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They're both standing by the back door when Mac starts it. He says "I'm glad you like your valentine."
Dennis is not half as drunk as he needs to be.
He nods. He loves it, but he needs Mac to stop talking about it. He is too tired, worn out, and today should have ended a long time ago.
Mac's a little more drunk than he needs to be. "I wanted to make up for all the other times," he says.
"You didn't have to," Dennis says abruptly, crossing his arms in front of himself. The weight of them comforts him, closes him off, holds him together. He feels stronger, for it. "You've never gotten me anything before." he doesn't say before what.
Mac looks down. There's something nerve-wracking in the way he goes quiet, the tenderness in the way he smiles, a smile that doesn't try to cover anything up, just says isn't it funny? how much it hurt.
"It would've been pretty gay." Mac says. "Before."
So what the hell is it now? Dennis knows as well as Mac does, but the thought makes his brain scream like a wild thing on fire.
"It doesn't have to be gay," Dennis says. "I mean, one guy gives another guy a rocket launcher, there's nothing gay about that."
It's simple. It's not true. It should be enough.
"It could be, though," Mac says softly, then looks right at Dennis with that same vulnerable smile. "Could be gay."
Dennis is thinking don't do this to me now. Every time this happens, that Mac tries to get through to him, he has the same thought- Not now. He can't say it out loud, because it implies a later, which implies a promise. We will talk about this.
"I can't do this," he says instead, which is also true. He turns to leave, to walk out of the bar, to go anywhere else, but as he does, Mac reaches for him, for his hand. And that's the moment it all really turns on it's head.
Mac grabs Dennis's hand between both of his, holds it tight, even though Dennis tries to pull away. He only does it once, puts all his weight into wrenching his hand free, but Mac doesn't let go, gets pulled forward, into his space, and stays there, still holding it.
"Dennis," he pleads. "I want to talk."
Dennis is shaking. He feels like a tree in a hurricane, like he's being battered by something that's about to rip him up from the earth and hurl him through a window any second now.
His bottom lip quivers. In a voice on the edge of broken, he says "I don't."
And that's it. The last of his energy goes into saying it and he's got nothing left to hold himself together with. His breath shakes in his chest, his shoulders sag, and his hand stops fighting with Mac's. The first little sob that's been biding it's time all day finally falls out of his mouth, and then everything else follows it.
He can't even collect himself enough to be afraid of what's next, of how much worse Mac's going to make this.
Mac drops Dennis's hand and wraps his arms around him instead, guiding Dennis's head to his shoulder. He has his chance to speak but now of course he doesn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry," he says. It's true. He's not entirely sure for what, for where exactly this went wrong, but it wasn't supposed to go like this.
Dennis doesn't respond. He hates this. It feels so good to be held. It feels safe. It feels easier to fall apart. He hates it. He feels brittle, small, like he's made of twigs. And Mac, all wrapped around him, still feels a world away. He's so warm and solid. He's all desperate hope where Dennis is panic. He's grounded where everything in Dennis wants to run away. He wants to be an anchor. He wants to connect.
He wants to love him.
No, it's worse than that. He already does. What he wants is Dennis's permission.
He borrows some of Mac's desperate hope to ask shakily. "Can we-- Can we not do this now?"
"Ok," Mac says softly, rubbing a broad circle over Dennis's back." Later?"
It would be the smallest, but most precious gift Dennis could give him, if he could just say it out loud. But it hurts, and it horrifies, and he can't force it out.
He doesn't answer Mac, but he thinks it to himself, still feeding off a fool's hope.
Later.