Work Text:
10:45 PM
On a Sunday
Dennis is at a bar. Not Paddy’s, no, he’s not there. He felt smothered, standing in the bar, listening to everyone talk around him. Dee had brought up his meds. Nobody said anything, but he could hear them thinking about it. Mac was probably honed in on it, going to check the bottle the minute they got home. Charlie was probably talking to Frank about how he's been getting worse’ and the two were going to laugh about it. Laugh at him! Him! When he’s way above them.
No, he’s not at their bar. He can’t be. Instead he’s at one of the few sports bars left in Philly that the gang (namely Mac) haven’t gotten them banned from. He’s watching highlights from the Eagles game. They lost to the Buccaneers (that damned Tom Brady) and it wasn’t an interesting game to watch, still, Dennis had nothing better to do than brood at the counter.
A few seats over, two people are sat, one animatedly talking to the other about something regarding the game on screen. The girl seems to be more into it than her companion. The brunette she’s talking to just sighs and rolls his eyes.
Despite that, they’re still happy. It’s almost disgusting. The blonde has changed topics, she seems like she has the attention span of Mac and Charlie, and she’s talking about some stupid coworker of hers, lamenting about a boring office job. The urge to strangle her comes out of nowhere, and he smothers it with another sip of beer. She’s talking about the house party she’s having, about who they’re not going to invite because they’re ‘losers’ and Dennis can’t help but get more and more upset.
Who does this girl think she is? That she can just decide who is and isn’t a loser? That she can just… just go around not being miserable in this bar? When clearly every other sad sack here is mourning something?
He turns to the bartender. He’s a taller guy, young looking, with a red streak in his hair. “Are they always this loud?” Dennis asks, sending a sideways glance to the two a few seats over.
Bartender shrugs, looking like he couldn’t want less than to be involved.
“Come again?” the girl says, peering over the shoulder of her tall friend.
Dennis crosses his arms. “I said, are you always this goddamn annoying? You’re ruining other people’s nights.”
She stares at him for a long time. Her friend speaks with a low tenor, “dude, just leave it.” She keeps staring until she suddenly scoffs and looks away. She meets the bartender’s gaze and raises her eyebrows.
“Well?” Dennis prompts.
“I just don’t get your problem dude. Is it because you’re alone? Is it ‘cause none of your friends would come out here with you? Do you even have any?” Her friend frowns, but Dennis ignores him.
“What.”
“I’m just saying that for a mediocre looking, middle aged man, alone at a sports bar on a Sunday night, you really have far more confidence than you deserve.” She digs around in her wallet and slams a bill on the counter, not bothering to say anything else. Her friend follows dutifully behind. The bar is almost completely silent, save for the televisions all talking at once.
The bartender just sighs. “Uh, she’s been like that since high school. Don’t take it too personally”
Dennis is sitting there, expressionless. Inside, his chest hurts. Mediocre looking. Middle aged. Alone. He’s supposed to be the golden god. Handsome, unattainable, swimming in the fountain of youth, and most importantly: he’s supposed to be wanted. Desired. Never, ever, alone. He’s not meant to be alone. But something about the way she said it…
With a dead gaze, he looks back at the red-streaked bartender. “Any chance you’ve got the 190 everclear?”
* * *
Dennis is drunk as the sky is dark, as he makes his way back home. He’s left the rover there, and he can’t seem to figure out how to use the Uber app right now. Dee said the interface was easy to navigate while drunk, but she clearly underestimated just how drunk he was capable of getting.
He’s stumbling, making an utter fool of himself. He knows that. Objectively. But he must look nice in the lighting of the street lamp, right? He’s… he’s still pretty, isn’t he? His waist is still thin thanks to skipping (most) a few meals, and his jaw is sharp enough to cut glass. And… he may be older but he’s not old by any means, he’s still young and has time to figure it out.
Stupid, it’s so stupid, she’s wrong.
And before he knows it, he’s holding the button on his phone and he demands that the dumb AI inside of it calls Mac. He couldn’t read the contact list if he tried. It was a miracle he was holding his phone at all.
It rings for an agonizing thirty seconds. Then, he gets voicemail. Sent to the fucking voicemail box. By Mac. What has his life come to? “Heyo! This is Mac. If you’re calling, and it’s not important, don’t leave a voicemail ‘cause I don’t really know how to check this thing. Why don’t you just text it?” In the background he hears his voice. Really Mac? You don’t know how to use voicemail? “Who needs voicemail? This is the twenty-first century. Anyway, laters!”
He considers leaving one out of spite.
Then he tries to call again. It rings for about twenty seconds this time, before he’s sent to voicemail again. Oh good, that meant Mac was intentionally ignoring him. This is great, this is fine, there’s nothing wrong with this.
“Fuck you, Mac,” he snaps, as he tries to call again.
It finally answers. “Dennis?” His voice is hesitant. The silence is biting. “...Can I help you?”
Still, it’s like a breath of fresh air. If there’s anything Dennis has been able to rely on over these last few years, it’s that Mac will always tell him whatever he needs. When he finally spoke, he prayed the desperation in his voice wasn’t evident. “Mac, Mac, hey buddy, hey guy, glad you finally picked up, look–”
“Look,” Mac interrupts at the same time. “I’m supposed to be on a date right now, Den. Like I mentioned a million times already. Were you really not listening?” Dennis froze. That’s why his meds got brought up.
“Uh, yeah, of course I was… I just didn’t realize it was gonna go this long, obviously,” he says, trying to play it off. He sighed deeply.“I… I didn’t know that. It would be so timely.”
“Dennis, are you okay, man? Why are you calling me? You hate it when I call you.” Mac sounds sad, and it’s everything Dennis needed. Mac wants him, loves him, needs him. The feeling is more intoxicating than any liquor he could drink. If he could bottle this feeling and sell it, he’d be a millionaire. Mac continues on, his voice sounding hurt and pathetic, and Dennis feeds off it. “You said we needed to stop with the check-in’s and I’ve been trying so hard to make you happy by doing what you say and–”
“Mac, am I pretty?” Dennis interrupts.
Mac stops. “What?”
Swallowing, Dennis tries again. “...am I still pretty?” The line is quiet. “Mac?” he whispers.
“Yeah, Den, of course you’re pretty.” Dennis smiles softly. He lets the moment hang in the air before Mac ruins it by speaking again. “What is this, Dennis?” All of the warmth is gone. It aches. “You told me you didn’t want me saying this stuff anymore.” His tone is flat.
“I…” Dennis trails off. He looks around him. It’s late at night and the cold air is biting at his skin in a not wholly unpleasant way. He’s so hot right now, he feels like he’s going to throw up. There’s no one else on the sidewalks, but there are a few cars still driving down the familiar streets. The way the streetlamps iridescent glow lights the asphalt is mesmerizing and he forgets he’s supposed to be explaining himself. “I got into an argument with someone, ‘s all.”
“Okay Dennis…” Mac says slowly. “So you just wanted validation?” He sounds annoyed. Mac should never be annoyed with Dennis, it just wasn’t how they worked. This time, Mac was sighing. “I didn’t pick up twice, dude, and for good reason. Why didn’t you just call Charlie or Dee?”
The answer is obvious. “Cause they don’t… they wouldn’t tell me.”
Mac huffs. “Dennis, I’m not supposed to be telling you. Because you asked me not to. And when you sober up tomorrow you’re gonna yell at me again, and it just gets so confusing. And I’m supposed to be talking to Jaxson right now, so–”
“‘S a stupid name,” he murmurs, voice airy. He’s no longer attached to his own body. “Who’s... Who’s named Jaxson?”
“My name is Ronald McDonald, dude. I’m not about to judge anybody.”
Dennis is quiet again. “Is he prettier than me?” he finally asks.
There’s a pregnant pause. “...no,” Mac admits, sounding miserable, “and I think you already knew that.”
“I’m really drunk,” Dennis says without really thinking about it. Then he tacks on, “but uh, in uh, in vino veritas?” Mac liked Tombstone, so maybe he’ll get the reference. There weren’t enough beefcakes in it to rewatch it often, but Mac enjoyed the fight scenes. Dennis enjoyed movie nights in general. Mac was so eager to get a reaction out of Dennis, his smile so big and his hands so warm when occasionally touched Dennis these days. Ever since the harassment seminar, Mac had started listening to him. Started watching his distance. The only time he faltered was a few weeks ago when Frank had choked. He wanted to soothe Dennis’ insecurities, which only caused them to grow further apart.
He’d forgotten he was on the phone at all. Mac’s confused voice filtered in through speakers. “In veto very tas? Dennis, I have to go, okay? I have to get back–”
“No, no, no, wait. Mac,” Dennis begs quickly. His pride will feel that in the morning. “I don’t want you to go.” He sinks down against the brick wall that is the front of a store. He pulls his legs up to his chest to conserve heat. “I left the rover at some stupid bar. I didn’t walk far, but I can’t drive.”
“Call an uber?” Mac suggests.
Dennis whines. “I don’t want an uber.”
For a moment, Dennis is scared Mac has hung up. “I should go, Dennis, but you’re not giving me a choice here.”
“Is he younger than me?” Dennis asks.
“...yes,” Mac responds, sounding hesitant. Dennis buries his head in between his knees. Of course he is. Mac is in scary good shape, and he’s barely sporting any signs of age except for the handsome salt and pepper of his beard. Of course he’s with a younger guy, probably some kid in good shape who wants Mac to take him home and destroy his insides. “Dennis?”
“Is he nicer? Better at not driving people away? Does he take his stupid fucking meds?”
“Dude, stop it,” Mac cuts in, voice hard.
He can feel the build up of saliva in his cheeks. The taste that’s meant to protect him from the acid. It’s probably a good thing that he’s throwing up, anyway. That sandwich he had was loaded with carbs. He gags.
“Fuck, Dennis, come on. Don’t manipulate me right now.” Mac’s angry, he’s so angry, Dennis managed to make Mac angry. “I need to go.” His words are cold, and Dennis feels like he’s been frozen to the core.
The line clicks. Dread overwhelms him. Here he is, a man on the side of the road in Philly. Middle aged, pallid skin, dark eyes, and a bald spot. But most notably, he’s alone. He can’t be alone. Not now.
He calls Dee.
She answers after two rings. Dennis almost never calls her. It must be important. “What’s up, dickbrain?” The relief that rushes through him is euphoric.
“Sweet Dee, you answered,” he says, as if it's a complete surprise.
He hears the phone rustle. "Of course I answered. Unlike you guys, I actually think about more than just myself."
"Dee. Dee, he doesn’t care that I’m gonna die out here," he laments, "he doesn’t think I’m pretty anymore.”
Dee’s soft breaths are the only indication that she’s still there. “Goddammit, Dennis, where the hell are you?”
"Some sports bar, or at least I was..." he barks out a strangled laugh. He's frowning at the sidewalk, trying to remember how he got to where he was. Eyeing his phone, he sees it's been about thirty minutes since he stumbled out of there. It was almost midnight. And yet Mac was still out on his date. Was he going to go home with him? Was he going to walk him up the stairs and drink some tea? Was he going to enjoy his company more?
"Did you hear me Dennis? If you need someone right now, say something."
He answers by vomiting all over the sidewalk.