost her husband, but he can't help it. He no longer has a father, while kids out there have two (sometimes three) dads. How is that fair?
He feels a cold hand slip into his, startling him, and for a moment he nearly forgot that Charlie had been spending the night. He curls his fingers around Charlie's, squeezing tightly, and watches as the door slams shut, separating him from his father.
Three
They're thirteen, and Dooley has stolen a bottle of Peach Schnapps from his mother. They end up in some vacant lot, watching as Dooley does a back flip off an old dumpster. He biffs the landing, barely managing to avoid breaking his neck, and Mac hears Pete mumble something from behind him. It's not unusual for Pete to talk to himself, so Mac doesn't pay any attention to what he's saying, taking another drink from the bottle. The alcohol tastes like ass, but he's got a nice buzz, so he's not going to complain about it.
He passes the bottle to Charlie, who's lying next to him, staring up at the sky. He hasn't said much since they picked him up at his house, spending any moment he's not taking a drink chewing on his thumb nail. It's filthy, his nail, and Mac cannot even begin to fathom how someone can stand that much dirt in their mouth, but he reminds himself that it's Charlie, the same kid who ate a hot dog out of the trash (without being dared to); a little dirt is going to do jack shit to him.
"You think our lives will ever be better, dude?" Charlie asks suddenly, glancing over at Mac. He's still holding the bottle of Schnapps, rolling it between his hands, the liquid sloshing around inside like waves during a storm.
"Shit no," Dooley answers before Mac can, stalking towards them. He snatches the bottle from Charlie, taking a long drink. "This," he gestures between himself and his friends with the bottle, "is it. We're gonna be stuck in this shithole for the rest of our lives." He takes another drink before bitterly adding, "Fucking tragedy if you ask me." He walks away, taking the bottle with him, kicking at an empty can.
Mac feels a cold hand slip into his, a thumb gently stroking his wrist. He maneuvers his hand so he can link their fingers, laying back next to Charlie, looking up at the sky, knowing Dooley is right; they will be stuck in this shithole for the rest of their lives.
It really is a fucking tragedy.
Four
They're sixteen and Dennis Reynolds is an asshole. He's all swagger and arrogance, and Mac wants to hate him, but there's something intriguing about the guy. They're smoking weed under the bleachers, and Mac's still fuming about Adriano Calvanese calling him and Charlie a 'couple of fags' at lunch today, when a gangly blond girl appears, her back brace creaking every time she moves. She peers at them through the crisscrossing metal beams and snaps, "Dennis, you were supposed to give me a ride home!"
"Sweet Dee, when are you going to realize, I don't have to do shit for you," Dennis answers accepting the joint from Charlie. "Go get Rickety Cricket to give you a ride. He ate that piece of dogshit for you, I'm sure he'll let you in his car."
"He doesn't have a car, you idiot," Dee snarls trying and failing to get behind the bleachers. "Come on, this is fucking stupid. Just give me a ride and then you can get back to your circle jerk or whatever you assholes do."
Dennis sighs but moves towards his sister, calling over his shoulder, "I'll see you guys later."
Charlie and Mac finish up the joint, the latter letting out one, final puff of smoke before crushing it under his combat boot, and the two start the long walk home. Charlie has his hands shoved in his pocket, his eyes looking anywhere but at Mac, and for a bit neither one say a word. Charlie pulls a hand free from his pocket, running it through his hair, and asks, "Is Dennis gonna hang out with us all the time now?"
Mac shrugs, kicking a rock. "Dunno. Why?"
"Just wondering."
They're halfway home when Mac feels cold fingers try to grab his, and he panics, quickly yanking his hand away. "Dude, stop, that's really fucking gay."
"Is this about what Adriano said at lunch? Who gives a shit?" Charlie yells turning to face Mac. "We do it all the time!"
"Not anymore, man. You need to grow the fuck up," Mac snaps and stalks away, ignoring his friend when he tries to call him back, hunching his shoulders.
A week later, Charlie starts talking about some brunette girl that sits behind him in his English class, and Mac doubts it's a coincidence. He also has to force himself to ignore the twinge he feels in his chest every time his friend brings her up.
Five
They're twenty-six and Mac has just finished up his conversation with Dooley's mother. She had told him that Dooley hadn't been happy in a while, that she had been expecting something like this to happen, that his funeral will be on Saturday. After he hangs up the phone, Mac sits in the living room for a while, staring at his hands, feeling a little numb. He hasn't talked to Dooley in over three years, not since he stopped by the bar the day they opened it. He hadn't stayed long, but he did walk out with a case of beer. He had seemed off then, too, but Dooley had always been in those moods. How could they have known he had been suicidal?
Suddenly, Mac doesn't want to be alone. Dennis isn't home and he'd rather eat his own tongue than call Dee, so he shoves himself to his feet, grabs his jacket, and rushes out of his apartment. He runs the five blocks to Charlie's place, noting the increasing number of homeless people the closer he gets to his friend's building. He nearly knocks a Mexican woman over on his way inside, ignoring her rapid fire Spanish that follows him up the stairs.
He skids to a halt outside of Charlie's apartment, taking a moment to catch his breath. When he's composed enough, he knocks on the door, but nobody answers. He tries twice more before trying the knob, the door easily swinging open. The kid really needs to learn how to lock up.
Mac lets himself into the small apartment, closing the door behind him, turning to find Charlie passed out on the futon, clutching a bottle of Miller, a few more bottles littering his floor. There's some stupid cartoon playing on his small TV, and a rat sits on his windowsill, munching on an apple core, unperturbed by the new presence. Choosing to ignore the rodent, Mac slowly crosses the room, sinking down onto the couch next to Charlie.
"Hey," he whispers shaking his friend, but Charlie doesn't wake up. Mac tries once more before giving up, instead watching the smaller man's chest move up and down with each breath he takes, a sure sign that he's alive. If he's being honest, Mac always thought Charlie would be the first one to die. All the shit he takes, the way he lives, the fact that the fucking kid doesn't even bother locking his door; it's a wonder he's still alive.
Without thinking about it, Mac reaches out and grabs Charlie's callused hand, squeezing his fingers tightly. It's still cold, has always been cold, but it's also soothing in a way. They haven't done this since they were sixteen, touched like this, and Mac would be lying if he said he didn't miss it a little bit.
"Hey," a groggy voice whispers and Charlie peers up at him through bleary eyes. "You holding my hand?"
"Uh, yeah," Mac breaths, nodding his head, contemplating whether or not to let it go.
"Alright," Charlie replies shrugging, squeezing his hand back, passing out again a moment later, his head lulling over onto Mac's shoulder.
He should probably tell Charlie that Dooley is dead, should figure out if they're going to go to the funeral or not, but he decides to do all that later. Since Mac moved in with Dennis, it's rare for him and Charlie to actually have a moment alone, just the two of them, and he's willing to hold onto this one for as long as he's allowed. The second he walks out of this apartment, everything will go back to normal and this will turn into another thing Mac refuses to bring up.
His life seems to revolve around these kind of moments, and sometimes it's exhausting having to pretend certain things never happened, but, no matter how much he may hate himself, he figures it'll be worth it in the long run.
It has to be.