Work Text:
Dennis heaves a shaky breath, wheezing on the exhale, as if the mere exchange of oxygen from the outside world to his unworthy vessel is agony, as if it’s incorrect. It feels like he’s stealing it from those who need it more.
His phone falls out of his hand, a tiktok he’d usually piss himself laughing at playing on repeat as he lacks the energy to turn it off, willing to deal with the rawness of a twitch streamer squealing with laughter as more tears stain his greasy pillow. He lacks the energy to cry properly. not a single sob escapes his lips, no tremoring limbs, no scrunching up of his face; he simply lets the tears drip down his face as he lays unmoving, lacking the energy to even pretend to cry, to bash his head into the corner of the wall and wail till mandy runs in, scolding him for scaring brian jr before dabbing antiseptic cream into his arms.
God, his arms.
Since the age of fourteen, Dennis promised to always strive for perfection. He fought his battles with words to prevent being marred with mottled bruises from angry drunks, self harmed through binging, yet was sometimes fearful of letting even water pass his lips because he needs to be thinner. No one cares if skinny people are ugly. They always see the lack of weight before they see the lack of substance in his very soul. Sex was his self harm, because he knew it would ruin his body, but only on the inside. No one else would be able to see it.
He looks down at his body; ugly red and white lacerations, some fading, some oozing underneath the half picked off scabs, some running across, then one running along the middle of his forearm, stitched up neatly by professionals who talked too loud and too quiet at the same time, asking too many questions yet not enough. He ruined his own body. It wasn’t her. He cut it all up, tainting himself with ugly scars that will last for years and can only be hidden for so long. Till a simple slip of a sleeve causes a strangers face to be marred with an expression of disgust and distant concern.
Dennis can’t remember when he stopped caring, when he disappointed that young, terrified boy from years ago, breaking promises of love and happiness and self fulfilment and hope. He was supposed to be destined for better things, but with a single, dried up, wrinkled, sour vagina, pushed onto him as he laid on the floor of the library, it was all ripped away from him, and he’d spend the rest of his wretched life chasing the same thing, as if it would reverse it all, when all it did was make things ten times worse.
He started with under 50’s, milfs. Every man wanted to fuck hot moms, so he tried to sleep with every mom in Philly, but then he started calling them mommy, wrapping his little grubby hands around their waists and pleading for more love, more affection. They all looked disgusted, so he bent them over and fucked the disgust out of them. Then they got younger, because he couldn’t stand to see her in every woman he fucked, under 40, under 30, early 20’s.
Dennis looked at the blurry ID in his hands as she felt him up, fumbling with the flashlight to look at the shoddily made hologram on the front, “Are you sure you’re eighteen?”
He had a problem.
He can try and blame others, but it only works for a little while. He blamed Mac for the longest. Ruining him with his sweet bi’s, beautiful lips, and puppy dog eyes, soaking up every ounce of his cold and calculated shell, resorting to sobbing in Mac’s vice grip, Mac’s bed, Mac’s bedroom, refusing to let go as he begged him to never leave, even when he was always destined for bigger and better things. It’s funny. Mac’s unwavering devotion to him was obvious to the entire gang, but like Dennis always said, “It’s never gonna happen”. He couldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t let Mac discover the pure cesspool that is Dennis.
Brian Jr was supposed to be a fresh start. Brian Le’fevre. He was a simple man, with a simple dream to have a wife and kids. A kid and a woman who tolerated him in her house was close enough. He was happy and sober simultaneously. He came home from work with a smile on his face as he gave his wife a kiss on her cheek, plucking his child from her arms and spinning him around, gleefully cheering that daddy’s home.
He looks down at his child. The human formed from his own sperm; an extension of himself.
Dennis looks at the claw marks on the side of his child’s face, blood dribbling down his rosy, tear stained cheeks.
“YOU’RE A MISTAKE! I FUCKING HATE YOU, YOU WRETCHED BRAT!!! NOBODY LOVES YOU!!! IT WAS YOUR FAULT! YOU SEDUCED HER! WHY DID YOU LEAD HER ON! WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY NO!!! WHY DIDNT YOU CRY FOR HELP!!! WHY ARE’NT YOU CRYING!!! WHY ARent you crying.…”
Brian Jr wobbles backwards on his stubby legs before falling onto his behind, toppling over a mismatched structure made from lego bricks. He looks up at his daddy, eyes blown wide, his little heart shattered before he even knows what a heart is.
Mandy screams bloody murder.
It’s finished.
Dennis doesn’t need to be told to leave, he knows he has to go. He knew he was never cut out for this. He knew this wasn’t meant to be. He simply wanted to pretend that it was.
The uber, the plane, the bus, it’s all a blur, smudged with the beauty that is alcohol. He leaves everything behind, including all his belongings. He left it all with Mac anyway, because of course he did.
He finds himself stood on the bridge above Skuylkill river. Dennis isn’t going to kill himself. He died back in 1990. His vessel simply looks down at the water below. Sober. Clasping his hands together, he begins to whisper;
“Our heavenly mother, Jesus Christi—
He collapses. Briefly. The world tilting as he feels God listen to him. The prayer continuing to be recited in his brain, like the words are a lifeline, as if they gave him life, and will cause his demise all at once, ingrained into his consciousness completely.
—is now. Amen.”
The world steadies, and Dennis touches the scar on his forehead as his body hangs partially over the railings of the bridge, reminding him of the smudged ash Mac would sport, coming back to Paddy’s with a grin as he felt cleansed on sin. He wonders what that feels like. To feel truly pure and untainted of the sins one committed against themself and others. To be well and truly clean.
He laughs at the naïveté of such a thought, a laugh so raucous that he almost throws himself over the railings just for the fun of it.
“..Dennis.…?”
Mac looks at the blurry figure on the other side of the door, rubbing crusty sleep from his eyes with his fists. The human takes the vague form of someone very special to him, and looks like it’s waiting for something. It must be a dream. It’s just like the others he’s had every single night.
“you were right, mac, i ran because i was scared. i do love you. i have big, beautiful feelings that hurt so much, i need you so badly. please save me. please cure me. please fix me.”
“.…Oh, Dennis.…”
Dennis collapses, but before he can hit the floor, Mac catches him, like he always does. Mac surrounds Dennis’ body with his own, wrapping his arms securely around him, protecting him, keeping him safe.
“You’re soaked, dude! Let me take care of you.”
Mac lifts up Dennis’ delicate body a little, peeling off his sodden jacket, before softly gasping as he sees his arms.
“God, Dennis.… How long have you been feeling like this? How long have you been suffering? The gang have missed you so much. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never let you get hurt ever again. You’re irreplaceable. I won’t let you leave this time. I love you so much. I’ll fix you.”
Before they can kiss, Dennis stops himself from daydreaming. It’s counterproductive and stupid.
Dennis watches Franks loaded gun aim at his body, gazes into the eyes of the sex doll, listens to the gang tell him they don’t care as he offers them the chance to hear everything that happened in North Dakota. He dissociates as Mac runs out the door to meet a new date, before he can hear him ask if Mac can peel an apple for him.
He sits on the floor in his bedroom that same night, after screaming at Mac to get out, because Dennis is not sharing a room with a man he can’t stand; flinching away before Mac can even try and hug him, telling him not to touch him because he hates him. He curls into a little ball, tucking his chin between his legs and hugging his knees, a pillow over his face as he screams.
A few weeks later, and Dennis is cornering Dee in the back office, telling her there’s something he has to show her, something on his arms, because out of everyone in the gang; surely Dee would understand.
She laughs at wobbling in his voice, sneers at the scars, and Dennis can’t remember the rest. It’s all a blur.
Dennis sits in his room that isn’t really his room. He tells the nurse he doesn’t want to sit with the other patients to watch the big game that’s on the tv. The nurse argues, because if he has no visitors, no phone calls, no anyone, he should at least try to socialise, but he persists, and they finally leave him alone.
He hits his head against the wall, the brace on his neck choking him, and that’s where Dennis breaks down.
Not for the first time
certainly not for the last.
he wishes it was the last
Death in itself is salvation, and Dennis is beyond saving.