Chapter Text
God, he hated this.
Every Monday evening.
Without fucking fail.
A ‘cleanse’, Dennis called it. Mac never understood how it was a cleanse if there was nothing to ‘clean’ with. If the bathroom at paddy’s was anything to go by; water is never enough, though drinking bleach or industrial cleaner doesn’t sound fun. The sounds of cutlery scraping against clean plates prevented mac from getting carried away with his thoughts of drinking poisonous fluids, though he supposed he’d find it a lot more enjoyable.
The headache-inducing sounds were deeply engrained in his mind, to the point of sometimes causing nightmares. Horrific nightmares. Full of food [ or lack thereof ], deterioration, and Dennis. Though those two words usually come as a pair nowadays, didn’t they.
Deterioration was Dennis.
Dennis was deteriorating.
Fuck.
Mac’s grip on the cutlery had slowly firmed during his lazy excuse for an internal monologue, flinching as an exceptionally loud scrape interrupted the near silence. He swallowed harshly before muttering,
”Dude. I don't like this.”
Dennis looked to him and raised an eyebrow in confused amusement, laughing ever so slightly, ”Is your chicken undercooked again? Just imagine you cooked it a little more or you'll get food poisoning like Charlie almost did. Or you could have some of mine if you’d prefer?”, He pointed his fork towards mac in a non-threatening manner, as if offering a bite of whatever fancy food was supposedly on his plate.
”N... No, I don't mean that... I don't...” He sighed, fiddling with the fork in his hand, ”...I don't like this whole thing, I don't like cleansing, it sucks... I wanna eat real food tonight...”
Dennis scoffed, raising both eyebrows and briefly shutting his eyes, an air of superiority surrounding him as judgement seeps into his voice, ”Of course you don’t like it, that’s why you got so fat. Everyone knows that Monday's are the best day to ’start fresh’, and the best way of doing so is to cleanse one's body of all the disgusting things they've most likely ingested the day prior”, he takes another ’bite’ of his ’food’, gently chewing on his tongue for a moment before swallowing and continuing, “However, a lack of day prior ingesting makes cleansing ever more effective”, he smiles proudly to himself, admiring his trembling hands as the cutlery quietly vibrates against his plate.
”No... No dude... This isn't healthy I don't think... I think you're.. like.. anorexic or something bro..” God are they really doing this now? Mac wasn't expecting this to arise so soon, so unplanned and unpracticed, and with only the two of them thus no one to back him up, but better now than never, he guesses; remembering the information he read and tried to memorise from WebMD a while ago.
”W-WhAT?? I'm not anorexic mac, I simply have self-control. And the awareness that with said self-control; I can stay young for as long as I desire”, he smiles smugly, moving past his highly noticeable voice crack
Mac sighs yet again, continuing to talk, ”I’m being serious, Dennis”, he carefully sets down his cutlery to show he's not just making casual conversation, clasping his hands together reminiscent of a therapist or some other socially superior caregiver, he clears his throat before beginning, ”It explains your blood work saying you're super unhealthy, with the low elect... electrolytes.. and low blood pressure, and fainting, and.. and stuff..” God he sounds pathetic, he was supposed to sound all knowledgable and smart, ”You keep wanting to be all ‘immaculate’, and you haven't brought any chicks home in ages which is another ’cus of a low libido or something. You've got like, all the symptoms of it..” His words didn’t come out at all as organised as he’d hoped, stumbling over pronunciations and failing to remember all of his previously memorised points.
Dennis began to laugh, his face showing an almost sultry smile despite the whitening of his knuckles against the poor cutlery in his hands, ”Oooh you did some snooping on WebMD? Bet you feel like a clever boy~”, his demeanour changed more than slightly, looking mildly irritated, ”It's all bullshit mac, sites like that only exist for little emo girls trying to diagnose themselves with shit to feel special.”, he laughs again, taking another ‘bite’. “If everybody self-diagnosed based on their ‘symptoms’ then the world would be in shambles, especially the gang. If we went by symptoms then charlie is an asexual, non-binary autistic with pica. you’d be a body dysmorphic, obsessive-compulsive. And don’t get me fucking started on dee and frank!” he sets his cutlery down to take a sip from his empty glass, purposefully trying to derail the conversation.
”Dude, I’m being serious”, Mac had expected a reaction like this, the site he looked at said that ’She [ she? ] may deflect any accusations’, he thinks before semi-reluctantly talking again, struggling to keep eye contact with him as the nervousness failed to escape his gradually quietening voice, “I... I found the... um... scales in your bottom drawer.. and the caffeine pills.... and the apps on your phone... and the massive wad of mon-”
”-Shut the fuck up mac, why the fuck were you going through my stuff.”, his expression quickly soured, an intensifying scowl growing on his face as he gripped the cutlery tighter, feeling very hot from being exposed in such a dehumanising way.
The nervousness that filled his stomach [ way more than the fake meal ever could ] completely obliterated his ability to keep his eyes on Dennis’, quickly averting his gaze to the floor as he quietly muttered, “I... I was worried... Y-You keep passing out and I haven’t seen you eat a proper meal in days.. Not even those sugar-free granola bars I got you..”, the intensity of the situation was getting to him, feeling his eyes cloud as he sniffs slightly, “Y.. You’re using crack again den.. aren’t you... Why else would you have that money hidden..? H.... How did you even get so much? It’s more than paddy’s makes in like.. like a month...?”, his voice ironically cracks at the mention of his relapse, semi-reluctantly looking back up at Dennis with slightly glassy eyes.
He had imagined he would maybe see him feeling, see him get upset, see him cry unaided even. He’s ashamed to say he has previously daydreamed about this, about confronting him and making him realise he’s ill, helping him get better. Mac would be demonstrating his value and nurturing his dependence and everything, then he’d finally lo-
Haha
No.
He was getting his hopes way, way up; before him sat the most furious man he’d ever be unfortunate enough to see or be physically near. White, trembling, hands against the silver cutlery contrasted almost poetically in comparison to his bright red face, nostrils flared and teeth clenched so hard mac wonders if they’d shatter in his mouth. Is that physically possible? Maybe being anorexic gives you weak teeth?
The sound of metal clattering against ceramic jolted mac out of his train of thought, almost physically jumping out of his seat as his ears are ravaged by what sounds like pure, untethered rage.
“How DARE you accuse the Golden God of such... such p-p-pathetic things! I am not going to take such a berating talk-down from-!” Dennis’ stature [ Oh he’s standing, when did he stand up? ] faltered momentarily as he tries to grip the table for balance, eyes rolling backwards ever so slightly.
“Oh fuck dude do you nee-“
“-from... a f... fucking faggot.”, despite the wooziness overcoming him, Dennis grips the table and glares at mac with what looks to be utter disgust, now scarily conscious.
oh.
Oh.
Mac does not like that word.
“DON’T CALL ME A FAGGOT YOU FEMME BITCH!! YOU COULDN’T MEET THE DIAGNOSES WEIGHT IF YOU FUCKING TRIED!!! I’VE SEEN YOU BINGE YOU FAT BITCH!!! I’LL SHOVE THIS KNIFE UP YOUR FAT FUCKING ASS!!!”
Instantly forgetting his previous vulnerability, mac grabs his knife and yanks Dennis towards him by his arm, his furious demeanour faltering temporarily at the rather unexpected lack of substance in his hand, he looks down at it for a moment before choosing to slam the knife back down onto the table and shove Dennis away, choosing instead to grab his plate and throw it violently across the room; watching it shatter before storming out of the apartment and slamming the door behind him. Leaving the wide-eyed Dennis alone with the empty plates and thoughts.
“oh.”