Work Text:
Mac and Dennis are 17. They are high school seniors and they are alone in Dennis’ room. And they are alone in Charlie’s basement. And they are never alone at Mac’s house; not really. Not with the crucifix on the wall above his bed.
Dennis’ mom is drunk and Dennis’ dad is drunk and Dennis is decidedly not drunk. He feels more sober than he ever has in his life as Mac rolls a blunt for them; as Mac licks the paper to seal it. Dennis burns under his skin and he only has an inkling as to why. He hates Mac and he hates Mac and he hates Mac. that must be it, he tells himself, robotically, rehearsed.
They're reclined on the couch or his bed or the back of his car and his hand is on Mac’s knee. And it's gentle; and Dennis has never been gentle in his life. He is leaning over Mac (on the couch, on the bed, in the car) and his shadow is covering his face, obscuring his features. Mac’s eyes are screwed shut and he won’t open them, no matter what Dennis says, no matter what Dennis does. It matters what he does, whether he touches his shirt or if he pets his hair or tangles their legs. If he closes the gap between their faces. His hands are on his waist but his eyes are still shut, even if Dennis touches his face or his chest or the space where his hip meets his thigh.
There are 7 layers of clothes between them and it isn’t enough. Dennis kisses him and kisses him and kisses him and the room is dark because Mac can’t bear to look; can’t bear to see the sliver of smooth skin exposed beneath the shirt his hands blindly hike up. And when Mac opens his eyes they are inexplicably wet and there is nothing pleasurable about this anymore, if there ever was. Mac refuses to see Dennis naked but can’t say why. None of them can ever say why.
And when the light comes on this will have never been. Gentle touch is a punch on the shoulder and a slap on the back. Gentle touch is a knife between two boys who have never felt it. And this is love; this is love in a way that can’t be said or absorbed through skin. The car is cramped and the couch is awkward and the bed is too small and they do this anyway. They do this over, and over, and over again until they break; until one or both can’t stand the taste of it anymore, can’t stand to see those wrinkled jeans or that crucifix on the wall or the look in their father’s eye.
And eventually that want, that great burning desire that grabs ahold of them any time the light is off, fades away. It becomes 25 and an empty apartment and 3 feet of space on the couch during a movie. It becomes the backs of legs and a whiff of cologne and a distant glint in his eyes. And Dennis grows into all teeth and bones and empty space and when he can’t bear to look in the mirror, he’ll look in Mac’s eyes and see a version of himself that he will never be; and maybe never was.
The crucifix follows, on every wall above his bed from this house to the next (religion is routine). 30, 35, 40, 45 and it’s still not over and it somehow never started. How sick am I, he says, how sick am I that this is what I run to? This is what I covet, that look on your face and that burning in your heart. Mac and Dennis are 48. They have lived half a century and they are alone in their apartment. Dennis is drunk and Mac is drunk and they are not alone, no, not really. Not when the light is on; and now Dennis can’t look and Mac can’t look away.
And maybe this is that great destiny we always talked about. And maybe this is exactly where we started and maybe this is exactly where we are meant to be. Again and again and again. Until we break or our orbits decay or this giant burning ball of fire in the sky kills us and we meet each other again in the great black nothingness. Our bodies and our minds betray us, they always do, and we kill ourselves over and over again to stop what was never meant to be. Maybe this time he will open his eyes, he tells himself.
Maybe this time he will open them.