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The ER is packed.
Thanks to Mac’s hideously grotesque features and labored breathing, they get to cut in front of all the other bozos with broken arms and screaming babies. It’s a good thing too because Dennis isn’t sure how much longer he can stand the distorted, puffy face or the Godawful wheezing. The face is one thing; he looks like a monster, but he’s still Mac underneath all the swelling. But the wheezing is another story. He doesn’t like it. It’s loud and annoying and generally unpleasant, and it makes him want to rip his hair right out of his skull.
He wouldn’t look good bald. Everyone knows this.
Dennis attempts to read the news on his phone, but he can’t focus on it. He has a massive headache building right behind his eyes. The lights are too bright, and the constant repetitive noises from the emergency room weigh heavily on him. Instead, he leans back in an uncomfortable plastic chair and rubs his forehead with trembling, cold fingers. He concentrates on keeping his breathing even and deliberate.
He can’t lose it now.
Mac needs him.
The dude’s a Goddamn idiot for continuing to eat those Fancy Nuts.
Some doctor gives Dennis the lowdown, informing him that Mac will have to spend the night here on oxygen with periodic albuterol treatments. He’s got an IV pumping him full of antihistamines to relieve the worst of his symptoms. An allergy test was performed on Mac like he’s some kind of lab rat. The test confirmed that he’s allergic to both peanuts and tree nuts.
Apparently, allergies can develop over time and with age.
As soon as he hears the word ‘age,’ Dennis cuts the doc off.
Mac’s got an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. The horrendous swelling is nearly gone. He stares at Dennis with droopy, bloodshot eyes. Mac reaches out with his free hand – the one without the IV and pulse ox attached to it – and smiles unevenly. Dennis takes it and rubs his thumb over red knuckles.
There’s a piercing shriek followed by a strange flushing noise off to their right. Dennis flinches hard, drawing his shoulders up and hunching in on himself. He shakes his head and tries not to scream. Of course these idiots wouldn’t give Mac a private room. Of course he’s stuck out here with the loonies. Of course. When the sound happens again, he bites his tongue so hard it trickles blood inside his mouth.
Mac must notice because he gently squeezes Dennis’ hand.
And no. Just no. Dennis should be the one comforting Mac, not the other way around.
“How’re you feeling?” Dennis asks quietly. He takes a seat in the chair behind him; he doesn’t let go of Mac's hand.
Mac clears his throat. “’m ‘kay. Wanna g’home.” His voice is garbled, thin and painful.
Dennis nods. “I know, bud, but you gotta stay here tonight. The doctors wanna make sure your breathing is okay.”
“M’breathing’s…” Mac wheezes and inhales sharply. “Great.”
He’s about to roll his eyes, but then that fucking shriek-flush happens again, and, Jesus Christ, is someone actively dying on the shitter? The noise makes his skin crawl. He wants to yell. Scream until he’s blue in the face because how dare some toilet-screaming psychopath interrupt Mac’s healing process. Don’t they know he’s suffering from an extreme allergic reaction? Don’t they know he needs to rest and recover? Don’t they know that SCREAMING in a fucking HOSPITAL should be outlawed? God forbid HE be the one screaming.
And he can feel himself slipping. Slipping back into the old Dennis. The old Dennis who absolutely would scream back at a moment’s notice. The old Dennis who isn’t on a cocktail of mood stabilizers to help calm him down. The old Dennis who doesn't listen to reason. The old Dennis who isn’t going to therapy once a week to try and sort out this… his… issues.
He doesn’t want to be that guy anymore. He’s… He’s evolved. He’s…
“You’re okay, Den,” he hears Mac whisper. “You’re good.”
Dennis bites his bottom lip. Nods. Looks into Mac’s swollen brownie eyes. He’s supposed to be here for Mac, but he isn’t doing that. He’s too focused on the hospital making its noises. He’s gotta focus his time, his energy, on keeping Mac safe. On making Mac feel better.
He swallows thickly. Rubs the back of his neck. Takes a deep breath.
“Do you need anything?” Dennis asks. He tries not to acknowledge the faintness of his own voice.
Mac shakes his head. “Jus’ you.”
Dennis rubs his thumb over Mac’s knuckles again and leans back in his seat.
He isn’t going anywhere.
Morning comes, but not quickly enough.
Mac’s woken up in regular intervals throughout the night for breathing treatments. Dennis doesn’t sleep, his nerves raw. The shriek-flushing eventually stops, but the constant beeping from monitors and the rustling of sheets and curtains floods his brain. It’s too much. It’s just too much. But he knows there’s an end in sight.
The doctors discharge Mac around 8:30, after a hellish 18 hours of hospitalization. He’s prescribed two EpiPens for the nut allergies, along with extra strength Benadryl and an inhaler for the leftover side effects of anaphylaxis. Dennis elects himself in charge of the EpiPens, which Mac is okay with in his exhausted state. There’s no way he can trust Mac to hold onto something so vital, so crucial to his safety. Mac never worries about himself; he’s always more concerned with Dennis. That’s not gonna fly here. No, Dennis will oversee the EpiPens, just like how Mac oversees Dennis’ eating schedule.
Mac is shaking as Dennis loads him into the passenger seat of the Range Rover. He grabs the plushy blue blanket from the trunk – the one Mac put there for cold mornings and nights during their work commute – and drapes it over Mac, who instantly melts into the fabric. Dennis smiles sadly as Mac buries his face in the quilt. Within seconds of putting the Rover in drive, Mac is sound asleep, wheezing slightly with his chin dipped to his chest. The thirty minute ride is silent, just quiet enough to begin thawing out Dennis’ knotted nerves.
He’s pulling into a parking space at their apartment when Mac coughs himself awake. It’s riddled with mucus, but somehow empty sounding at the same time. He doubles over, saliva pooling on his Dickies. Dennis immediately reaches out and rubs his back, wincing at the redness of Mac’s face, the harshness of his breathing, the heat bleeding through his jacket. When it’s obvious this coughing fit isn’t subsiding on its own, Dennis pulls the inhaler out of his jeans and presses down on the canister once Mac is ready for it. The medicine seems to help quickly. Mac breathes easier and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Thanks, Den…”
“Let’s just get you up to bed, pal.”
Dennis is not Mac, meaning that Dennis cannot carry Mac. He has too much mass. And excuse him for not wanting to live in the gym and look like some kind of huge freak. He’s svelte and lithe, and, okay, maybe he has lost some weight recently, a loss he’s trying to hide with slightly oversized flannels, but that doesn’t concern anyone. But what does concern him right now is that, fuck, maybe he should’ve been working out more to prepare for emergencies like this. Maybe he should’ve been tacking on mass too instead of getting rid of it.
Maybe then he’d be able to help his buddy out of this jam.
“C’mon, Mac,” Dennis grunts, as he shoulders most of his roommate’s weight. Mac leans heavily against him as they walk inside their apartment building, an arm wrapped sluggishly around Dennis’ neck. He’s beyond grateful for their service elevator at moments like these. They don’t typically use it, not unless they’re carrying a shit ton of groceries or liquor, but it turns out to be a saving grace. Dennis unlocks the door in one swift motion with Mac wobbling and sticking to him like glue.
It’s then that Dennis realizes they have a problem. A big problem.
Their bed is filled with Fancy Nuts. Dennis remembers sleeping on them – or with them? – a couple days ago, back when he and Charlie weren’t sure Mac was gonna pull through this.
“Just… Just sit here for a few minutes,” Dennis says, gently pushing Mac down into the pink inflatable chair.
Mac shakes his head. His brown eyes swell with tears. “Wanna go to bed, Den…”
“I know, baby boy. But I gotta clean our bed.”
A couple tears stream down Mac’s cheeks; Dennis wipes them away.
“Don’t feel good…” Mac whines, hiccupping messily.
Dennis’ insides clench.
He presses a kiss to Mac’s temple and runs his fingers through his hair for good measure. Mac sniffles and leans into the touch.
“I’ll be quick, okay? I just gotta change the sheets and sweep the floor.”
He should mop too, but he can do that later, once Mac is safely tucked into bed.
“You’re slow as shit at everything though,” Mac whimpers.
Dennis rolls his eyes. He removes the nut-filled sheets, blankets, and pillowcases and tosses them into the trash. He can’t handle if anything else happens to Mac, so he isn't taking any chances. He checks all the nooks and crannies of their inflatable couch-bed for nut dust. He sweeps their floor and puts their bed back together again. By the time Dennis is finished, he’s sweating, and Mac has his head in his hands, hunched in on himself and trying not to cry.
“Bedtime,” he whispers as he coaxes Mac up by his elbow.
Mac obliges wordlessly. He stumbles a little bit, catches his balance, and plops face-first into bed. He quickly rolls onto his back when he realizes he still can’t breathe for shit. He pants and coughs dryly. Dennis yanks his boots off and pulls the covers up to his shoulders. He’s about to go sit at the kitchen table to read and try to fully calm himself down when Mac grabs his forearm with clammy fingers.
“Don’t go…”
Dennis sighs and scrubs a hand down his now stubbly cheeks.
“Fine,” he huffs.
He toes off his shoes and lies down on the bed. Mac immediately moves until his head is on Dennis’ chest. Dennis tenses up at first but quickly relents once he realizes how comfortable – how safe – he feels. It doesn’t take long before his eyes start to get heavy and flutter. He tries to stay awake, just in case Mac needs anything, but he gives in not longer after Mac drapes an arm over his middle.
Dennis’ eyes droop closed, surrounded by warmth and peace.
The next morning, it’s obvious that Mac still feels like shit.
The dude may have slept most of the day away yesterday, only waking up to take medicine and piss, but he’s still really out of it. He can’t string more than a few words together before he’s zapped of energy for the next several hours, unable to do anything other than lay in bed.
Dennis finally convinces him to take a shower, brush his teeth, and get comfortable, from which Mac emerges soaked to the bone, unable to even dress himself. Dennis gets him into boxers and a baggy t-shirt, has him brush his teeth in bed, and bundles him in blankets. Mac is furiously hot to the touch; Dennis wonders if this could possibly get any worse.
He doesn’t like it when Mac is under the weather. He hates it, if he’s being honest. Mac is such a constant force in his life that him not being annoying is actually more annoying than him being annoying. When Mac is sick, he gets all quiet and mopey. He loses his spark and falls into himself. He will neglect his wellbeing in favor of sitting around with a dangerously high fever or coughing up his lungs until his face turns blue. Last December, Mac caught the flu from Dennis, and he had to be dragged to the hospital because his fever was so high and wouldn’t go down no matter what Dennis tried.
Dennis cleans their apartment from top to bottom while Mac sleeps. He gets rid of every single food item containing peanuts and/or tree nuts, including his own favorite brand of peanut butter. If he wants it in the future (which is unlikely given Mac’s new allergies), he can hide it in his dresser like he does with his cigarettes and razor blades. He tosses out protein bars, miniature Reese’s cups, peanut butter crackers, and almond milk. He isn’t even sure if almonds are a tree nut, but he is sticking to being safe rather than sorry.
He sweeps again and mops every room. He dusts, does several loads of laundry, and wipes every surface. He doesn’t want to take any chances. He can’t take any chances.
When Mac is out of commission, nothing feels right.
He hates this new level of vulnerability he feels creeping over him and slowly morphing him into someone who gives a shit. He hates taking meds twice a day and going to therapy once a week. He hates trying to follow an eating schedule. The only thing he likes about his ‘mental health journey’ (as Mac’s been calling it) is that Mac’s around. Dennis is trying to be… less.
Less explody. Less ragey. Less angry.
Mac is the only one who notices, but he supposes that’s okay.
Dennis is in the middle of folding his pajamas when Mac stirs. He stretches out like a cat and smacks his chapped lips. He rubs his eyes with his knuckles and looks all of five years old while doing it. Dennis tries to ignore the way his pulse throbs in his throat.
“What’re you doin’?” Mac slurs, voice raspy.
“I’m compulsively cleaning the apartment,” Dennis answers truthfully.
Mac’s eyebrows furrow. “Why?”
Dennis scoffs. “Why?” he asks incredulously. “Because you almost died! You… You had a reaction to those fucking Fancy Nuts, and now I have to –”
He stops himself. Takes a deep breath. Pinches the bridge of his nose.
Breathe.
There’s no use in getting upset. He can’t change anything that’s already happened.
Just breathe.
“Dude, did you just stop yourself from freaking out on me?” Mac asks.
Dennis inhales deeply and nods.
“That’s awesome!” Mac exclaims, followed by a round of wheezy coughing. “I’m so proud of you, Den!”
He rolls his eyes. Keeps folding his laundry. Tries not to smile.
“D’we have any popsicles?” Mac rasps, moving past it. “My throat hurts.”
Dennis nods. “What kind do you want?”
“Blue.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Blue is not a flavor, Mac.”
Mac looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Blue’s the best flavor, Den.”
“But it’s not a…” He lets himself trail off. “Right. You’re right.”
Mac smirks. “Course. ‘m always right.”
Dennis grabs a blue raspberry popsicle out of the freezer. He opens it and wraps the exposed stick in a paper towel just in case it starts to melt. Mac sits up ever so slightly and makes grabby hands as Dennis approaches. His fingers linger – just a tiny little bit – as he grabs the popsicle, and Dennis tries not to focus on the lump growing in his throat. Mac looks… different like this. No hair gel. Comically oversized t-shirt. Droopy, bloodshot eyes. It’s the kind of Mac that he likes coming home to daily, versus the one who’s always invading his personal space without permission or the Mac who irritates the hell out of him for no reason at all.
“Can we watch a movie? I’m bored,” Mac pouts. His lips are stained blue.
“I doubt you’ll make it twenty minutes into a movie,” Dennis says. “Why don’t we watch TV instead?”
Mac’s bottom lip juts out. He looks ridiculous. “But I wanna watch Predator, Den.”
He keeps licking and sucking on the popsicle. Dennis tries hard to ignore it.
“Fine.”
So that’s what they do.
Dennis abandons folding laundry for popping in the DVD and settling down in bed. Mac finishes his popsicle, throws the trash on the floor, and immediately sinks down until his head is nestled on Dennis’ shoulder. Dennis pulls the covers over both of them.
It turns out that Dennis is right, as he always is. Mac makes it fifteen minutes into Predator before falls asleep, snoring softly against the skin of Dennis’ neck.
Dennis drives out to the bar that night.
Honestly, he’s terrified about leaving Mac alone, but he doubts he’ll even stir while he’s gone. Mac ate a healthy dinner of chicken tenders and fries about an hour ago; he passed out less than five minutes after he finished his plate. Dennis made sure to bundle him up, keep the TV on since Mac has this thing about the dark, and leave a note on his own pillow just in case he wakes while he’s gone.
He doesn’t intend on being away for more than an hour.
Dennis enters Paddy’s to find Charlie covered from head to toe in marshmallow, his hair sticking up straight with the stuff. Dee and Frank have splotches of it on their clothing too. The bar smells of fresh baked goods, but in a weirdly off-putting way. Almost like rancid vanilla. He doesn’t know, nor does he care. This part of the gang – the part without Dennis and Mac – is… dumb as shit, for the lack of a more elegant phrase.
He heads behind the bar with a huff and begins emptying all the bowls of peanuts into the trash.
This, of course, sparks a controversy.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, dude?” Charlie screeches, waving his arms around like the Goddamn idiot he is.
“Mac’s allergic to peanuts,” Dennis says simply. “So I’m throwing away all the peanuts.”
“Like hell you are!” Frank exclaims, spitting as he speaks. “Free peanuts are the cornerstone of Paddy’s!”
Dennis rolls his eyes. “I thought that was thin limes?”
“Thick limes!” Frank yells. Then he looks confused. “Wait a minute. What side was I on for the lime thing?”
“I don’t care,” Dennis answers. He starts to clean the bar with Clorox wipes, knocking peanut shells to the floor.
“I’m with Charlie and Frank on this one,” Dee interjects because of course she does. Fucking bird.
“Dee… We were, like, talking,” Charlie says.
Frank nods. “No one asked you, bird.”
“Hey, that’s not fair! My opinion is important. Right, Dennis?”
Dennis finishes wiping the bar and moves onto sweeping the floor. “I don’t care,” he repeats.
Jesus Christ, there are so many fucking peanuts and peanut shells down here. This is definitely not a safe environment for Mac.
Mac.
He tries not to think about Mac waking up alone and sick in the apartment.
Dennis starts to speed up his cleaning process while remaining thorough and diligent about making the bar peanut free.
“Are you even listening to us, man?” Charlie asks, stepping in front of Dennis’ trash pile. His battered Vans are caked in marshmallow fluff.
“No.”
“I see what this is,” Dee says. “He’s all worked up about Mac.”
Dennis stops sweeping. “He’s sick. Of course I’m worked up.”
“He’s not sick, asshole. He’s just allergic to peanuts.”
“And tree nuts!” Dennis exclaims. “He’s allergic to peanuts and tree nuts, and this bar is absolutely riddled with them!”
“Aw, look at you taking care of him,” Dee teases, sipping at her beer.
Dennis’ eyes narrow. He chooses not to interact. He chooses not to explode into a rage-filled ball. He chooses to ignore.
He wants to threaten to cut her into a billion tiny, unrecognizable pieces, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he just pinches the bridge of his nose.
Dee continues on making her noises and shit. Charlie and Frank do too. But Dennis doesn’t care.
He mops the floor. Gets rid of their peanut inventory in the storeroom. Takes out the garbage. Washes his hands in the bathroom. Fills the former peanut bowls with chips. Puts on his coat. Listens to 3/5 of the gang scream over each other about some shit he couldn’t care less about.
“No more nuts!” Dennis announces as he’s about to leave Paddy’s.
They all wave him off.
After three days of recuperating, Mac feels well enough to go to work.
Dennis finishes putting anti-itch ointment on the last of Mac’s hives. “Are you sure you don’t want to take it easy for another day?”
“Nah. I feel fine.”
Mac coughs wetly, and Dennis’ eyes widen.
“Mostly fine,” Mac interjects with a shrug.
“Are you sure? You still look really tired, and I don’t want you to over–”
“Dennis, I’m fine.”
He nods. Mac rolls down his shirtsleeve once the ointment is mostly dry.
The drive to work is peaceful. Dennis lets Mac pick the music. Mac is quiet and keeps stealing glances at Dennis when he thinks Dennis isn't watching.
When they arrive at the bar, Charlie is waiting at the front door. "Guys, I have news!" he exclaims.
"Why don't we let Mac get settled in first before we spring the news on him, huh?" Dennis asks, placing his hand on the small of Mac's back and guiding him into Paddy's. He keeps his hand there until Mac is seated on a barstool with zero possibility of danger. He pats his jeans pocket for the thousandth time this afternoon, feeling for Mac's EpiPen.
"Beer?" Dennis asks Mac, ignoring everyone else around them.
Mac nods. "Sure."
Dennis opens it for him. Mac takes a tentative sip.
"Can I tell you my news now?" Charlie asks, his voice becoming increasingly high pitched and annoying.
"Sure, pal," Dennis says.
"Great! So it all started when Frank -"
But Dennis isn't listening. Obviously, neither is Mac. Because Mac's eyes are focused on the chip - formerly peanut - bowls in front of him. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, he rubs the rim of the bowl with his index finger and looks sheepishly at Dennis.
Dennis shrugs nonchalantly and takes a swig of his own beer.
Mac smiles, small and thankful.
"You replaced the peanuts with chips," Mac says as they enter the apartment. He drapes his leather jacket over the pink inflatable chair.
Dennis swallows thickly. "Uh... yeah. I did."
"And you cleaned our whole apartment."
"From top to bottom."
Mac just looks at him, a kind of look that makes Dennis wildly uncomfortable. "And you did all of that for me?"
"Well it certainly wasn't for me," Dennis says. He toes off his tennis shoes and settles them by the front door. He doesn't like where this conversation is going.
Mac sighs. "Huh."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dennis asks.
"That was nice of you," is all Mac says.
Dennis' eyebrows furrow this time. "I'm always nice, Mac."
Mac shakes his head. "No, you're definitely not," he says. "But you're getting nicer. Since you started taking your meds and stuff again. I like it."
Dennis nods, skin burning brightly. He kicks his socked toe at invisible dust on the floor, hands stuffed deep into his jeans pockets. "Yeah, well..." He isn't sure what to say next, so he doesn't say anything at all.
"Thanks, Den... Y'know, for looking out for me and making me feel more better."
Mac takes a seat on the inflatable couch. Dennis follows suit, unsure of what to do or how to make this horrible, bubbly feeling inside him go away.
"You're welcome, man. I like taking care of you."
"I like taking care of you too."
An uneasy silence falls upon the apartment, the kind of silence that slices Dennis to his core. He doesn't like all this... this tenderness. It makes him feel weak and strange.
But Mac's staring at him, puppy dog eyes shining brightly in the faint Philadelphia night.
Dennis flinches when Mac puts his hand on his forearm.
"Can I kiss you?" Mac asks softly, so softly Dennis almost doesn't register the question.
Dennis nods.
Mac's lips are soft. He tastes like cherry chapstick, the stuff he often steals from Dennis. It's sweet, like freshly pulled taffy on a hot summer afternoon.
He can get used to this.