1990

Dennis Reynolds is a perfect specimen.

He's basically a God, but don't tell Mac that; he just rolls his eyes any time Dennis' narcissism and vanity slips away from his gorgeous lips and into the open air.

The air is so lucky to have him.

No. The world, the universe, the galaxy, is lucky to have him.

But his boxers and jeans are discarded on the library floor, and Mrs. Klinsky is running her hand through his hair.

He wanted this, he reminds himself.

Dennis wanted this. Wants this.

So what if he's only fourteen? Fuck it. He can do what he wants. He can do who he wants, and this just proves it.

The floor is cold, and Dennis is torn between making a mad dash for the exit and staying wrapped in her arms. His hard on has long since dissipated, and he came, so he guesses he liked it? He doesn't know. His brain is foggy and cloudy, and every fiber of his fantastic being is somehow on fire and ice cold at the exact same time.

He wanted this. He wanted this. He wanted this.

Dennis is a perfect specimen. He loves rules and logic and reasoning and being the best. He's clearly the best at banging because what other fourteen year old dude can say he shacked up with a teacher? No one, that's who. He's just so great at being him. He's methodical and knows how to get what he wants and isn't afraid to say otherwise.

But there's this weird burning vibration spasming throughout his core, lighting him up like a Christmas tree. His shoulder aches. His head might explode. He kinda has to puke. But Mrs. Klinsky is here and there and everywhere, and he...

No. No second-guessing. No overthinking. Just move past it.

Move past it.

Eventually, Mrs. Klinsky leaves. Dennis zips up his jeans and buttons his shirt. He fixes his hair perfectly.

He has to be perfect.

Later on that night, when Dee is done crying to him about Mom, Dennis locks himself in his bathroom and throws up until blood vessels in his eyes burst.

1994

By the time he's eighteen, Dennis has perfected the D.E.N.N.I.S. system and all of its infinite glory.

He spends time carefully articulating his sexual encounters, keeping track by tape and notebook, as well as a rating system for his own personal reflections. The girls blur together, and he can't keep them straight unless he consults his sources. He can't be bothered to hold on to that crap anyway. He's Dennis Reynolds, and Dennis Reynolds always moves on.

The day after high school graduation, Dennis goes 'Engage Physically' with Claire Lewis from A.P. Psych at her house on Woodward Lane. They drink tequila from soda cans and eventually migrate from her bedroom to the trampoline outside. The hot June weather soaks into Dennis' skin, but his skin is so amazing that it'll never burn. He doesn't burn. He'll never burn.

His tongue is hot in her mouth, and he's groping her breast when a surge of pain erupts through him.

Fuck.

What the fuck?

He pulls away and palms his chest, glancing down frantically at his polo to make sure a stupid bug or some shit didn't bite him.

"You okay?" Claire asks.

Dennis shushes her.

"Seriously?"

He rolls his eyes. "What do you want, bitch? I'm making sure I won't die from a spider bite."

"Nothing bit you, dipshit."

Claire makes her move to get off the trampoline, but Dennis stops her with a shaky hand.

"Don't go," he tells her, pulling her closer and kissing her lips softly.

It hurts. He doesn't want to kiss her, but he does it anyway. He doesn't even want this, the whole sex thing, right now, but... he has to. His heart screams for him to run run run and never look back. But Claire's lips taste like some dumb green apple artificial bullshit, and this is all just bullshit anyway. He's a golden God. She's a spec of dust or dirt or something, and she's lucky to even be in his presence.

"You're lucky you're hot," she mumbles.

Hot. Yes. He is very hot. Thank you, Claire.

Dennis leaves Claire's house a little after five PM when her parents get home.

Neither of them makes plans to call each other, but Dennis can't care less.

"Hey, boner," Dee calls from her spot on the couch. "Have a nice time getting laid?"

He ignores her and heads straight upstairs. He locks his bedroom door.

Dennis peels off his shirt.

That bitch.

There, right on his chest, is some sort of bite mark.

No. No no no.

Dennis' pulse thumps in his ears. He grabs a clean pair of boxers before locking himself in the bathroom, turning on the shower as hot as it'll go. It stings like a motherfucker when he steps under the burning spray. He scrubs at the bite with an extra moisturizing loofa until his skin bleeds.

Why won't it go away? Why isn't it going away?

His skin can't look like this.

His skin isn't like this.

This doesn't represent him. This doesn't represent him.

1997

"Hey-oooooooo!" Mac exclaims, entering his apartment without knocking.

He never knocks.

Dennis barely has the energy to lift his head from his plushy pillows. It's the only acknowledgement he gives his best friend.

"Dude, why aren't you ready yet?!"

He scrunches his eyebrows. "Ready for what?"

Those three words alone sting as they leave his mouth. He pulls his bundle of blankets over his chin and snuggles deeper into the couch. His bones ache.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Mac shouts, and Dennis winces. He barrels in, setting down a brown paper bag full of crap. He pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels and gestures proudly to it. "It's your big night, Den!"

He blinks, and when did it get so fucking bright in here? "Hey, Mac, can you close those blinds? My head is killing me."

Mac huffs and sighs, but he does it anyway. "I thought you weren't drinking until tonight?"

"Huh?" Dennis questions, squinting. "What? I haven't drank since Thursday."

"It's Sunday, bro."

Dennis shrugs. "I have zero idea where this conversation is going."

"What's today's date?" Mac asks.

He exhales deeply. A rough cough sneaks its way out, and he kinda wants to die. "Dunno..."

Yeah, his perfect specimen thing isn't really working out right now. He kinda just wants to be that specimen that lies back down in bed and dozes off to the white noise of his two fans.

"You're sick!" Mac yells. "Of all the times to get sick, you pick your 21st birthday! That's just cruel, bro."

Oh.

Ohhhh...

Okay. No. He's gotta get up. He could've sworn today was the 11th, but he guesses it's magically the 13th. Mac and Charlie have been looking forward to the day he turns 21 for a long time, even though they've been drinking together 'illegally' for years. He doesn't want to let them down.

No. He doesn't want to let himself down. He's better than this. He's better than anything.

"Uh uh. What're you doing?" Mac pushes him back against the pillows and drapes a fallen blanket over his legs. Dennis immediately kicks all of the blankets away and gets to his feet, swaying and shaking and shivering on his way to his bedroom. Mac stops him about halfway there. "Couch or bed?"

He shakes his head. "No. Party. Like we said."

"Yeah, I'm not letting you go anywhere like this, man. Me and Charlie will celebrate with you later when you're more better."

'More better.' He fucking hates that, and Mac knows it. Dennis clenches his jaw.

"I'm good, Mac. Let me get some shoes on, and we'll head out."

Of course that doesn't happen, though.

The second Mac forces him into bed, Dennis breaks down in tears. Mac doesn't say anything. He rubs Dennis's back through the comforter, sometimes switching it up to run his fingers through his hair. It almost feels good. Almost.

As good as it almost feels, it doesn't stop Dennis from not eating for five days straight and then passing out during a Psych presentation.

2001

25 comes with a whole new set of challenges.

The biggest one is that, apparently, he's decided he's some teenage girl. He's taken a liking to slicing open his thighs where no one will see with a razor blade. Now, he knows what everyone is thinking; why would Dennis Reynolds mutilate his perfect, extraordinary body? Well, the answer is pretty simple.

He just doesn't give a shit anymore.

The D.E.N.N.I.S. system still works and is uber successful when he uses it, but... He just doesn't feel like it. Having sex is meaningless to him.

He follows hollow. Numb. Empty.

Dennis drops fifteen pounds in three weeks. He's punching holes in his belt with a screwdriver.

Marks. Scars. Blemishes. Imperfections.

That's all he sees anymore.

He wishes he never picked up that fucking razor. He's 25 fucking years old. But he's in control. He's super in control.

Dennis sinks down against the bathroom door and pulls his knees to his chest. His fingers ache for that blade. His teeth chatter against the chilliness of this December morning. He wishes he could will himself to climb back into bed with Mac, but he can't. He can't he can't he can't. He can't breathe or eat or think or make sense of anything anymore.

Control.

Control control control.

Dennis swiftly removes his sweatpants and boxers. Shakily grabs the razor. Smiles at the sensation buzzing through his body.

He makes three short, deep cuts that day.

2005

"Sit down, you fucking asshole," Mac demands.

"Ooh, I like it when you're mean," Dennis says.

"Shut the fuck up."

Dennis plops down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Mac rummages around in the refrigerator for what seems like ages before he returns with two peeled and chopped apples in a bowl and their half-used jar of peanut butter. He practically tosses the shit at Dennis. "I'm not hungry."

Mac sighs loudly and sits next to Dennis; Dennis notes he's clenching his left fist so hard the knuckles turn ghost white. "No. None of that crap this time, man. You literally just passed out at the bar. When's the last time you ate anyway?"

Four days and counting.

But he pretends he doesn't know that with a simple shrug.

"You gotta start taking better care of yourself."

Dennis doesn't acknowledge him. Instead, he pokes at the pieces of apple. His eyes droop, and this is nuts. This is stupid. Mac can't force him to eat. He's a grown ass man and can take care of himself. "Can we watch Predator tonight?" he asks, trying to distract Mac from this nonsense.

"Sure," Mac says. "But you gotta eat both apples and at least a quarter of that jar of peanut butter first."

"Fuck you."

Mac slaps his hands on his navy pants and stands up. "Whatever, bro. Your choice. But you're sitting here until you eat."

"I'm not fucking five, Mac."

"I know you're not 'fucking five,' dipshit. But you have to eat."

"I'm in perfect control of my body."

His best friend nods. "Sure. Whatever."

It takes an hour, along with Mac starting Predator, for Dennis to comply and eat the damn food. It's gross and slimy sliding down his throat.

He pukes it up ten minutes before the movie's over. Mac rubs his back.

Later, when Mac's fast asleep in their bed, Dennis tiptoes into the bathroom, locks the door behind him, and pulls out the knife he stole from the kitchen three months ago.

2009

Mac's arm is wrapped tightly around his waist.

He's shirtless, and Dennis can't help but stare at the hard muscles in his shoulders.

Dennis is skinny. He always has been. But Mac's got some serious, solid muscle, and Dennis scoffs and scowls and almost pulls away.

Almost.

But Mac's also always a freaking furnace and keeps Dennis warm, even when the temperature drops to 5 degrees like it is tonight. Dennis is bundled in one of Mac's oversized, ridiculously soft sweatshirts (he's surprised it still has the sleeves), plaid pajama pants, and a pair of thick wool socks. But Mac is shirtless and only wearing boxers, and the heat radiating from him is amazing. It's awesome. It makes Dennis feel safe and sound and secure.

"You 'lright, Den?" Mac slurs, eyes creaking open.

He nods and gulps, suddenly craving a shower and a beer. "I'm good. Go back to sleep."

Mac cuddles his face into Dennis's neck.

Dennis trembles and quivers and tries to tell himself that he does not enjoy this.

He doesn't.

Control.

He needs control and stability and not this.

Okay, that's it.

He lasts ten seconds or less in the bed before dashing to the bathroom.

Mac knocks and screams and threatens to kick the door down while Dennis throws up and cuts and showers.

Once it's all over, Mac doesn't ask about what happened or why.

Dennis curls into a tight ball on his side facing away from Mac and pretends that the fingers soothingly combing through his hair don't exist.

2015

"I'm not sick!" Dennis screams. "I'm not fucking sick, so get those Goddamn things away from me!"

He just fucking woke up, for Christ's sake, and Mac's shoving those stupid pills that the doctor gave him for 'Borderline Personality Disorder' in his face. Dennis hasn't even had the chance to wipe the sleep from his eyes yet. And, seriously, he's still in bed, only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. There's gotta be a better way for Mac to go about this.

But Dennis is just gonna flush those pills down the toilet when Mac isn't looking. They're bullshit anyway.

He has so much control over his mind and body that it's insane.

Perfect.

He's perfect.

"Why don't you just see if they work?" Mac asks, sitting on the edge of the bed by Dennis' feet. "They might make you feel better."

"Feel better?" he questions incredulously. "Me? I've never felt better in my entire life. I'm perfect. I'm a golden G –"

Mac waves him off. "Yeah yeah yeah. You're a golden God. Whatever. Just take the damn pills, Den."

"Why would I take pills for an illness I don't have?"

"Listen," Mac says carefully and softly; it irritates the shit out of Dennis. "I'm not judging you here, bro. But if something's wrong, we gotta fix it. We gotta try to fix it."

Dennis takes the bottle from Mac's hand and throws it out of his bedroom. "There. It's fixed."

"You're such an asshole," he huffs.

Mac goes to retrieve the pill bottle, and Dennis locks the door.

He goes into the bathroom and repeats his daily routine. He smiles as he watches the blood wash away down the drain.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

11:55 PM
On a Friday
Philadelphia, PA

Dennis Reynolds wakes up on the kitchen floor in a puddle of his own vomit.

Mac.

Mac Mac Mac.

911.

He doesn't... He doesn't feel good. This isn't right. Mac always helps him when he's like this...

But... Mac isn't here.

Mac isn't here.

Tears stream down his cheeks, and he pinches the skin on his arms hard enough to leave bruises. More imperfections. More more more more more. He needs help. He needs Mac. He needs to stand up, clean himself off, and get back to bed. Mac will be here soon, and he'll know what to do. He's the only one who can take care of him when he's like this.

He knows this. He knows this.

Dennis quivers and shakes and throws up more bile on the tile floor.

His eyes widen.

Mac.

He punched Mac.

He pushed Mac away.

And now he's gone. Gone forever.

Fuck. Why the fuck is he so stupid. He clenches wads of hair in his hands and screams until it turns into sobs.

He doesn't... He doesn't even know how long Mac's been gone.

Dennis takes several deep, trembling breaths, trying desperately to keep that grip on reality.

He somehow manages to push himself off the floor. He pukes in the sink as soon as he's standing. The room sways and tilts, and why is everything so fucking spinny?

Mac.

But then he sees the knife.

He doesn't know what he's thinking or why he's thinking it. It's all just impulse.

Knife. Grabs it. Can't do it here. Can't do anything here.

Dennis returns to his sanctuary – his bathroom – and locks the door. Fills the tub with ice-cold water because fuck him, and fuck Mac, and fuck everybody.

He lowers himself into the water and immediately makes the first cut up his left forearm.

Blood blood blood blood blood.

Dizzy and weird and why?

Fucked up. He's so fucking fucked up.

Mac. Mac.

Slices open his right forearm.

Bleeds. Bleeds until the world makes sense again, and he remembers.

Dennis Reynolds is a perfect specimen, with or without Mac.