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Absentmindedly, Mac gropes around at the table in front of him. He picks up a fork, making non committal eye contact with himself in its distorted reflection and running a hand through his slicked back hair. He wipes his palm on his jeans. Clicks his tongue. Going through the motions.
He could be six beers deep, boneless on the couch with the Predator opening sequence running but instead he’s waiting on some spoilt broad.
The restless shuffling of his feet on the sticky floor is starting to draw attention. The diner bell chirps just as he’s drawing a particularly exasperated noise out from his throat. His eyes roll from the ceiling to the door. Yup, that’s her. He ought to feel some sort of nervous shift in his gut, objectively she is quite hot.
She’s got long, bleached blonde hair with mousy roots peeping through. Legs packaged in tight faux leather pants. He momentarily stills his jostling legs, noting the impression of ample cleavage hidden beneath a long-sleeved, dark green turtleneck. She’s overdressed, especially for a late summer’s evening. He’d been counting on her dressing appropriately for such climate. Of course she’d fuck it up.
He went to quite a lot of trouble to get this set up but now the events are in motion he wonders if he could get away with slipping out the back before she spots him, torn up napkins strewn before him. He clenches a handful of semi soiled ribbons in hand and gestures her over.
“Mac, is it?”
“Yup.”
“Interesting choice.” She nods her head at their surroundings, drawing out 'interesting' pointedly. Her honeyed voice already grating on Mac, he just grunts, not moving to draw her chair out the way he knows he ought to. His fist clenches, strangling the napkin remnants further.
Briefly, he hopes she’ll be the one to bolt. This was not the kind of date she’d agreed to go on with the guy who’d gotten her number at the coffee shop last week. But no, she drags the chair out from opposite him and begins fussing with her menu and carefully curated locks. Sunk time costing them both.
When he’d first started this routine he’d go to great lengths to indulge whatever prissy woman Dennis had recently used and discarded. He’d put on a persona, sensitive intellectual or maybe a charming boy-next-door type. Whatever antidote they needed. These tended to fall apart within the first ten minutes of conversation once the chick would clock Mac hadn’t actually read the dog eared copy of War and Peace he’d performatively place between them. Or he couldn’t catch his temper before hurling an obscene string of language toward the waiter who fucked up his drinks order. For all his woes when it came to conversing with the opposite sex at least Mac knew he always had one mode to fall back onto (conveniently the most lucrative for his purposes): to let them whinge.
It wouldn’t be long now until this particular chick would start it up. She looks tired, copious layers of crinkled concealer under her eyes. She scrunches up her nose, shoulders solidifying, the tacky table disturbing her. Yeah, she’ll be an easy crack.
Mac knows he’s not exactly the most subtle bloke, but being sly won’t be necessary here. This one’s practically gasping to unzip her woes all over him. All good with him, he’s a willing receptacle for her regurgitation. Though his motivations don’t exactly align with any clarity - even to him. It’s probably why he’s not been caught out yet.
After some stilted smalltalk and some stifled yawns it seems she’s made peace with the lacklustre nature of the situation. Good, it’s better when they settle in with their disappointment during the first half.
Mac begins to pry in his most innocent tone “You date much?” Her eyes flare with some interest at last. Of course, any chance to unleash all her grievances with the men of Philadelphia to a man from Philadelphia. He mostly tunes out of her oncoming spiel, he’s only interested in her most recent saga.
He’d been rather impressed with himself actually, this time he’d already set things in motion as the clean up guy before Dennis was even through with her. He’d been bragging about how the D.E.N.N.I.S. system was on overtime as all the college girls returned home from campus to their summer jobs.
“They’re less on guard back here, they’re on high alert around all those fraternity creeps, trying not to get roofied. They want a summer romance with a surprising but trustworthy stranger.” Dennis drawled, gesturing down his body. Mac nodded along appreciatively, not looking to pull any threads in Dennis’ logic.
He’d caught the leering look he’d directed at this coffee shop girl and made note to return the following morning to secure her number for himself. By his estimation, it would be under a week before Dennis hit the S, ‘Separate Entirely’, on this chick. If he was smart he could have her lined up to meet him within 48 hours of her expectations being shredded by his best friend and flatmate.
Here they were now, in a dingy diner. He’d pulled it off without a hitch. Fastest turnaround yet. Now, how was he going to get her out of that high necked top?
Dennis had complained that she’d been too gullible. He prefers a little friction - overcoming resistance is most of the fun. As Mac prods at her, he finds her defences are indeed nothing but tissue paper. He goes acceptably wide eyed at poignant moments and pushes for clarification where she feigns being coy. She overshares about Dennis. Mac eggs her on, enjoying the chance to gossip unguarded.
“I swear he used silence like a knife. I feel stupid on reflection but whenever he wanted me to comply he’d just go quiet and I’d find myself spilling my guts.”
“Spilling your guts so he could fill them back in.” Mac laughs. She’s a good sport and laughs too.
They decide to try a local wine bar. Not Mac’s usual scene but her bitching plus his crassness wasn’t going over so well with the family crowd of the diner setting. Mac gulps down wine with a similar thirst for this conversation. He even momentarily forgets about the thin layer of fabric that cockblocks his motives for the night.
—————
Thanking God for the way the wine blurs out all edges, they enter her apartment without Mac tripping up. He doesn’t usually get this far. He waits for expectation to affirm him. This must have been his objective all along, why else was he going to all this trouble over and over?
Her flat’s cramped, bed practically making out with her sink and fridge. It’s clean bar the hanging smell of cigarette smoke. She’d ashed her smoke into the dregs of his wine glass he’d smuggled out from the fancy wine bar they’d been gossiping in and he found himself agreeing to go home with her. The lower their expectations became, the smoother the night had become. Also, he’s drunk.
Eyelids heavy, he inhales his situation in before deciding he can’t imagine Dennis here. On these sheets. With this girl. Mac crinkles his nose up, even as he clambers onto her bed himself. Making groggy assessments that can’t catch up with his body.
She’s giving him her best come hither look. Or at least she’s blatantly conveying she’s down to bang. It’s a rather inelegant dance at the best of times and Mac resents knowing ‘the moves’ as much as he feels disorientated by the mismatch of his given rhythm and hers.
Her hands are on him, her mouth too. Her top lip and his bottom lock in. There’s some pressure. A swipe of tongue. Avoidance of a clink of teeth. It’s wet in a way that makes the skin shrink on his skull. He keeps his eyes clenched shut as he roams his hands about, over her figure.
This is what he’d wanted. This is what he’d wanted.
She’s more impatient now, mechanical as she chases his clothes off from him. Her slender hands seem to be somewhat on autopilot as they descend down his front to his zipper. She isn’t going to analyse if their chemistry might’ve been better utilised for banter than boning. They’ve gotten this far so neither opt to pause for thought. She’s going through the motions. He’s going through the motions.
He hears a rather frustrated huff and unscrews his eyes. She’s taken the liberty of removing her top. His eyes don’t linger, don’t take in the swells of flesh, pale full breasts spilling from a bra he’d guess she chosen with intention. It matches her underwear. His stomach churns butterflies the way the movies always promised.
He double blinks. Stills and gapes. Coming to the present he remembers why he’s even here.
Even intoxicated his gaze reads intent. This pleases her and she winds her arms back up to his neck to imprison his lips back to hers, but he puts his fist up to his chest so that his elbow keeps them segregated.
One second..
“You’re weird Mac.” There’s no bite to her words. She settles back against the pillows, tilting her head to one side. She’s teasing, not taunting him, but he’s going flush. He starts to curse God for the wine.
“What?” Now she seems a little perplexed, headed toward self conscious. His look is more horror than appreciative appraisal. Intoxicated as she is too, she can’t help but notice it. She looks down at her body.
“Oh.” It clicks for her before it fully clicks for Mac. “Yeah that Dennis guy I told you about - he was rough with his hands.”
Dennis’ hands.
She chuckles dryly and rubs at her neck.
“He left those?” It’s a question he knows the answer to so it startles him to hear it come from his own mouth.
“Yeah, sorry, is that a turn off?”
Her clavicles, finally exposed to him, are adorned with two dense bruises the size of thumb prints. They are a blue-black-purple in this light, nestled in shocking contrast to her pallid complexion.
Dennis has pale hands.
“I didn’t expect it, I was going down willingly. Like I told you, he had bad energy. Didn’t know shit about aftercare. Can’t believe I’ve been upset he hasn’t called.”
Mac doesn’t register her rambling. Finds himself hovering closer, inspecting instead. Over the back of her trapezius muscle are fainter imprints of broken blood vessels. A demanding shade of pinkish red that’ll be sure to deepen soon. A vein on Mac’s forehead pulsates. He swallows roughly. Confuses saliva with bile.
Her chest blooms with patches of red, detracting from the intensity of the branding bruises. This disgruntles him so drops his face so just the marks take up his line of sight. He needs to soothe her embarrassed flush to appreciate the full effect. He exhales, ghosting hot breath across her damaged flesh from the ‘o’ shape his mouth falls into.
These are the most fresh he’s witnessed yet. The closest he’s ever physically gotten. Sometimes the girls have them, sometimes they don’t. More than not. Usually the bruises are too far along into their healing process, tinged yellowing green. He hasn’t tended to need to get their clothes off to bear witness to them. Dennis clearly has no regard in the moment of infliction for the obviousness of the placement. The man is familiar with colour correction concealer, though Mac doubts he’s generous enough to consider the women he marks will exist on beyond their served purpose. His lips tingle as they make chaste contact with the bruise on her left side.
Satisfied they can continue and glad not to talk further, her hands return to working at his body. Palming him. The touch of her small hands is nagging but it’s easier now their eyes can’t meet. It’s simpler now he’s guided by the branding. Whatever he see’s there spurs the moment on. He hones in, dips forward again, tongue flicking over one bruise then the other. Just barely, like the broken capillaries will scold him.
He finds himself panting wet breath now. His arousal tends to be fickle in these scenarios and yet this instance seems to be an outlier. Her hands cup his face as if to draw it back up to her own but he holds steady, unwilling to disengage.
The air tightens. A low growl escapes him. He’s loosing himself over to this contact, the heat of Dennis’ mark. Then he’s succumbing to a wash of dejavu.
—————
“You ungrateful piece of shit.”
They’re always hurling accusations so they don’t have to pause long enough for answers. They bash their heads together to keep the tinnitus ringing. Making sure they can’t hear the chamber reload. The ever present starting gun to the rest of their lives. They start over, over and over. Yet somehow make little headway. Schemes and dress up. False starts. A chemical collision blamed on the brown. Push it down.
Well Dennis was pushing him down now. Pushing fucking hard.
“You just need some motivation, don’t you?”
Thumbs hooked into his shoulders till he fears his clavicles could snap. The gasping grunts he expels sound like he’s already punctured a lung. He fights back a little. Just so the wide angle of his vision goes white around the edges. A familiar vignette, though only from regretful fantasy. Sharpened until it bleeds into discordant memory.
Dennis isn’t looking in Mac’s glassy eyes but down at his own branding irons. Instruments for a sick sacrament.
“A reminder of what you ought to be thankful for.”
The ocean’s parting and he’s buckling. Going under. The crack of knee to tile hardly heard above the rush of blood in his ears. Limbs burning into merciful numbness as he thrashes for nothing but the sake of the action itself.
The welcomed violation. Pure rapture. Permission at last.
“You gonna say thank you Mac? Thank your provider?”
Thighs slide till adductor muscles strain. Knees struggle not to roll, limits tested. Jeans scuffed on the cellar floor. Genuflection made indefinite. He’s praying. The mouth flows. Babbling incoherent gratitudes with the rise of saliva.
Mouth producing request even as eyes expel protest. Face wet. He could die like this.
“That’s it. Good boy.”
This is what he wants. This is what he wants. Shit.
“Good, Mac.”
His jaw extends, the hinge struggles, but he wills it further. The metallic bite of blood, beer, salt and vinegar floods in. A distant pain sears on. Everything’s concentrated. Deep saturation. Years of harvesting, fermenting, maturing, bottled into a blissful bitter mouthful. A corrosive climax culminates as filthy prophecy.
Knowledge a curse. One he might swallow - for Dennis? He could.
“Good.”
Sweat rolls lazily down Dennis’ forehead, along the bridge, to the tip of his nose.
It dangles.
It drops.
It kisses - squarely anointing Mac between the eyes.
—————
“Mac?” Theres a voice to his side, too close. It’s syrupy in quality. He feels nauseated.
“That good huh?” The woman’s wearing a pleased expression on her face, entirely unearned. Mac groans and wipes at his face as his clambers up and away at once. Eyeballs sting with the ghost of intruding fluid. He looks down at his chest, contorting his neck to get his own clavicles in sight. They’re clear. No broken skin. No burst blood vessels.
She’s babbling about nothing comprehensible again, scrolling on her phone, shoving it towards him but not leaving it long enough for him to read anything. He’s glad of that. Whatever came over him to want to spend his night this way has betrayed him.
There’s a vibrator off to her side. He doesn’t remember that being involved but he’s grateful it took care of whatever it was she needed because he sure as hell wasn’t going to finish her off. He keeps her tuned out as he gropes about for his clothes. Keeps his eyes locked on her shoulder blades. Her bruises remain proud. Bitch.
He thinks she’s maybe laughing at him rendered speechless but he’s too dazed to figure it out right now. She pulls herself up and sloppily kisses his cheek as she saunters to the bathroom. Something about needing to pee. UTI or whatever.
He makes his escape, wife beater vest halfway over his head as he clangs the flat door behind him, abandoning any surreptitious finesse in favour of speed. He’s overcome. Tells himself it’s just the orgasm. He hasn’t finished with a woman in a long time, maybe he’s just forgotten what that’s like?
Then there’s the lurid smell of piss in the elevator back down to the ground floor. It steadies him. He sucks in lungfuls of fresh night air once he’s out on the street. Rubs harshly at his mouth with the back of his hand. Spits nosily onto the sidewalk and takes a clean swing at a trashcan with his foot. His toes answer with a throb, distracting enough.
What the fuck did Dennis ever see in that chick? Maybe she was just easy. He shoves his head down and sets off on limp foot back to their apartment.
—————
“Good date bro?” Dennis is sat on the couch, feet planted on the floor. There’s a quarter filled bottle of whiskey rested in his lap. A pleased smirk scrawled across his face. Only the light from the tv touches him. Given the late hour of his return Mac assumes he’s been like that, in a pre pouncing position, for some time.
He shrugs non committal, maybe the gesture will bypass whatever bullshit Dennis is clearly on tonight. He’s tired now, the wine’s mostly worn off and he wants to forget about this whole night. Sure, he’d gotten laid but he didn’t much feel like remembering the events by morning. He’d blocked her contact number before he’d even rounded the end of her street corner. They are not the same. He’s the only one coming home to Dennis.
Though, by the looks of it, the Dennis he’s returned to is sure to pry in an aggravating manner. His alert, blue eyed leer instantly suctioning to the reddish stain on Mac’s mouth.
“Got laid?” Dennis’ inflection pitches up, landing as a wince on Mac.
“Yup.” Mac says flatly, kicking off his shoes in the direction of his room before heading to the bathroom. He’s just noticed the folder on the coffee table. Not a good sign. Dennis has been documenting some crackpot analysis of one of the gang again. Mac’s long since given up trying to stick his nose in those binders. Dennis treats the security around the papers far more intentionally than his sex tape collection.
“Unlike you not to show off Mac.” Mac stays mute but makes pointed eye contact with himself in the bathroom mirror. That was rich coming from Dennis, who’d started obnoxiously shuffling that goddamn folder about. He should have shut the bathroom door. Somehow he always under estimates how persistent his flatmate can be.
Clearly unsatisfied, Dennis gets up from the couch and approaches. His pace a prowl. Mac keeps his eyes averted from the performance, inelegantly dousing his toothbrush in paste. Dennis looms in the doorway. Studies him with silence. Even his peripheral form feels blinding. Like it’ll leave spots in Mac’s vision. He’s had enough marks marring his gaze for one night. He forces his mouth wide to accommodate scrubbing, coercing his tongue to yield to the pace he sets.
The heat of surveillance intensifies. He brushes with no mercy for his gums.
“What colour was the bruise?”
Mac stills. Doesn’t turn.
“Sorry - bruises. I’d imagine they’d have hit the peak of the bluest shade of purple yesterday. So a little green-yellow tinged around the outer parts by tonight?”
Mac knows he’s cornered. He’s never been good at preventing his internal landscape from emerging onto his face. The bathroom light is unforgiving too. Dennis always complains about the unflattering way it highlights his pores.
He withdraws his toothbrush and snaps his jaw shut. Finally turning to look at his infuriating, maybe psychic, maybe psychotic, best friend.
Dennis has stretched his frame out. Hands latched onto the top of the doorframe. Leaning his body forward till the tension of his core is visible, sweater hitched up from where it meets his jeans. A straining vein jitters.
“Need some mouthwash to clear out the taste of my dick from those sloppy seconds bro?”
He’s signalling something playful but Mac knows better than to suspect he’s anything other than something to be batted about on the end of a string.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Dennis.”
They let that hang there for a while. Goddamn that girl had been right, Dennis really does use silence like a knife to bleed out secrets. Now he was suspecting his new weapon was the girl herself. He opens his mouth like a fish before clapping it shut again. Damn him. Surely he couldn’t know about the dates?
The tutting click drawn out over Dennis’ lips in lazy waves lands on Mac like spits of frying oil. If his teeth fraying at the dead skin of his minty bottom lip wasn’t tell enough, the skin around his eye socket spasms.
“You leave any on her yourself? It certainly didn’t take a lot of pressure when I did.” Dennis sounds nonchalant now but his gaze is anything but. Theres a flash of teeth but no correlating light in his eyes.
“I don’t know what you thi-” He’s cut off before he can back up his bluff.
“I thought they could be a gift for you.” Dennis makes a face that resembles something earnest, a charming shark.
Mac reminds his body that it does know how to breathe. He takes a big swallow, too much fluoride getting caught up in the moment.
“A gift.” He repeats. He wants to make it a question. He doesn’t want to stammer.
“Yeah buddy, since you’ve been sniffing around my scraps so much, thought you could use a reminder.”
Mac frowns dumbly. A reminder?
“Of what I provide you.” Dennis supplies.
Mac’s body braces, preparing for impact. What is Dennis’ game here? There always is one. He’s been letting Mac pick at his leftovers. Giving them some outlet so they don’t turn their frustration out on enacting revenge on Dennis? He certainly doesn’t want these chicks showing up and interrupting their movie nights. So, Mac’s been doing him a favour really. Yeah. Keeping them warm for if he ever decides to return to the disaster site.
Dennis doesn’t blink. This is starting to feel like it’s been a test and he’s not so sure he’s passed.
“You are grateful aren’t you Mac?”
The words echo something. A flash of a sensation, of hot salty skin, the dull clunk of skull knocking rhythmically against a wall. Of fingers digging down impossibly hard, biting into his shoulder blades. Keeping him in place. He pushes it aside fast. He’s caught.
This exposure though, isn’t unpleasant. Maybe it really was an act of generosity. A reminder. A gift.
“What you want? A thank you?” Mac decides upon.
“Well that would certainly be a start now wouldn’t it.” There’s a lilt to his tone but Mac can’t place it.
“Thank you Dennis.” Best submit now. He can forget this conversation by morning too, if he can only get into the safety of his room. The gaze from the multitude of crucifixes dawning his walls would be preferable to this.
He resumes brushing, the heat of Dennis’ watchful glare hitching his internal temperature up a degree. He finishes, noisily gargling the last of the taste of the broad from his mouth. Ideally he’d shower now too, but he feels naked enough as is, instead he moves to get past the door frame without looking Dennis in the eye.
Dennis crowds him against the bathroom entrance. Mac pointedly ignores the exposed midriff that swings toward him. Up goes another internal degree.
“Did you think about me whilst you fucked her?”
Mac’s hope for diffusion dissipates instantly, leaving something incomprehensible in its wake.
“No man. What the fuck.” There’s something starting to overboil inside, making his answer a hiss. Silence greets him again.
Recklessly, he rushes out “Unless that’s what you wanted Den?”
“Such a pleaser Mac.” Dennis defaults to a backhand instead of confronting the meaning of Mac’s enquiry. “She satisfied with your performance? I always took you for a selfish lover.”
They are so close now. Whiskey breath meeting peppermint. Mac wants to laugh at the absurdity of the contradictory interrogation but he’s reluctant to let to knot in his gut be eased. He squints at Dennis.
“When’d you ever care about a woman’s pleasure dude?” Questions for unanswered questions. He could keep this up. Especially seeing the frustration break momentarily through onto his flatmate’s face. Nothing riles him up like obtuse answers that indicate cause to self reflect.
Dennis is drunker than he is. Eyes clearly bloodshot.
“I’m just interested in results man.” He lets his arms down finally and sways a little where he stands before steadying his hands up against the bathroom door. Bracing them behind Mac’s head. Both their necks are bent awkwardly to accommodate the proximity.
Mac’s interested in results right now too. He doesn’t know what - he’s not a prophet.
“Seems to me you’ve maybe been thinking more about me fucking chicks, more than I’ve been thinking about you fucking chicks.” It’s a boldfaced lie delivered in slurred word salad but there’s enough truth to Dennis’ ears that he shrinks back scolded. The file on the coffee table finally playing against him.
Mac uses the opportunity to scoot out of his way, aiming to scurry to his bedroom. Dennis catches his elbow, unaware he was reaching until his grip latches tight on the joint. Mac isn’t sure who holds the upper hand anymore.
He could break free, he is stronger.
He remains.
“You know Mac, part of me suspects you haven’t been banging them at all.”
Mac pleads with his lungs to prevent the shake in his breath from being audible, even as the beat of his heart betrays him at his pulse point gripped in Dennis’ clutch. He opts for his own stubborn silence.
“Which would be such a waste-” Dennis falters slightly before continuing, “Since I went to such extraordinary trouble and all.”
It’s a truly lame excuse for continuing this conversation. Mac rolls his eyes, of course Dennis would be caught up by him refusing to acknowledge his master scheme adequately before. He always needs to explain a diabolical plan aloud. He was two steps ahead the whole time, yada yada, big fucking whoop.
“Yeah man, hugely inconvenient for you to D.E.N.N.I.S. all those chicks just so I’d have some tail to chase. Thanks so much for your service.” It’s sarcastic but he also hopes another round of applause will put an end to this charade, however disingenuous. The back of his neck prickles and there’s a pressure in his lower belly that needs displacing. He lets a sharp exhale out his nose.
Switching off the bathroom light with his free arm so only the tv remains to illuminate them, he utters “And of course I’m banging them all, why the fuck else would I spend time with women? To talk to? I’m not fucking gay.”
The glint in his best friend’s eye smoulders like his words were just the stoking poker he was seeking out. Mac’s face twists with regret. Shit, that’s what he’d been pushing for.
“Oh yeah Mac, nothing gay at all about trying to bury yourself in every chick I’ve ever laid my seed in whilst they’re still warm from my touch!” Dennis has been refuelled, only further spurred on by the tips of Mac’s ears blaring pink in a flash.
“Ew. You are fucking deranged dude. What’s a more better demonstration I’m not gay than the M.A.C. system? You’re not the only one allowed to run a program to plow girls, asshole. Last time I checked ‘Move-in After Completion’ hasn’t been patterned.”
“Patented, Mac, it’s patented.” Dennis is lit up. “Seriously listen to yourself! You. Are. Delusional.” Fingers pinching with extra needling pressure to punctuate his sentence. “You’ve been cutting down the time between them going from me to you like a science.”
Dennis is really on one now. “And what’s the end goal with this Mac? Get some bitch pregnant between us? We’ll raise the little shit all together like some fucked up polyamorous freak show? You want to be tied to me for life! I know you never wear protection you fucking degenerate.” Mac scowls.
Dennis holds his free hand up in mock prayer, “Oh Dennis how wonderful to share this life and these STI’s with one another.” His offensively whiney, mimicking tone can’t compete the glee glinting transparently in his eyes.
Mac has no idea where the fuck any of this is coming from anymore. “Jesus Christ Dennis! You always think everything’s about you don’t you dude? Well surprise surprise, most people don’t ‘get off’ on ‘wearing another man’s skin’. That’s all you. Seems pretty fucking gay to me.”
This genuinely seems to give Dennis pause, the vice grip loosens, his eyebrows knit together like he’s missing the final piece of a puzzle he thought he’d already been holding. Mac takes the momentary bewilderment to run his mouth.
“If you hadn’t noticed by now, I don’t need some snot nosed kid to tie you to me. We’re managing that well enough all on our own.” He breaks free finally, wildly gesturing around at their apartment they’ve shared since forever. He does have a point and it’s sharp enough to teeter Dennis over into hysteria.
“Oh yeah Mac, MY apartment that I pay for, that YOU came into and cocked your leg all over. You ruin any chance I’ve had of finding a decent goddamn wife with your pathetic, needy fawning. You want me so fucking bad. It’s sickening. You even fucked my mother Mac, my mom! What kind of fucked up bastard does that?” He’s shrill, spiralling, erratic.
“You done Den?”
Dennis’ chest is heaving, breaths torn and ragged. The way they catch in his throat disturbs his outburst and Mac watches on as he quickly reassembles himself. His face visibly mottled even under the low light and coat of foundation. His gaze glazes over, jaw setting, arms stilling by his sides. Residual tension carried only by his fists.
Mac’s hands mirror the man stood across from him. He aches to retaliate with his full physical force. He’s really no good with words. But he’s just tired. He doesn’t want to think about Barbara or babies or fucking bruises any longer.
“I’ve already said thank you man, what more do you want?” A beat. “I’ll quit banging the broads.”
“I don’t believe you.” There’s no tone distinguishable from Dennis any longer.
Mac looks up wide eyed to the ceiling.
“I am thankful. Dennis, please.” He hates the way the words come out. Pathetic, needy, fawning.
“No. You’re not banging them, you haven’t been, so how could you stop? Don’t act like you’re doing me a favour.”
“I so am dude.” He needs some release from this head fuck of a maze he’s found himself in but he understands his best friend well enough to know he will not let up until they’re both dead ended.
“You won’t mind me phoning them to check then will you?”
“It’s 3am bro.”
Dennis plucks his phone out of his pocket as he stalks across the room.
“They won’t pick up. They hate your guts remember?”
He starts tapping away, stabbing at the screen like it’s personally responsible for the rabbit hole Dennis won’t let either of them out of.
“Come on man.” Mac’s whining now and he’s not even humiliated. “Let’s just go to bed. Please Dennis, tomorrow, take this out on me tomorrow.”
Fingers still at once. The screen light shuts off. The bathroom extractor fan goes quiet, leaving only the faint sounds of late night action film reruns.
Dennis sighs a long shuddering breath, closing his eyes, blissed out apart from the quirks of a slightly manic smile appearing where he’s bathed in TV light on the other side of the room.
Something’s just clicked for him and Mac’s more in the dark than ever.
He imagines himself totally vanishing into oblivion. Wants nothing more than to be reduced into a few purposeless particles. Ready to be drawn into and out of Dennis’ lungs until he’s not recognisable as anything other than the other man’s breath.
“I’m so sorry Mac.”
Ok. That is not what he’d expected. There’s a truth in the room that only Dennis can see and he’s.. apologising?
Dennis takes the necessary steps to close the distance. Compulsively worrying his lip, Mac averts his line of sight as he approaches. Something akin to fear rolls over him. It might be anticipation.
Dennis narrows his eyes but it’s not in judgment. Judgement Mac can tolerate. It’s a look laced with something much worse. Pity.
Whatever resistance Mac had been maintaining suddenly appears futile, stupid even. Just a performance.
“I’m so sorry. I’ve had this all wrong.”
Mac lets the show end. He leaves the stage.
Resettling his naked gaze on Dennis’ face, he really looks. He doesn’t think about what it’ll do to his retinas later. The cost that’ll come - and it will.
“Here I was thinking you wanted to be me.”
Dennis is practically purring. His lips are dampened, glistening. Likely from the spittle coated obscenities he’d been hurling. Mac considers the possibility that whatever mask Dennis wore now was just as painted as the one before it.
“Flattering really. Learning from the master.”
Everything’s in 3D, like how the movies say those ugly glasses will make things. The angles of Dennis’ face pronounced by shadows. Hair backlit, curls defined by the TV glow’s halo. At what point had Mac sunk onto his knees?
“Such a good boy aren’t you?”
Mac frowns, pouting slightly. Words are escaping him and he lets them go. Soon Dennis’ hand weighs heavy at the crown of his head where he looms above him. Responsively, the fan of Mac's eyelashes rest down. The hairs on the back of his neck sit up. Fingers tap across his temples. A dance to a unfamiliar song Mac doesn’t need to know the lyrics of.
“One sick puppy.”
He’d like to argue with that one but Dennis has begun tugging at his hair, at the base of the root. He pushes his head up against the hand. His haunches propelling him. The movement surprising even him. Dennis doesn’t let him topple. Just keeps him steady, one knee pressed forward into his chest. Mac leans.
“You are always so grateful, aren’t you Mac?”
The tone is sarcastic, but it’s subtle. He chooses not to hear it. Opens his eyes instead, seeing there’s something similar to wonder on Dennis’ face now. It’s smoothed out in a flash, though his pupils remain distinctly blown out. How he envies the tricks Dennis can play. Or maybe it’s just the tricks Mac plays on himself. The answer’s irrelevant right now.
“No, I’ve been quite foolish.”
There’s no discontentment in Dennis’ concession of foolishness. If this had all been a test then Mac knows that as his prize. Dennis’ digging into his scalp now, forcing Mac to tip his face upward.
“Why would you pick girls who’d just been through my system? They’d be skittish.”
Mac rakes his pupils over every micro detail of the scene before him. Doing a proper stock intake. This could be his supply for a long while. He lingers at the place Dennis’ neck meets his shirt collar, it rubs where Mac’s fingers long to skim over stubble. Warmth surges through his fingertips at the idea.
“I just couldn’t make any sense of it.”
Dennis drags Mac’s head side to side, mimicking the shake of his own, as he drawls out the words. Synchronicity for once.
“Trying on another man’s skin, now that I understand.”
Dennis’ jeans are straining, so close to Mac’s face it’s dizzying. Though maybe that’s just the rushing of his own blood migrating south. He notes his hands are no longer balled into fists. They’ve hooked themselves behind the brace of Dennis’ knee. Hugging.
“But that isn’t how you get off, is it Mac?”
Mac allows himself the fatal flaw of expectation. Or rather the throbbing, straining urgency starts to chafe undeniably. Taut against his last nerve. Rupturing in real-time.
“No, no, no.”
Dennis tuts, tapping under Mac’s chin till his teeth clatter. Jostling awareness of how much fluid has been building up in his mouth. Dennis puts together his pointer and index finger, other’s tucked into his palm, thumb sat up. A mock pistol. He probes gently at Mac's bottom lip like a question.
“You were looking for something.”
Mac’s mouth goes slack and fingers breach the threshold. Dennis wets them, sinking in up to the first knuckle, twisting deftly. Finger tips curl into a hook against his inner cheek, manicured nails dragging along the sensitive flesh, distorting Mac's face shape. As he goes to taste, to tighten the seal, Dennis withdraw his hand. Mac chases contact as Dennis pulls away, holding his slick fingers up to his eye line.
“Seeking.”
Seemingly satisfied with whatever answer his saliva sample has provided, Dennis wipes them across Mac’s face and into his beard. A wry smile at his wide eyed, blinking disappointment. He’d just wanted something to pull on and suck. He’d been too greedy. Ruefully he settles upon listening to the monologue Dennis is continuing to conduct.
“Something I suspect you found in those bruises didn’t you?”
Mac whines protest, spilling barely audible sobs into the space between them. It’s truly undignified but he really does not want to understand the bruises. Does not need that verbalised. Any of this.
“No?”
Dennis lets go of his hair and disengages his knee support. Mac has to correct his balance and posture himself now. Hands braced on the floor, arms trembling with the effort. It’s hard to keep his eyes lifted from this position but he will not fail Dennis.
“Well, I think so Mac.”
Mac thinks about the bruises. Of clavicles and shoulder blades. They remain disembodied in his minds eye. All different taunting shapes and shades.
“Did it make you jealous, that those marks weren’t exclusive, just for you?”
To this he might have nodded. He might have shaken his head. He’s not sure. Whatever he did grants him contact again. Just a socked foot pressed into the tent of Mac’s lap. It feels more like the hand of God granting him salvation. He swallows thickly. Tongue suppressing a throaty whimper.
“I remember now, from before, in the basement.”
Dennis indicates toward his own arousal, jutting his hips forward in a gross display. It sends bodily memories reeling. There’s a phantom ache at the base of his skull. There’s a real ache as his ruts imperceptibly against Dennis’ foot. Not wanting to risk spooking further withdrawal.
“The way you flaunted those bruises around. Playing coy when Charlie asked how you got them.”
Even now in a parallel moment Mac isn’t sure he would be able to articulate that last time. The bruises had been vocal enough. His tank tops allowing him to catch sight of them in the dirty glasses he washed up, in murky trash can lids, in the reflection of Dennis’ critical eye.
“What was it? Validation?”
When they’d cleared up, healed. He’d felt like something had been stolen from him. The memory itself became obsolete. He’d tried rationing the memory, revisiting it only in times of need. Keeping it potent. But too soon only the more recent of Dennis’ conquests served as reminders - recognition of a shared reality.
“Did it give you proof?”
Nonsensical utterances meet Mac’s ears before he recognises they’re his own expulsions. He’s been pleading. Reaching out with words that sap away at the last of his core strength. He’s going to buckle. Break eye contact.
“Oh Mac, its even more pitiful than I hoped for.”
There’s that wonder again. It’s beautiful. Renews his resolve even as his body sags. Mac thinks his life force could be entirely sustained on just drinking in that expression on occasion. A rare planetary alignment. Worth the wait. Worth the dark times inbetween.
“I can give you something that your God can’t.”
The fingers that had dictated his entire day were upon him again. Mercifully. Mercilessly. It didn’t matter. Four curling intently over his trapezius muscle, with the thumbs pressed harshly just above the clavicle. He doesn’t need to be held down in place this time. He’s not sure he could ascend, even if his Heavenly Father offered him a hand up to the Kingdom of Heaven himself.
“You’ve always needed some proof haven’t you baby boy?”
Mac yelps. The pressure isn’t pleasant. It prevents him from pawing forward at Dennis’ tented pants. Mac’s suddenly hyperaware aware he’s been thrashing and thrusting. Thirsting forward for friction. With little payoff.
“To have been claimed.”
That’s not wonder on Dennis’ face now. That’s not carefully concealed curiosity. That’s not even pity. It’s pure pleasure. Dennis’ thumbs dig unrelentingly, until Mac thinks he might go blind, bar the biting clarity of the pain.
“To have endured.”
The pain sings. A choir boy’s solo. The flare of gunfire. The thrill of being chased.
Suddenly Dennis does the unthinkable. He stands straight up. Takes three paces back to survey his handiwork. The undoing his best friend. Dennis Reynolds has left his evidence. Every fucked up thing between them distilled down into two points of pressure for Mac to wear. For now.
He turns on his heel. Walking swiftly to his bedroom door. Mac opens his mouth to protest but nothing comes out.
Dennis pauses - like he heard the silent scream. Mac twitches in anticipation.
He chuckles, low, not looking back toward the residue of his roommate as he gathers up his binder from the coffee table. Clicking his pen three times, he fusses with crossings out before heading to his room and firmly closing the door.
Mac blinks. Several moments pass. The trance doesn’t break even as he acknowledges the possibility of finally retreating to his own room. Instead he locks his eyes on Dennis’ bedroom door. Saliva sitting heavy in his slightly agape mouth, trails at the corners leading down his chin, cooling. The ache of his groin continuing to simmer. Rising pins and needles come up in waves from where he’s anchored to unforgiving floorboards.
Mac stays right there on his knees. Beyond when the TV turns onto standby, the creep of remorse kept at bay as his legs switch over to their own static numbness. Until the stinging points in his shoulders have bloomed into the beginnings of a pair of beautiful bruises.
He isn’t sure if Dennis will come back out. He knows well enough that to have faith, is to survive suspension.
He remains.