Work Text:
Baby hotline
Mac planned to wait a month after Dennis left to call him. A month to let him cool off, and then they could catch up. He lasted a week.
Please hold me close to you
Only a week passed, and his best friend/roommate/colleague's glow began to leave their apartment. Mac and Dennis's apartment that is now solely Mac's. In those long three days, he played a voice recording he had of him raging about how the guy at the store had given him umber hair dye instead of sienna. He never thought he'd miss it.
Baby flatline
He punches in the first 7 of the number that was left for him on a crumpled baby blue post-it. He's too busy noticing that the ink has already faded a little bit that he doesn't even notice the shake in his hands. At least he knows he's not dead because a dead man's heart doesn't beat like that.
Still time to do it too (ha-ha-ha!)
The whole gang is feeling the impact of the departure. Frank even posted a friend-wanted ad. The only person who signed up was this chick named Mindy, or Wendy, or something. Whatever her name was, it certainly wasn't Dennis.
Baby snack time, chow down to earth
His life has become an out-of-order routine. Wake up. Eat. Go to work. Work ends. Work out. Sleep. Much like in the suburbs, but this time he's getting muscles. And this time, Dennis isn't there.
But in your head she's a hoarder of quarters
Mac pushes the 0 button before halting. He can't tell why he can't just call the number. It's just nine numbers. He rolls a quarter across his knuckles mindlessly, a trick he learned when he was nine and a habit he gained when he was ten. He started collecting quarters. Only the special edition North Dakota ones that came out over a decade ago. He only has two so far, but he thinks he'll soon have a small fortune in 25-cent North Dakotas.
And no boundary boredom, boundary boredom
It's so boring. So boring to not call him. So boring to wait for Ellie or whatever the new Dennis's name is. It's so boring to go to work, especially when Charlie's off trying to woo the waitress and Dee's buying a new car because he crashed the last one. It's boring to go home to only his exercise bike and beer.
I contend that your drinking eye has never opened
He types a 1. Then stops. Again. He takes a sip from his beer and wishes he hadn't. The beer didn't pair well with the taste of anxiety brewing in his stomach. Anyway, he'd been trying to cut down on alcohol.
I insist somebody will die, and I hate hoping
He quickly dials another 3 digits. Then stops. Goddammit. That's when the thoughts poured in. Dennis is dead. Just like the thoughts that started getting worse when he was 12. Just like the ones he got when his dad got arrested. He's dead.
Wishing that the pills let you cry, and I hate coping
He looks at the coffee table. Dennis didn't take his Borderline Personality pills with him. He always insisted he was fine and didn't need to get medicated. But he always took them anyway. He hopes the other man is okay. He hopes a lot.
Someday I will go back outside and see her okay
He doesn't want to be selfish. He knows Dennis is off being a dad, being a partner for Mandy, being Brian LeFevre. He still wants to look out the window or go to Paddy's and have him there. In his dreams, he's there, and he's okay, and he's real.
Hung up and put it on hold! My line is getting cold!
He types in the additional numbers and hears the dial-up noise. The phone rings. He breathes. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Just like how Mandy taught Dennis to do. He still hangs up before anyone can answer.
Hung up and put it on hold! (Oh, uh, I'll try again though)
Goddammit. Coward. He begins to dial again.
Baby Hotline, please dial nine to get out!
He stares at the post-it and its 15 million creases. He stares as if he hadn't memorized it 15 million times over. He pretends to forget it again, just to see his handwriting and the number scrawled. He takes a second to pretend to memorize it, then he types it in. The last digit is a nine, Dennis's unlucky number. Why? His favorite family member, his aunt, died when he was nine. The license of his first car, which he wrecked, ended with a 9. He met Charlie and Mac on September 9th. Nothing good happens with nines and Dennis. Mac knows this because Mac always remembers stuff like this. Stuff that isn't important but stuff that matters.
No flatline, what were you scared about?
The number rings through! It's a valid number! There's a voice at the other end! Dennis is fine. A feminine voice? Mac knows Dennis's voice. That isn't it. Maybe it's Mandy's. Dennis is fine.
Baby sat by and felt the wind
Mac is so busy fixating on the voice's sound that he doesn't realize what it's saying. "Could you repeat that?" he asks, his voice excited and a bit rough from not talking for a bit. The room is cold, but the excitement brings a comforting breeze of warmth. "Dial 3 if you are dealing with suicidal ideation," the voice buzzes, stiff and robotic. The room freezes, cold as the voice that just spoke.
Numb, feel burning with haste
It takes a second to piece it together, but this isn't anything to do with Dennis. It's a mental health hotline. Anger wells in Mac's chest as he lets out a frustrated yelp. Anger turns into fear. He hangs up hastily and drops the phone to the ground.
And I'm realizing now it's a terrible waste
"Dennis cared about me enough to leave the number! What if Dennis isn't safe? I can't contact him? He didn't want to talk to me anyways… but-"He goes through this train of thought a few too many times as he paces around the room. Scratching his beard and mussing up his hair, getting gel under his fingernails as he does.
I feel numb, what a waste
Another two weeks pass, and Mac continues his routine. The phone incident (as he recently dubbed it) is now nothing but a dull pain in the back of his mind. Cindy (that was her name!) joins the gang. They're back to scheming. To being happy enough. To guarding the bar and being evil and badass and all of that.
Sunbathe 'til morning time and your eyes will open wide
He sits in the sunniest patch of his apartment, right next to the window where Dennis used to perch and sulk when his D.E.N.N.I.S-ing didn't work. It's always sunny in Philly. Except when it's not.
Oh baby, never mind
He has muscles now. Sort of. He's working on getting ripped all the way. He'll have them by the time Dennis comes back... if he comes back. "Never mind," he thinks, "I don't need to measure my life in terms of Dennis. I'm just as badass by myself."
And my sight, oh run and hide
Scheming with the gang, the new gang, is more effective without Dennis's rage. It doesn't mean he doesn't miss him like hell, though. He shakes his head to clear his mind. He tells himself not to obsess.
I can say, "Oh, wrap it in with cinnamon"
It's Dennis's birthday. Dee's too, but no one cares about that. Mac's train thought spirals are remedied only by buying a drink and adding something sweet and spicy. Not thinking too hard about anything. There's nothing to do about any of it.
I've been dead
Mac writes a letter:
Dear Dennis,
I don't know where you live, so I'm just sending it to North Dakota. God will find a way to give it to you. I hope you're alive! It was your birthday yesterday! I know that you know that, though. I wouldn't want to undermine your intelligence. Haha. It was Sweet Dee's birthday too. Duh. No one cares about her. That goddamn bird! Haha. Anyways, please reach out sometime. I'm still at the apartment. Love and care and stuff like that, not in a gay way. Even though I am gay. But like not necessarily for you.
Your best friend,
Mac
Oh, wrap the trouble now, I feel so good. Ring won't bend, thinking bent.
Dee always said they were like a married couple. Now Mac feels like a widow. But he's moved on. Moving on feels good. He would have preferred to not have had to move on from anything, but this will have to do.
I won't stay more anymore, oh I don't even think about it
He rearranged the apartment already. Gym room. His room. No room for Dennis. Why would there be a room for Dennis? Cindy says he has a Dennis-shaped hole he needs to fill. She's probably right. He buys a doll that looks like him.
Oh, you know I don't
Cindy hates the doll. Even though she's the one who suggested it. She insists she never did. The whole gang hates it. Obviously, they do. It's disgusting. Mac knows it too. Mac hates it, but he hates himself without it more than he hates the doll. So whatever. It stays. Mac prays because it's like hoping, but god's there.
I hate hoping
and he really, really, really does hate hoping.