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Charlie’s having a crisis of faith.
Not that there’s much faith to go on these days, or most days. But right now, he really needs to big guy upstairs to hear him, at least let him know that He’s listening, because this is the final straw. The one that’s going to break the camel’s back.
He’s standing in front of the church his mom used to force him to go to on Wednesday nights. The one Mac took him to on Sunday mornings before breakfast in high school. The one that confirmed for him that it was all a whole bunch of fucking bullshit and a fucking scam. But he’s so fucking low he might as well give it one more shot. One more. Just to see. Give Him the opportunity to prove Charlie wrong.
It’s the middle of the night, but the light peers from under the church doors, and Charlie finds himself walking in, heading for the 24 hour chapel. He looks around at the depressingly empty room, with its depressing religious artwork for wayward souls, and makes his way to the back corner, kneeling on the soft cushion at his feet.
“Hey, um, Lord.” Charlie starts, wincing at his introduction as he folds his hands and closes his eyes. “I’ll just tell you what’s going on. Because I really need some help right now.”
Charlie takes in a deep breath, steeling himself for this moment.
“I’m thinking about ending it, Lord. All of it. All of…me.”
He hears movement near the front door of the church, and he whips his head around to find the intruder on his wildly personal moment, but all he sees is the wind blow it open and shut again just around the corner. He takes a shaky breath. He doesn’t need anyone seeing how fucking pathetic he looks right now. He returns to his folded hands, closing his eyes.
“I know that’s. A sin, or whatever. And kind of a pussy move. And…selfish.” Charlie wipes his closed eyes with his shoulder. “But I’m out of options, Lord. Drinking isn’t working. Drugs aren’t working. So I’ve come to You. And I know it’s been a while, I, uh…” Charlie drops his head and stifles a sob with his fist. When he regains his composure slightly, he clasps his hands together again. “I’m gonna go to Dwyer’s Bridge. That’s six blocks from here. And I’ll be honest, I don’t really believe in You. But if You’re out there, and You give even the slightest fuck about me, after all the shit You’ve put me through, give me a reason not to do it. Six blocks to stop me. Six blocks between here and the final destination, wherever that ends up being.” He chokes a little on his own tears. "I know I haven't been the best person. I know that. And I'm sorry. I really am. But I really need help right now. So...please." He opens his eyes and looks up at the scaffolded ceiling, stained glass windows looking more like an omen than a welcoming in the murkiness of night. “I, uh, hope You come up with something.” He rises to his feet, body shaking a bit, but he pats the back of the pew in front of him. “Good talk. Maybe I’ll see You soon.”
As he walks down the concrete steps, he looks to his left, down the sidewalk and towards the river. He thinks he should take his time. Just in case.
--
Mac’s been having an ongoing anxiety attack for the last three months.
It started when he caught Charlie looking at him in the bar one day. Innocently. He was just looking. And Mac asked him, in the asshole way that he does, what the fuck he was looking at. And Charlie gave him this smile that just…wasn’t quite right. Shook his head, said nothing, and walked out of the bar.
Normally, that wouldn’t have bothered Mac. But what bothered him then was the fact that he thinks he saw Charlie’s eyes glistening like he was about to cry.
It picked up again when Mac had mentioned wanting to learn how to play guitar, and Charlie showed up at his apartment with both of his, and stayed all night teaching Mac basic chords. And that would have been fine, if Charlie hadn’t told Mac to keep them when he started to leave without his guitars. He’s had those guitars since high school, one of them is littered with doodles and drawings all over, and the other is in perfect condition. They’re Charlie’s most prized possessions. And he was just gonna…leave them.
And it got worse when Charlie stopped coming into work. No call, no show, no nothing. Frank hadn’t even seen him, and the bastard lived with him.
Mac was worried. Worried because Charlie had done this once before, in high school. He came over to Mac's place with a box of his things and at 16 tried to say goodbye. Mac couldn't fucking stand it. He wouldn't let Charlie sleep alone for months after that. He was so fucking scared he was going to wake up one day and Charlie was going to be gone. And then things got a little better, and a little better, until eventually it was like that never happened at all. But Mac never forgot. How could he?
He thinks he'd just about die if Charlie did right now. How would he be expected to carry on in a world where his best friend wasn't two feet from him every day? How would he be able to go to the bar knowing Charlie wouldn't be sitting on a barstool, laughing at some joke Dennis was telling with a beer in his hand? How would he be able to walk by Charlie's apartment building and know that it wouldn't be Charlie's apartment building, because he wouldn't be there anymore? How would he be able to hear a keyboard or a guitar and not wonder what new song Charlie had come up with?
It kind of hits him squarely in the face, when he realizes what this all means.
He loves him. Mac loves Charlie. He's loved Charlie since they were kids. And he knew he loved him, but he didn't know he loved him.
He scrambles out of his bed and pulls on his boots, stumbling around in the dark of his room, a sudden rush to see Charlie filling him up. It's desperate, and it's needy, and it's fueled by his anxiety because Jesus fucking Christ, Charlie better fucking be there.
He's running down the block towards Charlie's apartment, heart pounding in his chest and banging against him, when he sees him. He slows down, letting his breath catch up to him, and he watches, just for a moment.
He's standing. Just standing. His hands sit loosely on the rail of Dwyer's Bridge and Mac thinks in the dim light of the street lamp he can see Charlie's shoulders shaking. He watches him rock back and forth on his heels, and Mac's never felt so fucking scared in his entire life, because he can't watch this happen. Not when he's just finally figured it out.
"Charlie!"
Charlie whips his head around so hard Mac thinks he could have snapped it, and he's wiping his eyes furiously as Mac jogs up to him and pulls him into his chest.
"Charlie, I'm so sorry, I'm, fuck-"
"Thank you." Charlie sobs into his chest, clutching his shirt tightly in wound fists. "Thank you, thank you, thank you..."
He mutters thank you's over and over again until Mac's positive they can't be directed at him anymore. He wonders what was going through Charlie's head. What he did leading up to this.
"I'm sorry, Charlie, I'm sorry." Mac's voice is wet and it catches in his throat, clogged with a sob that rests heavy in him.
"It's okay." Charlie whispers back, voice unrecognizable. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare be fucking sorry." Mac grabs Charlie's face and turns it towards him. "Look at me, Charlie. Don't fucking be sorry."
Charlie stares at him, and he lunges up, crashing them together and pulling Mac in by the fabric of his shirt, crying a little when Mac kisses him back just as hard, and somehow, finally, in this fucked up way just like the rest of his life, things are okay. And he'll be okay.
Because he has Mac.