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Mac should have seen this coming.
All the warning signs had been there, and he felt like a shitty boyfriend for missing them.
This was all because of the stupid beer garden scheme.
Dennis was in the middle of (yet another) crisis about keeping Paddy’s “trendy,” and Frank was looking for a seasonal cash grab, so they’d devised a plot to pull in the young corporate crowd with a (dubiously legal) “summer pop-up” in the alley. Frank had even paid through the nose to place a misguided ad in the July issue of Philadelphia magazine, of all places.
The trouble had really started on Monday night, when Dennis got loaded on an ungodly amount of cheap boxed wine.
He’d decided that their bootleg garden would offer “house-made sangria.” It was actually a pretty solid scam. They could serve it in little mason jars and those yuppies would pay $16 for a 12oz pour. But Dennis and Dee had been…overly enthusiastic about picking the base wine for their home-brew. Mac had seen both twins liberally sampling from a long row of Franzia boxes in the name of “recipe development.”
So, Mac wasn’t surprised when Dennis rolled out of bed late the next morning looking cranky (crankier than usual) and grumbling about his head. Sure, the guy was an alcoholic, but boxed wine had always given him killer hangovers, and it seemed like they only got worse with age. Mac sweet talked him into a large glass of orange juice and a peeled apple (with peanut butter this time!) for breakfast, and then handed him a couple Tylenol with his new meds.
He’d briefly floated the idea of Dennis staying home that day so he could properly nurse his hangover. The bar was closed anyway for cleaning and inventory ahead of their back alley scheme. But Dennis had brushed him off, snapping that he was a goddamn adult (factually true) and a responsible business owner (debatable).
When they left for Paddy’s in the early afternoon, Dennis was wearing his darkest shades and a deep scowl. Mac was merciful with his Tuesday music selection, deviating from his usual pump-up commute jams. And it turned out Steve Winwood sounded awesome on their fancy new Bluetooth sound system, installed courtesy of Frank’s deep pockets. (Extorting him out of all that cash in exchange for their silence about Frank's Fluids had been one of Mac and Dennis’ better scams as a dynamic duo.)
It was hot as shit outside, but midday traffic was tame, the Rover’s AC was cool…
And then they got to Paddy’s, and everything went to shit.
Two heavy-duty construction trucks were parked right across the street from their entrance, surrounded by a slew of Philly Water Department roadwork signs. An excavation jackhammer on a giant mechanical arm was pounding through the asphalt to access a pipe. It was loud as hell.
Dennis did a terrible job parking, hands flying to his ears when the jackhammer paused and then abruptly started up again, his shoulders hunching against the racket. Mac had to actually reach over and jerk the wheel to keep them from going up on the curb.
“Mother fucker,” Dennis hissed, rubbing at his temples.
Things inside the bar were somehow worse.
When Mac opened the door, the overpowering smell of industrial cleaner wafted out. Frank and Charlie must have mopped with something especially caustic today in the name of “doing a deep clean.” Lately they’d both been really into those old TikToks where people cleaned toilets with all the colorful goops.
“Jesus Christ,” Mac gasped, eyes stinging as he crossed the threshold. Next to him, Dennis gagged and coughed, squinting as he pushed his sunglasses up on his forehead.
Then, Mac processed the heat. It was hotter inside than it was outside! Goddamn Frank had dropped all that cash on a stupid print magazine ad but still hadn’t replaced the AC? In July? That cheap son of a bitch. Somehow this was even worse than the horrible (but sexy?) climate change party they’d thrown a few years back. The bleach smell definitely wasn’t helping.
The rest of the gang were already there. Dee was behind the bar, transferring bottles from the shelves to the counter. Frank was spread out in a booth that was covered in paperwork and pistachio shells. Charlie was scuttling towards the keg room with a rattling crate in his arms.
“You’re late!” Frank coughed when he spotted them, spewing more pistachio guts and shells all over the table and floor. (Was he eating them whole?)
“Obviously they were banging,” Dee said. “Little afternoon delight?” She sang the last part, raising her beer and waggling her eyebrows suggestively, clearly thinking she was hilarious.
Before Mac could clap back at either of them, Charlie cut in.
“Yo, guys! Check out my genius new rat wrangling system!” He shoved the crate into Mac’s chest.
Mac leaned forward to look inside. “Are those…air horns?”
“Yeah, dude, a shit ton of ‘em! Clearance sale at the hardware store! See, this system is totally humane, totally foolproof. I’m gonna take these babies down to the basement and just — “
Charlie whipped yet another air horn out from his back pocket and blasted it directly into their faces for a full five seconds. Dennis recoiled, hands slapping back up over his ears.
“— honk these at ‘em a bunch of times till it drives ‘em out of their little rat homes! They’ll be like ‘AUUGH NOOO NOOO MY TINY RAT EARS ARE BLEEDING NOOOOO’”
This he punctuated with more rapid blasts of the air horn. Dennis flinched each time, clutching his ears and taking a step behind Mac.
“And then I’ll chase ‘em up the stairs, through the bar, and right out back through the alley!" Charlie continued. "We’ll be the most rat-free bar in Philly! I’m totally gonna patent this, man!”
Mac‘s eyes went wide as he pointed excitedly at Charlie. “Dude, it’s like St. Patrick!”
“No, it’s really not,” Dennis grumbled impatiently as he stalked off to join Dee behind the bar.
Mac felt the impulse to follow him, ask how his head was, but he failed to escape the gravitational pull of Charlie’s awesome rat herding product. Maybe Mac could make some money off this patent if he got in at the ground floor!
After shaking on a quick negotiation with Charlie, Mac went to work hauling the empty kegs out to the end of the alley for trash pick up. He kept both the front and back doors propped open, hoping the cross-breeze would help with the stuffy heat and overwhelming chemical smell. He figured they could really use the fresh air. Yeah, Charlie knew his inhalants, but the kid had been known to play fast and loose with bleach-based compounds.
The gang went about their tasks with surprising focus for the next half hour: Dennis and Dee quarreled loudly about the inventory. Frank cooked the books. Charlie did a shit ton of “air horn trial runs” through the bar. Mac lugged around a bunch of empty kegs. The open doors just let in the roadwork sounds.
As Mac made his final trip inside from dropping off the last keg, he nearly collided with Charlie, who was at the tail end of another loud-ass practice rampage. Dennis was already yelling from behind the bar:
“God fucking damn it, Charlie, if you don’t stop that shit I’m gonna make your little rat ears bleed!” He’d been complaining during all of Charlie’s rehearsals, his volume increasing with each pass.
“No can do, Dennis!” Charlie called briskly over his shoulder. “This operation requires very delicate choreography and I’ve gotta make sure I’ve got my route worked out. Next time I’ve gotta try it with the cheese nets!” With that he hustled back off to the basement.
“YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Dennis shrieked after him. “THIS IS TOO GODDAMN MUCH!!!”
Mac gave him a quick ocular patdown from across the room, assessing his status: Dennis had been jumpy and irritable all day, and now he looked like he was starting to lose it. His hair was standing up from running his fingers through it too much, and his face was pink and blotchy. Shit. He hadn’t even bothered with foundation today. Major red flag.
Mac took a step toward him but was intercepted by Frank, who was sliding out from the booth and spilling even more pistachio shells on the floor.
“Yo, Mac, you finally done with the trash? Let’s head out.”
Mac blinked at him. “Head out where?“
Frank rolled his eyes. “To pick up the new kegs, numb nuts! Remember, I got that sweet deal on some bougie IPAs from my guy at that distribution center over in Camden. Perfect for those Philly Mag douche bags! I need you to do all the heavy lifting or that cheap bastard’ll charge me a loading fee.”
Mac looked back at Dennis, who was now taking deliberate deep breaths as he clutched the inventory clipboard in a white-knuckled grip.
“Uh, maybe I should stay here?” he said, unconvincingly. Frank threw up his hands as he started for the door.
“Do whatever you want! You stay here and count the liquor, and Dennis or Deandra can come carry the kegs.”
“Absolutely not!” Dee squawked at the same time that Dennis barked “Mac, go get the fucking kegs!”
Mac kept his eyes on Dennis.
“Are…are you sure? ‘Cause—” Dennis cut him off, exasperated.
“Oh my GOD, Mac! What even are the point of those stupid muscles if you’re not gonna use them? Go do your goddamn job!”
Mac couldn’t help but preen at the (backhanded) compliment. Yeah, he was totally jacked! And not just the glamour muscles anymore! But, still, he was a little worried about how pale and wild Dennis’ eyes looked.
“You’ll be alright?” he asked, tone more intimate than he usually used in mixed company.
“Jesus Christ, yes! Now get out of here so Dee and I can get some goddamn work done!”
“We’d be done by now if your stupid system made any sense,” Dee sassed, taking a swig of her beer.
“SHUT UP, YOU GODDAMN BITCH!” Dennis jabbed the clipboard at her menacingly. “IF YOU DON’T—”
“Dennis, gimme your keys! Gotta use your car for this run,” Frank interrupted from where he was waiting by the door. Dennis growled, but pulled his keys from his back pocket.
“Fine! Just get the fuck out of here and lift some heavy shit so we can focus!”
Dennis hurled his entire key ring in the general direction of the door, deliberately missing Frank’s outstretched hand. They landed at his feet with a loud clatter. Frank grunted, unimpressed, before bending, groaning, to snatch them up. He jangled the keys at Mac.
“Alright, muscles, let’s get goin’!”
Frank and Dennis both had Mac there: This situation definitely called for his amazing badass muscles. He was easily the strongest member of the gang, and arguably in the best shape of his life. He might not be as cut as he’d been a few years back, but he still worked out a shit ton. Even Dennis was openly appreciative of his arms/pecs/abs/glutes nowadays, and that guy was usually withholding as shit! Frank had even told him recently that he was “The Man Who Could Carry Stuff.”
Turned out he was the Official Muscle of their organization after all. It was basically his calling from God, his duty, to do all the tough guy work.
So Mac followed Frank back out into the sweltering July sun.
////////////
The keg run was uneventful, but it took for-fucking-ever.
The distribution center was close by — basically right over the bridge in south Camden. And it only took Mac a few minutes to load the four 1/4 barrel kegs of fancy (gross, skunky) IPA into the Rover. (It wasn’t even that hard, because Mac was strong as shit and could totally squat 90 lbs all day!)
But then Frank spent approximately one million years in the office talking “business” with his contact. Probably haggling. Or comparing notes on their favorite hookers.
Mac dicked around outside in the shade of the open loading dock while he waited, trying (and failing) to keep cool in the humid Philly air. He eventually mooched a warehouse guy’s charger so he could play dumb phone games and still have some juice left to DJ the ride back.
He also shot Dennis a few check-in texts. It took a lot of restraint, but he kept himself to just three:
[hey babe :) how R U doin?]
[those kegs were super easy to lift BTW]
[hope Dee isnt bein a Bitch loool]
Dennis replied to that last one with a bird emoji and a knife emoji (classic), but otherwise it was radio silence from him. Mac wasn’t too concerned, because this wasn’t out of the ordinary for Dennis — he only replied to Mac’s texts about 50% of the time on a good day.
After three goddamn hours they were climbing back into the car. Mac eagerly cranked the AC and cued up his playlist for the ride back, his phone automatically pairing to the new Bluetooth system.
And then, the shit hit the fan.
As Frank was pulling into rush hour traffic, Mac’s phone started ringing, jarringly loud over the car’s speakers. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Dee’s name (“DUMB BIRD” with a barfing emoji) on the screen. Dee never called him.
“Heyooo! We got the kegs! I could lift ‘em no problem!” Mac boasted before she could say anything, flexing and winking for Frank’s benefit. (Frank gave him a patronizing thumbs up.)
“Good for you, asshole,” Dee hissed impatiently, and Mac was shocked at how clear her voice sounded — as if she was in the car with them. “Look, Dennis is seriously losing his shit over here.”
Mac could hear him yelling in the background now. Things were never good when his voice reached that register, when his cadence got that manic. His ranting was punctuated with the occasional crash of breaking glass.
Dennis hadn’t had a freak out at this level for a while, not since he started going to therapy and taking his meds regularly again…But his psychiatrist had just adjusted his dosage last week. Shit. God damn. The shrink had even warned them both about this, told them to keep an eye out for irritability and mood swings. Mac felt like a jackass for letting it get this bad on his watch.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, balling his fist on his thigh and bouncing his leg nervously. “Try that thing where you give him ice water to drink? That usually calms him down pretty good,” he suggested. Dee clicked her tongue dismissively.
“Obviously I tried that already, dumbass. He threw the fucking water at me! Then he threw a full handle of vodka at my head and smashed all the top shelf shit! And then he started throwing the broken glass ‘cause he’s a dick, so now there’s glass and blood everywhere, and we just fucking cleaned but now the whole place is a goddamn biohaz—”
Mac scrabbled with his phone, trying to un-pair it from the car. He didn’t get far at all before the familiar bleat of the air horn cut through Dee’s monologue loud and clear. Goddamn Charlie and his stupid genius rat scheme.
The horn stopped abruptly when another glass shattered and Dennis howled “GET OUT YOU FUCKING SON OF A WHORE,” followed by Charlie’s panicked shrieks and the rapid pops of more glasses breaking.
Dee continued her anxious play-by-play: “Ooookay, okay, now he’s throwing shot glasses at Charlie. God damn it we’re gonna need to go to that shitty restaurant supply place again ‘cause he’s really doing a number on our glassware, except I’m pretty sure they banned us for life after last time—” She was rambling again, which was totally useless to Mac.
He stopped struggling with his phone and craned his neck, looking helplessly at the long line of red lights ahead of them waiting to get on I-76. Logically Mac knew they were only about 15 minutes from Paddy’s, but right now he felt like he might as well be on the goddamn moon.
“Dee, look, just give Dennis the phone,” he said, trying to keep his cool.
“Nuh-uh, no way. He’s just gonna smash it again, and you guys still owe me from the last time you—”
Mac immediately lost his cool.
“DEE YOU GODDAMN BITCH IF YOU DON’T PUT DENNIS ON RIGHT NOW I WILL REACH THROUGH THE PHONE TUBES AND TEAR OUT YOUR EYES AND SHOVE THEM DOWN YOUR WHORE THROAT!”
“Jesus, fine, that’s not even how that works…” Dee mumbled. Then, her voice muffled, “Hey, Rambo, knock it off! I’ve got your stupid boyfriend on the pho—” Dennis immediately lashed out at her, shrill and frantic.
“I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME YOU GODDAMN CUNT!"
Mac winced. Sometimes, when Dennis was especially riled up and overstimulated, he wouldn’t even let people within ten feet of him. Dee must have been antagonizing him all afternoon, that goddamn cunt.
“FINE! HERE! I GIVE UP!” Dee screeched back, matching her brother’s energy. “Talk to Mac! Let him deal with you!” Mac heard a loud clattering, as if she’d thrown the phone.
A pause, and then:
“M-Mac?” Dennis croaked. He was right up close to the phone now, voice quiet and rough from screaming.
“Hey, Dennis,” Mac said, deliberately keeping his tone even. He felt self-conscious, stuck here with Frank as a captive audience. Weirdly exposed.
He allowed Dennis a few seconds of heavy, shaky breathing before prompting him again, soft this time:
“What’s goin’ on, babe?”
“I don’t feel good, Mac,” Dennis finally whimpered. He sounded so tired all of a sudden.
This happened sometimes. The rage would burn uncontrollably through Dennis’ body like a forest fire until all his energy abandoned him at once, leaving an exhausted, charred husk behind.
Mac thunked his head against the passenger seat window, mentally kicking himself. He really should have made Dennis stay home today.
“I know you don’t feel good, sweetheart,” he said sympathetically, apologetically. Guiltily. “Please drink some ice water for me, beautiful. It’ll make you feel more better.”
Next to him, Frank grumbled, “That’s a shit load of pet names. You guys really are fag—”
Mac punched him in the back of the head, hard, and Frank’s face smacked the steering wheel. When he started to sputter angrily around a bloody nose, Mac grabbed him roughly by the shirt collar, seconds from throttling him on the spot.
“Dennis? Did you hear me?” Mac pressed, keeping his eyes locked threateningly with Frank’s, silently daring him to fucking try it.
“I don’t want water,” Dennis groaned, frustrated, his volume kicking up sharply. “I wanna shut them up — rip out their goddamn throats, those fucking ANIMALS! SAVAGES!"
Mac thought he could hear that stupid fucking jackhammer truck in the background. He let go of Frank’s shirt, focus back on Dennis.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he cooed, going for soothing, but hearing the plea in his own voice. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”
“You’re not here, though!” Dennis sounded whiny, agitated, like he was about to cry. Or throw more of their inventory.
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna hang up,” Mac countered earnestly. “And we’ll be back soon, I promise. We’re on 76 now.”
Dennis was panting raggedly through his teeth, working himself up again. It was freaking Mac out. He had to get out ahead of this.
“Let’s do that breathing thing.”
“Mac…” Dennis murmured doubtfully, dismissively.
“Look, I’ll count, and all you gotta do is breathe. Okay?” He waited a second for Dennis to respond, but continued anyway when he didn’t. “Alright, let me hear you, sweetheart. You know the drill: inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Ready?”
And Mac started counting the familiar rhythm slowly, evenly:
“In-two-three-four…” He heard Dennis breathe in through his nose wetly. Thank God.
“Hold-two-three-four-five-six-seven…” Tense silence from Dennis.
“And out-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight…” He heard the shaky exhale. “You’re doing great,” he encouraged as they finished the first rep. He said it just as much to himself as he did to Dennis.
They’d done this routine a million times, but never over the phone. It felt so much harder this way — so much scarier. Mac couldn’t see Dennis, couldn’t even check in on him, really.
But he could do this.
Mac had never been patient, couldn’t meditate for shit, but he always seemed to be able to do this slow, measured work for Dennis. He counted for what felt like a hundred years as the car inched west towards the Walt Whitman Bridge. Listened as Dennis' breathing gradually deepened and evened out.
The entire time, Mac kept his eyes locked on the cars ahead of them. He knew he’d snap if he actually saw Frank rolling his eyes and making jerkoff motions at him (which he was totally doing). Frank was witnessing something private, however unintentionally, and Mac was primed to gleefully beat the old bastard to a pulp for the intrusion. But he knew he wouldn’t be doing Dennis any favors by getting arrested for aggravated assault right now.
(He somehow even kept it together when Frank started grumbling under his breath about the westbound bridge toll. He settled for violently pegging a crumpled $5 at him instead of yelling, not wanting to set Dennis off again.)
“Okay, we’re crossing the river!” Mac chirped, ending his count to give the update. “I’ll be back to you so soon, Den. Six, seven minutes tops.”
Dennis just grunted noncommittally.
“You wanna fill me in on what happened?” Mac tried, cautiously.
“Don’t wanna talk about it.”
“That’s fine. You don’t have to.” Mac did want to keep Dennis talking, though, keep him present. “You wanna pick out what we’re watching tonight?” Technically it was Mac’s week to choose, but that wasn’t important.
A long pause.
“ANTM makeovers?” Dennis finally suggested, voice creaky.
“Yeah, dude, of course!” Mac couldn’t help but smile. Reality TV was a break from their traditional Tuesday Night Movie Night format, but he would pounce on any opportunity to fix this.
He continued to gently pull this fragile thread.
“And we can get delivery! Wanna try that new Vietnamese place? Get that soup thing you like so much?”
“Pho?” Dennis asked, a little condescending, which was how Mac knew he was on the right track.
“Anything you want, babe,” Mac said ardently. He knew Dennis hadn't eaten much today, and he just wanted to get calories and fluids in him at this point. But Dennis hesitated now.
“I don’t know, Mac…I’m really not hungry…I’m not in the mood for anything…”
“It’ll be nice to have around though, right? We can get high, and then you’ll totally be happy we have it!” Another thoughtful pause.
“Okay,” Dennis conceded, quietly.
“Okay,” Mac echoed, grinning.
By now they were across the bridge, and Frank was stopping at the light for the Front St exit. Mac figured he could probably run to Paddy’s from here more faster than Frank could drive. It would be totally badass! But he knew from recent experience that this summer weather didn't exactly agree with him. Yesterday the thermometer had hit 90 F (with a disgusting billion-percent humidity) by 9 AM when he went on his morning run, and he’d almost fainted after only four blocks. And he wouldn’t be able to take care of Dennis if he keeled over as soon as he made it back to the bar.
So he kept Dennis busy with light chatter, gossiping about their new neighbor, debating which Predator movie was the best, rehashing conspiracy theories about Arnold Schwarzenegger’s pecs. Mac did almost all the talking, Dennis mostly giving the occasional one-syllable response, but it was enough to keep them both occupied until Frank finally, fucking finally made the turn back onto their block.
It looked like the PWD roadwork crew were packing up for the day. Of course. Perfect timing, assholes. Mac was out of the car before Frank had fully stopped, leaping through the open front door.
“Dennis?!”
He took in the disaster zone in front of him. There was broken glass and spilled booze everywhere, covering the bar top and the floor. It looked like their entire liquor inventory had been smashed by this point, and that odor mixed with the persistent bleach smell was intense. Paddy’s had seen worse, but so much for cleaning today.
He couldn’t see Dennis, but he whipped around when a slow creak broke the silence. Dee and Charlie were poking their heads out from the bathroom, where they’d clearly been taking shelter. The “Animal Shithouse” sign had been knocked off the door and was lying in a puddle of rum and glass on the floor. Charlie raised a warning finger to his lips, shaking his head. Mac made eye contact with Dee, raising his eyebrows at her quizzically. She rolled her eyes wordlessly and nodded towards the bar.
Mac almost lost his mind when he saw Dennis sitting on the floor behind the bar, because he was covered in blood. The sight evoked insane half-remembered half-dreamed flashes of razors and needles, familiar scars on Dennis’ hips and thighs. Blood on their bathroom tiles.
(Oh blessed Saint Jude, faithful friend of Jesus Christ, patron saint of lost causes, holy shit please, please don’t let this be as bad as it goddamn fucking looks!)
“Hey, hey, I’m here now,” Mac breathed, glass crunching under his boots as he crouched gingerly in front of his boyfriend.
Dennis calmly hung up their ongoing call before raising glassy eyes to somewhere past Mac’s shoulder. He looked as tired as he’d sounded on the phone. As Mac got a better look at him, he was relieved to note that the blood was only coming from the cuts on his hands. He vaguely remembered Dee saying something about Dennis throwing broken glass. In the process it looked like he’d ended up smearing his own blood all over his face, his hair, his shirt, his jeans.
Thank God.
Mac carefully took both of Dennis’ hands in his, tossing Dee’s phone aside so he could get a look at his bloody palms. Some of the gashes were deep, and Mac was worried that there might be glass stuck in a few, but it really wasn’t as bad as it looked. He could handle this.
“Hey…” he said again softly when their eyes finally met.
“Can we go home?” Dennis asked flatly, his expression masklike.
“Yeah, of course. Let’s get outta here.”
Mac grabbed a couple grimy rags from the counter, shaking off a few stray shards of glass before handing them to Dennis to stem the bleeding. He re-positioned himself so that he could get a hold of Dennis, who obediently draped his arms around Mac’s neck, and Mac lifted him (fairly) easily. The kegs had been a great warmup.
He carried Dennis out the door, ignoring Charlie’s whining about the mess in the bar, Dee’s squawking about the blood on her phone, and Frank’s griping about the kegs still in the trunk. He’d deal with the fallout from today later. Dennis was his number one priority right now.
////////////
Dennis was silent until they were back in their quiet, cool apartment.
Mac had him sit on the bathroom counter, keeping him close as he tended to his hands, examining each cut for debris. Luckily, they all seemed clear, but one gash in his right palm looked especially nasty. Dennis would definitely need to go to urgent care — probably even needed stitches.
But honestly, neither of them had the energy to make the trip right now. Tomorrow they would go to the doctor, and Mac would call the shrink to fill her in.
In the meantime, Mac turned to their first-aid kit, which they’d been stocking with growing intensity over the years. (Honestly it was more of an entire first-aid closet these days.)
Dennis didn’t even flinch as Mac carefully wiped his cuts with alcohol prep pads and applied sturdy waterproof bandages to his fingers and palms.
When Mac was done, he cradled Dennis’ jaw, raising his head so he could really get a look at him. He had deep, bruise-like shadows under his eyes, and his skin looked waxy under the dried blood.
“How’re you feeling?” Mac asked, deliberately wording it as an open-ended question.
Dennis’ face remained blank for a few seconds, as if he had a delay between hearing the words and processing them. Eventually, though, his eyes focused as he considered his answer. Considered Mac in front of him. Then, his expression thawed.
“Better now. With you.” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Mac’s neck, kissing him softly.
Mac sighed against his lips, kissed him back eagerly. Cautious but irresistible relief settled over him. He knew that Dennis sometimes fell back on physicality to avoid tough conversations — it was one of his oldest tricks. But Mac would take this. There had been plenty of times when this same scenario had ended terribly. This was better than screaming. Better than destruction. Better than Dennis not letting Mac touch him for hours, days.
Mac pulled back, resting their foreheads together.
“We’re gonna take a shower now. You’ll feel more better after, I promise.” He felt Dennis draw in a breath to argue (sometimes the water drumming against his skin was just too much) but Mac cut him off. “That’s non-negotiable, dude.”
Dennis was covered in dry blood and was sticky with liquor and whatever other gross shit lived on the mats behind the bar. They were both sweaty from the muggy July heat, and Mac knew he couldn’t smell great himself after all that heavy lifting. And, honestly, his back was killing him, and he really wanted a shower to loosen up his goddamn lats.
“And after we shower, we’re gonna order food, and we’re gonna get stoned and watch the shitty model show,” he continued, definitively.
Thankfully, Dennis didn’t protest.
While Dennis got undressed, Mac turned on the shower and went to set out clean clothes for both of them. He cranked up the window AC in their bedroom for good measure. He’d rather bundle Dennis up than have him be overheated and cranky about it. (He knew that later Dennis would bitch about running up their PECO bill, but this was worth it.) He also took a second to place their food order.
Returning to the bathroom, he gently took Dennis by the wrist and brought his hand under the stream so he could feel the temperature of the water.
“Good?” he asked. Dennis nodded after a second. It wasn’t cold, but Mac knew it was cooler than Dennis typically liked. It had just been so goddamn hot in the bar today that Mac figured this would do him good.
With that, Mac got undressed himself and shepherded Dennis into the shower. He set to work cleaning the dried blood off Dennis’ face and neck and arms. It took some scrubbing with a washcloth, which made Dennis grimace, which in turn made Mac smile, because it was a cute look on him.
Dennis closed his eyes when Mac started shampooing his hair, visibly relaxing as Mac massaged is scalp. Mac even carefully shielded Dennis’ eyes from the water as he leaned away to rinse. After, Dennis crowded back into his space, needy, arms winding around Mac’s waist. They made out lazily under the cool spray like that for a while, until Dennis mumbled something about his skin getting pruney.
By the time they were dried off and dressed, Dennis was looking a little more alert, and Mac’s phone was ringing.
“Go get settled in. I’ll be back in a sec,” he assured Dennis.
When he came back with their food, he poked his head into their bedroom. Dennis looked so vulnerable, so uncharacteristically sweet, curled up in the middle their bed on top of the covers, wearing one of Mac’s long-sleeved tees over gray boxer briefs.
Mac raised the delivery bag inquisitively: “You wanna eat now?”
Dennis pulled a face and shook his head. Mac decided not to push it for now. Dennis was more likely to eat when he was in a better mood, anyway. He put the bag in the fridge for later and grabbed a couple cold water bottles from the shelf in the door. When he returned to their room, he cracked one for Dennis and handed it to him.
“Drink,” he said, firmly. Dennis looked at him skeptically, but did as he was told.
Satisfied, Mac gathered some supplies from around their room: a blue flannel blanket that Dennis particularly liked, the laptop and charger, and his own vape battery. He also picked out an especially relaxing indica cartridge that he knew from experience would give Dennis killer munches.
(It turned out medical-grade marijuana was really easy to acquire in PA, and it was strong as fuck. All Mac had to do was tell a doctor, honestly, about his own occasional crippling anxiety attacks, pay a couple hundred bucks with Frank’s credit card, and, boom, he had an all-access pass to that nice dispensary on Locust that looked like an Apple store. Sure, it was expensive as shit, but it was way more better than that stem-filled crap he'd sold as a kid.)
He plopped down on the bed next to Dennis and handed him the vape as he got the laptop set up. Dennis took a long pull and only coughed a little as he exhaled, settling back against the pillows. Mac pressed play on an especially infamous ANTM episode, accepting the vape from Dennis and taking a huge hit himself. He exhaled slowly, finally relaxing a little, lying back and curling an arm around Dennis.
To his delight, Dennis immediately cuddled closer, pressing a lingering kiss to Mac’s throat before resting his head on his chest.
Mac almost pumped his fist victoriously when Dennis started snickering at the girls having full identity crises in salon chairs. He closed his eyes and floated pleasantly on the indica for a while, content to listen to the dramatic reality TV music and Dennis’ quiet derisive noises.
About an hour later, Dennis poked him in the ribs.
“Can I have my soup now?” he asked, almost shyly. Mac could have danced. He could have shouted his incredible success from the rooftops.
“You mean the ‘foo’?” he teased.
“It’s ‘fuhh,’ you fool,” Dennis corrected, patronizing but fond.
Mac retaliated by roughly mussing his hair, earning his hand a smack, before untangling himself and clambering off the bed. He was stiff as hell. He should’ve stretched before settling in. (Jesus Christ, he even had to stretch after working out now.)
In the kitchen, he transferred about half the pho into a bowl to reheat in the microwave. While he waited, he unwrapped his cold banh mi took a huge bite over the sink. He hadn’t even noticed how hungry he’d been until he smelled the food. Between missing lunch, the keg lifting, and the weed, this was the best goddamn sandwich he’d eaten in his entire life.
He returned to the bedroom with their picnic and was extra careful to keep his crumbs off the comforter, knowing that kind of shit drove Dennis up the wall. One episode later, Mac was over the moon when Dennis handed him an empty bowl. Thank God for weed and its mystical powers.
////////
Two hours and a few more vape pulls later, the laptop was closed and forgotten, and they were lying curled on their sides under the flannel blanket, facing each other.
Mac watched Dennis silently. Intently. He looked like he was about to drift off, blinking slowly back at him. It was barely 8 PM, still light outside, but Mac figured they were both done for the day.
Maybe their age really was catching up with them. God. They were both staring down the barrel of their fucking 50s. Mac tried not to think about it too much. He knew Dennis did that enough for both of them.
“Think you can get some sleep?”
Dennis met his gaze and nodded, reaching out to cup Mac’s cheek. Mac turned his head to kiss his bandaged palm.
“Thank you,” Dennis said, barely audible.
That was a surprise. Dennis wasn’t usually…effusive. Hell, he wasn’t even polite (or nice) most of the time. Maybe it was just the THC talking.
Dennis continued, even softer:
“You always take such good care of me.”
Mac was surprised to feel tears pricking at his eyes. He was suddenly overwhelmed, the day’s stress and emotions bearing down on him inescapably like a rogue wave.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make you stay home today. I’m sorry I left you at the bar. I should’ve told Frank to go fuck himself and get his own kegs. I totally dropped the ball, Den. I’m so sorry.” He said it all in an anxious rush — he couldn’t help it. How was Dennis supposed to depend on him if he could let a stupid hangover and some new pills snowball so badly?
Dennis closed his eyes, shook his head before resting their foreheads together.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he murmured. He pressed in closer, their noses rubbing. “You were amazing today, Mac. Nobody keeps me safe like you do.”
Safe. The word crawled up inside Mac, dug its claws in deep. Temporarily soothed something cacophonous and wounded in him.
This time he really did cry (but only a little). He screwed his eyes shut against the tears and breathed in sharply.
“I love you,” was all he could get out, a desperate whisper, needing Dennis to know, to understand.
Mac felt Dennis’ lips against his, could feel his smile.
“Love you too, baby boy,” he sighed. “Now let’s both get some rest.”