12:00 PM
On a Thursday
Philadelphia, PA
He's okay.
He's okay he's okay he's okay he's okay.
Idiot. Fucking idiot. Why in the shit is he such a fucking idiot?
Dennis breathes in and out.
In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In. In in in in in...
He chokes and coughs and splutters as he makes his way into the sunlight.
Dumbass. Why did he have to run a good thing? Why did he sabotage himself? Why did he have to pressure Mac to put a label on what they are? Is it unfair for Dennis to want to know? To understand finally who Mac is and what this - their relationship - means?
He shouldn't have opened his mouth.
No. Dr. Nichols says it's important for Dennis to open up, to communicate, to fully express his feelings even if it sometimes hurts him personally. Yes, he has to take into account how other people, mostly the gang, respond and their perspectives. Yes, he has to respect opinions and boundaries. But Dennis just wants Mac. All of Mac.
He doesn't know if he did the right thing. He's crawling out of his skin, desperately wanting to march back into the hospital to Dr. Nichols' office, but he literally left moments ago. He probably already has another patient anyway. But Mac fucking fled once Dennis kissed him in that elevator. He knows exactly why too, but it's hard to admit. It's hard to admit to being different, to defy the expectations society has placed on gender roles and sexuality.
Mac has never wanted to talk about it, though. For a long fucking time, neither did Dennis. They went through the motions, banging and getting handsy when wasted (or sober) and pretending it never happened, that they ever shared each other in the first place.
Dennis pulls at his hair over and over again before trying to smooth it back down. He has no idea where Mac went and knows he isn't in the right state to chase after him. His vision blurs as he shakily unlocks the Range Rover, plopping in the driver's seat and immediately placing his head on the steering wheel.
Breathe. He has to breathe.
Why? Why did he have to say it was time?
Time for what? For Mac to come out of the closet?
Dennis face palms himself through heavy, shallow breaths.
Fuck. He wasn't ready. It took Dennis weeks of intense therapy and alcohol withdrawal and a shit ton of meds before he really sank his teeth into his own sexuality. Labeling it is fucking hard because his heart (yes, he's a weak man) belongs to Mac. He still likes women, imagines he would still like having sex with women, but Mac is...
Dennis shakes his head and tightens his fingers around the steering wheel; his knuckles turn ghost white.
Mistake. He just made a huge fucking mistake, and he can't take it back. He doesn't know where Mac is. Doesn't know if Mac will even come back to the apartment. The old Dennis would tear apart every inch of Philadelphia, ripping the city to shreds at the seams. The old Dennis would plan and scheme and manipulate Mac into coming home.
The new Dennis isn't going to do that. Will not do that.
Mac deserves better.
It takes every ounce of Dennis' strength to stay put and focus on regulating his emotions.
Every. Single. Ounce.
9:40 PM
On a Thursday
Okay.
Mac isn't home yet.
Dennis clenches his hands together.
It's been over nine hours since Dennis fucked up. In the span of nine long, agonizing hours, Dennis has left 47 voicemails. He's sent upwards of 300 texts. He fucking logs into Facebook and MySpace, for Christ's sake, determined to get ahold of Mac one way or another.
He doesn't have to come home. He doesn't.
Dennis just wants to know he's okay. That he didn't get super plastered and drowned in a puddle of his own vomit. Honestly, that sounds more like old Dennis than Mac, but it could still happen. Dennis waits and waits and waits, pacing back and forth from their bedroom to the kitchen so many times that his feet beg for him to sit.
He bites his fingernails until they're nothing but charred nubs. All ten of his digits are bleeding. He doesn't bother doctoring them up. He knows even this simple nervous habit can lead him winding down a dark and dangerous road filled with trudged up nightmares. He knows he can lose everything just by biting his fucking fingernails like a psycho.
Not to mention that he's super fucking close to punching the Goddamn wall. He's done that so many times before, broke his hand more times than he remembers, and Mac had to carry him from the apartment to the Rover to the emergency room because he hadn't eaten or slept. But Dennis needs this. He needs to feel the plaster crumble beneath his bones, to shred open the skin.
He wants to bleed.
It's not like he wants to kill himself. No. He doesn't want that. It's just that self-harm has always been there for him. Dr. Nichols told him that. Where his parents and his sister and sometimes even Mac failed him, cutting or burning or bruising made him feel whole again. Made him feel something. But now he's feeling too much. He's being fucking swallowed, is drowning in his own mind, and he needs a way out. He needs to stop.
Breathe.
He tries to take a deep breath. Can't. Sinks to the floor, back against the fridge. Draws knees to chest and counts.
One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen...
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen...
Dennis pukes all over his jeans on eighteen.
It burns his throat and stomach and head in the most beautiful of ways.
11:05 PM
On a Thursday
Eventually, Dennis levels out his emotions.
He pinches his arms over and over and over again. It stings. But it makes him feel not so awful anymore. Like he can breathe on his own.
Dennis knows he shouldn't have done it. He knows. He really really understands and gets it. He'll tell Dr. Nichols at his appointment next Thursday. He doesn't want to be a screw up, but that's just who he is. He couldn't live another Goddamn minute on this Earth if he didn't do something. He had to. He ran out of options.
He still hasn't heard anything from Mac, and he kind of doubts he will at all tonight.
It hurts so much more than the bruises on his arms or the slashes up his wrist.
But he has to take control of the situation. He starts by showering because, fuck, does he smell ripe. The water scalds and burns his skin, almost like the hum of a lighter to his flesh. He stands under the intense spray longer than he means to. He dries himself off without looking in the mirror. He throws on an oversized long sleeved shirt, carefully making sure his arms are completely covered, and stupid old plaid pajama pants and cleans up the kitchen.
None of it makes him feel any better, but he's yawning by the time it's done.
Dennis curls into a ball on the couch, facing away from the door. Even if Mac comes home, Dennis is sure Mac won't want to talk to, much less look at, him period. He hides his face in the cushion, placing his right hand over his heart and counting to the rhythm of the beat beneath his skin.
3:20 AM
On a Friday
"D-Dee?"
"Jesus, it's three in the Goddamn morning! This better be important!"
Dennis flinches at her shrill abrasiveness, but he has to be rational. He's hurting and upset, but it is very early in the morning. It's not exactly like Dee wanted to be woken up right now. "I... Um, I-I... Could you come over?" he barely manages to squeeze out of his aching lungs. "Please?"
Everything hurts. It fucking hurts.
"I'll be there in fifteen."
3:35 AM
On a Friday
"Dennis?"
He winces when the living room light flickers on, shielding his eyes with his palm. It's so fucking cold here without Mac.
Where is Mac?
Why can't he at least tell Dennis he's okay?
"Shit," he hears someone whisper.
There's rummaging around coming from... well, everywhere... but he can't keep track of it. Loses himself in the meaningless sounds of nothingness. It's black and cold and doesn't have a pulse. It's deep and lost and fragile, and it's him. He's nothing, and he's nowhere, and he really really really fucking needs Mac.
Please. He needs help.
He's off floating around in deafening space when there's something cold plopped on his forehead. It sends an electric voltage through his body like a zap of lightning.
"I'm right here, Dennis," he hears.
Dennis can feel his eyebrows and lips morph into a frown. A real frown. Not a fake one.
"Mac?"
"No. It's Dee."
The floodgate shatters with a hurricane of tears, and Dennis sobs into the open, crackling air.
5:15 AM
On a Friday
There's some shaking and some whispering and some jostling before Dennis cracks his eyes open.
In the faint light of a still darkened morning, he sees his sister kneeling on the ground beside him. He brings his hand to his eyes and groans, sniffling and shivering and shaking harshly. He doesn't have any energy to lift his head.
"Can you sit up for a sec?" Dee asks quietly. "You need medicine and something to drink."
Dennis can't nod because it hurts too much. Instead, he mouths, "okay," and Dee gently positions him to where his back is elevated with fluffy pillows, one supporting his neck. He tucks his socked feet inside the now shifted blanket and licks his dry, cracked lips. He swallows whatever pills Dee gives him because he doubts she's choosing now to poison him for being a dick of a brother, even though this might be her best chance. She hands him a glass of ice cold apple juice, just the way he likes it, and he sips at it in case his stomach rebels.
There's a silence Dennis can't describe that washes over the room. Dee settles down at the other end of the couch. She covers her legs up with some of the blanket. Dennis lets his head lull back against the pillow. His bones are lead, and he's sore in every way imaginable.
"I fucked up," he whispers after a while. "Mac's gone."
He doesn't turn to gauge Dee's reaction.
"What do you mean?"
"I... I told him it was time for him to come out of the closet," Dennis says. "I said we'd been doing the same thing forever and that I wanted us to be ourselves, whoever the fuck we are. But he got really mad and left. I've c-called and texted, but he won't check in, and I'm fucking terrified."
Dee scoots a little closer. "Wow. I can't believe you said that to him."
"Yeah, I couldn't either. But it just fucking came out, and now I can't take it back."
"You shouldn't want to, Den. You shouldn't have to."
Dennis squirms and makes eye contact. "He won't come home."
"He will," she says. "When he's ready."
"What if he's never ready, Dee? What if I ruined everything because I couldn't keep my mouth shut?" he asks.
His sister grabs his hand and rubs her thumb over his knuckles, just like Mac always does to calm him down. "He'll come back, Dennis. I know he will."
8:10 AM
On a Friday
Dennis goes two hours without making a phone call or sending a text. It helps that Dee's still here. Charlie being here helps too. He came over still in his long thermal underwear and bedraggled black t-shirt without shoes or a jacket. His face is blotchy, and he looks like he's been crying, but Dennis doesn't say anything because he isn't sure what to say. Instead, he lets Charlie settle down beside him on the couch beneath the comforter from his bed.
His head pounds relentlessly from his breakdown. He hates this part. He hates that his brain gets so fucking worked up, and then he has to deal with his body falling to pieces immediately afterword. Usually, Mac lays with him in bed. Sometimes, he rubs his back with his long, muscular fingers. Other times, he simply wraps himself around Dennis, forming a bubble between him and the world. But Mac isn't here, and Dennis knows he's so fucking helpless.
"Do you think Mac's gonna come back soon?" Charlie asks nervously while Dee takes a shower.
Mac's name being said out loud slices through Dennis's core.
He wants to shrug, but he doesn't. That would absolutely not help Charlie. "Yeah, bud. I bet he'll be back real soon."
There's an air of silence before Charlie speaks again.
"So you came out of the closet?"
"It wasn't a secret, Charlie."
"Yeah, I know," he says. "I'm proud of you, dude. For banging Mac and for getting your shit together."
Dennis's eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't let Charlie see that either. "Um, thanks, pal."
When Dee comes out of the bathroom in a pair of Dennis' sweats and an old t-shirt, Charlie asks, "Can I have some of that juice that looks like pee? What is that anyway?" He motions to the end table to Dennis' right.
"It's apple juice. You've never had apple juice?" Dennis questions.
Charlie shrugs. "Guess I never got around to it."
He sounds sad and strange when he says that, but Dennis isn't sure if he's supposed to ask or not.
Dennis passes him the glass. "Have at it, dude."
Charlie knocks back the juice with ease and grace; he smiles as he pulls it away from his lips.
"Dude, apple juice is awesome!"
Dennis smiles, genuinely smiles, for the first time since Mac bolted.
2:55 PM
On a Friday
Dee leaves.
She offers to stay, but Dennis waves her off and thanks her for helping him in the middle of the night. Dee hugs him, actually fucking hugs him, and promises to be back in a few hours once she gets some errands done and possibly takes a nap.
With Dee gone, the urge to pick up his phone and dial Mac's number until his fingers bleed again is nauseating. His cell is on full volume, so he'll know when a call or text comes through. He'd even accept a Goddamn email at this point, but he isn't even sure Mac has an email address. Dennis stares at the ceiling and holds his hand over his beating heart beneath the blanket as Charlie watches The Simpsons while eating a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch.
Dennis clenches his jaw as a wave of dizzy smacks into him. He thinks of the movie Poseidon. Imagines a rogue wave slamming into his side and tipping him over, leaving his head bobbing under the ocean and destroying virtually everything. Blackness rips through his body and echoes through the apartment, and his stomach buzzes with nerves.
He bolts up. Dry heaves. Spits onto the floor when nothing real comes up.
Nothing's real. He isn't real.
Mac is gone, and he isn't coming back.
Dennis' raw fingers dig into his flesh, right where the scars on his wrists are. He huddles in on himself and lets a breaking sob escape chapped lips.
"Whoa. Holy shit. Hey hey hey. Calm down, dude."
The voice isn't real and comes from underwater.
It tries to suck him into space, a vast sea of nothingness.
There's pressure on his shoulders and arms. Doesn't know if it's real or not.
Dennis clenches a wad of his shirt, thrusting his palm to his chest to try and count the beats.
There aren't any.