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It wasn't the mould.
For a while, Dennis pretends it was- everybody else’s problems clear up, so why not his too? He keeps quiet before the sentences in his head are fully formed, and when he forgets one of the words, or is hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion, he pushes it all deep down and lets the others scream at each other without his input. When there's a particularly explosive fighting match, he slinks away to the bathroom and splashes water on his face until he feels more alive.
But it doesn't ever fade. Long after the mould has been cleared from the bar and Dee’s face has returned to as normal as it can be, Dennis wakes feeling disoriented and ... sick. He starts setting his alarm an hour earlier just so he can lay there in bed and corral his thoughts into something uniform and orderly. He's supposed to be the clever one. He's supposed to keep everybody under control. How the fuck is he going to do that when he can't even control his own mind?
He starts looking for answers online, and of course that only yields fear-mongering articles about long COVID that he dismisses outwardly with a scoff but that make him feel nauseous. A series of disconnected problems- the pain in his back, his difficulty sleeping, the constant exhaustion, the brain fog- suddenly form a list of symptoms that match what the websites say perfectly.
Then one day, he can't get up at all. He wakes with that now-familiar confusion and disconnection from reality, but this time every muscle in his body feels sluggish and worn out except for his heart beating overtime in his chest.
The discovery of his own frailty is so terrifying that he uses the strength he has to roll over and close his eyes again, willing sleep to take him away from a reality where he can get sick like this. His insomnia has been shifting into falling asleep far too easy, and today is no exception. He's out only seconds after he closes his eyes.
“Dennis… Dennis. Dude, wake up.”
Mac is calling him, but Dennis doesn't have the energy to answer. He only just manages to crack open one eye, swallowing back nausea at the way the room around him spins.
“ F-flu.” He croaks. “ Leave me ‘lone.”
He's distantly aware of Mac's hand pressing against his forehead, of a muffled denial that Dennis has a fever, but before his roommate can interrogate him any further about this flu, he feigns sleep again.
Mac's footsteps eventually recede. Dennis hears the door to his bedroom close, and sinks under the covers to release sobs that nobody else can hear.