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“So? You think I look the part?”
Mac does a little spin, showing off his freshly painted farmer’s tan. The old moustache from their Lethal Weapon days feels stiff on his top lip, and it’s itching his nose, but the more he scratches it, the worse it gets. He should have listened to Dennis when he told him to douse it with Lysol, lecturing him about fleas and ticks. Mac had laughed him off, entirely dismissive— until he saw a dime-sized spider crawling out of the corner of Dennis’s closet, and he yelped so loud the neighbors must have heard. Needless to say, he almost burnt the house down after that.
In retrospect, he’s glad he went through the effort to clean it. The fingerless leather gloves would have been too flashy without a good old, all American moustache. A rebel would never sell in the midwest.
“Are you asking me if I think you look straight?” Dennis replied, unimpressed.
“Yeah, dude! Do I look like I’m about to pick up some chicks?”
Mac made finger guns at Dennis, pretending to shoot at the wall behind him. He should have worn the duster, he thought to himself. That would complete the look. Unfortunately for him, however, even without a jacket, his drugstore bottle of instant tan has already started to run, streaks of honey-coloured sweat staining his newly purchased white tank-top. That would be the last time he ever cheaped out on cosmetics— at least, until Christmas comes around, and he has to buy mascara for Dennis’s stocking. He’s not spending seventy dollars at Sephora. It’s just not going to happen.
Dennis rolls his eyes at him, exasperated.
“Whatever, sure,” he quips, picking up his freshly ironed button-up and throwing it over his undershirt.
Mac frowned, disappointed. He’d put a lot of thought into this costume, and even though the lady at the Wawa asked him if he was dressed like Freddie Mercury, he was pretty certain he would pass. After all, he spent over thirty years of his life pretending to be straight— the least he could do was be good at it.
“Sure? That doesn’t sound very confident.”
Dennis redirected his attention to the full length mirror, pulling his shirt closed.
“Mac, I’ve heard you spend three hours on an exercise bike you modified with a dildo seat. Kind of hard to go back from that.”
Dennis lets out a dry laugh, squinting in the mirror. Touché, Mac thinks, humming in acknowledgment.
“Guess I should probably ask someone else then,” he amends, noting the way Dennis began to fumble with the fabric, struggling to keep the two sides closed.
Disregarding Mac’s reply, Dennis keeps his focus entirely on his hands, and Mac’s growing antsy, sick of the silence. That familiar sense of insecurity creeps up on him— the one you get used to, when you spend the majority of your life pretending to be someone else— and he wonders whether or not the rest of America will believe him, let alone like him. Although he’d never admit it out loud, he’s been obsessing over it, anxious in a way he hasn’t been in years.
“You know, this whole thing has got me thinking…” Mac starts, beginning to pace aimlessly beside Dennis’s bed.
Dennis looks up at him briefly, barely meeting his eyes before returning to his reflection, eyebrow quirked in silent inquiry.
“About what?” Dennis asks.
“Oh, I don’t know… maybe going back into the closet for a little bit.”
The room went dead silent.
Dennis froze. His arms fell to his sides, limp. Mac stiffened slightly, sensing anger, but he has no time to prepare himself before Dennis is spinning around, gaping at him.
“What?” he hisses, eyebrows flying off his scalp.
Mac avoids his eyes, glancing around the room.
“I mean… I think people really do like me better there… and with the country being how it is right now, it might be a good idea.”
Dennis sputtered, like Mac just told him that the sky wasn’t blue. He seemed to go through a range of emotions— disappointment, pity… annoyance? They happened too quickly in succession for Mac to identify individually, but finally settled on what could only be described as stern— eyebrows pulled tight together, a single finger pointed towards him, accusatory.
“You listen to me, and you listen to me well. You are not going back into that godforsaken closet!”
Mac crosses his arms in front of his chest, making sure to flex his pecs, popping them off his chest in a way he knows makes Dennis jealous.
“Oh, really?” he teases, unable to resist.
But Dennis isn’t playing— he’s straining, the veins popping out of his forehead like tree roots in the dirt, jaw clenched tight.
“No, listen to me— do not go back into that closet, Mac! I command you.”
Mac scoffs, almost offended.
“Last time I checked, you’re not the boss of me,” he points out.
In lieu of a response, Dennis thrusts his right arm behind his back, hand undoubtedly clenched into a claw.
“Oh, would you just relax?” Mac croons to him, fixing his hair over his shoulder, “you really wanna explain to the audience why I have scratch marks on my face? They’re gonna rip you apart, dude.”
But Dennis ignores him, raising his hand above his head. His face is flushed, tendons bulging out of his neck, and he bares his teeth in warning, prepared to strike.
But before he could, he was interrupted— cut off by an urgent chirping noise, slicing through the tension like butter.
Dennis stops, stock still. Curious, Mac watches his arm fall, shoulders slumping forward until he’s facing the floor. Dennis is slack-jawed, taking deep breaths, his shirt still half undone, and he spears a brief look down at his watch, swiping away some sort of notification with his thumb. Wordlessly, his eyes slip shut, and he seems absent from the world, somewhere deep in his own mind.
Mac stays silent for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He knows Dennis has been paying close attention to his blood pressure recently, but it still shocks him to see the other man so still. He’s gotten used to being at the mercy of Dennis’s fury, always poised to fawn at his feet— or, as of late, fight him hand over fist. Seeing Dennis willing to regulate himself still felt strange, and probably always would.
Feeling useless, Mac shuffles forward, eyeing Dennis’s half-buttoned shirt and straightening back up, eager to busy his hands.
“Here, let me do it,” he says, decidedly softer.
Mac walks in between Dennis and the mirror, gently reaching out to pull his shirt closed. Eyes still shut, Dennis shows no sign of acknowledgment, and Mac’s careful to not disturb him, touching him as delicately as possible. It’s almost like he’s defusing a bomb, trying to find the right wire, but one by one, he works his way up his chest, stopping just below the collar, where he knows Dennis prefers it loose.
When he finishes, he smiles, taking a small step back.
“There,” Mac says, smoothing down the wrinkles and admiring his handiwork.
He looks back up at Dennis— and he freezes, suddenly turned to stone.
Dennis is staring right at him.
They’re close, too close— and Mac’s knee-jerk reaction is to back away, fearful of the inevitable outburst. But Dennis doesn't look vengeful. In fact, Mac doesn’t know what Dennis is thinking, because he doesn’t exactly look happy either, eyes icy and cold.
Mac doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do, and the room is so quiet he can hear the sound of his own breath, ragged and deep.
Should he apologize? Has he done something wrong? Dennis doesn’t look angry, but he’s been wrong before— many times before actually— and he isn’t keen on repeating those experiences, even with Dennis’s sudden shift in the past year, leaving him more tempered than ever before. He wonders whether or not this is going to spoil their evening, if Dennis is going to be pissy later when they have to rehearse. He’s already imagining Dee and Charlie’s reaction when they find out Mac ruined everything, again— and he’d been doing so good at not pushing Dennis’s buttons lately, so mindful of his sore spots. It was going to be so embarrassing to tell them that he messed up, and even worse, that he didn’t even know how.
But Dennis still hasn’t said anything, and his eyes are roaming over Mac’s face, searching.
He tilts his head to the side, and Mac stops breathing entirely. He must be dreaming. This isn’t real. There’s no way that Dennis is about to do what he thinks he is. Not now. Not after everything.
But Dennis brushes their noses together, feather light, and Mac’s eyes flutter shut on their own accord, his mind going blank. Dennis is hovering over his mouth, and Mac can feel his breath on his lips, and he wants to drink it in, the urge simmering somewhere below the surface, somewhere he’s been trying to ignore.
Mac is hypnotized. He’s drunk on their proximity, unable to form a coherent thought, and Dennis isn’t helping. He grazes Mac’s lips with his own, tentative, and it’s like Mac is floating, somewhere deep into outer space, before Dennis finally— finally, presses an uncharacteristically tender kiss to Mac’s mouth, savoury and sweet.
And then it’s over.
Dennis pulls away, peering behind Mac’s shoulder into his own reflection.
Astonished, Mac reels backward, eyes wide.
“What the hell was that?”
Dennis doesn’t even look at him. He just shrugs, nonchalantly pulling his sweater over his head like he didn’t just kiss Mac on the fucking mouth.
“Just a little incentive.”
Mac gawks at him, speechless.
“Incentive for what?” he spat, voice shrill and hoarse.
“To stay out.”
Mac stammers for a moment, genuinely dumbfounded, trying to say something— anything, that might express even a fraction of what he’s feeling right now. Unfortunately for him, he never gets the chance, because at that moment, Charlie bursts into the room, donning a freshly shaved— and very shiny— smooth bald head.
“Guys! I look just like Lex Luthor!”