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The trap closes around the animal's leg. Its hips. Its throat. The apex of its spine and lungs and heart. If fear is a human emotion, this is the closest to human this creature will ever become. Tearing its body apart just to try to get away.
Or maybe fear is a gift God gives us. Man made in His image, after all.
—I—
Dennis, twisted in his wet, hot, entangling sheets, is having a dream. Maybe. It’s unclear.
Mac—on a mission to collect the laundry—stands there watching. Waiting. Entranced. He’s not having thoughts about this yet—it’s too early—but he knows he will. The sort of being entranced where Mac knows he’ll never really forget it; the way Dennis moans, whimpering, limbs flailing abstractly, hands limp, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut.
It’s the only time Mac can think of that he’s seeing this sober. This level of inhibition from Dennis. When he can appreciate it even if he doesn’t know why, yet.
Dennis moans again, lax hands suddenly gripping the sheets, arching up, and Mac feels excruciatingly out of place.
He shoulders the laundry, and he definitely doesn’t run away.
—
When Dennis wakes up, Mac still hasn’t thought about it. In fact, he’s been desperately not thinking about it, for reasons he is also not thinking about. A mental minefield; the kind he’s used to from talking to Dennis. One wrong move, and everything falls apart.
He’s not used to it happening inside his head. Inside his head so blatantly.
So Mac’s not thinking about it.
Not until Dennis stumbles out of his room, aimlessly heading for coffee, declaring in a horrible, nasal voice, “Stay away from me, Mac. Dee gave me her stupid cold.”
“Oh, is that why you were—“ Mac cuts himself off, frantically returning to his karate practice.
“…Why I was…?” Dennis turns, grimacing, sipping his coffee like his throat is killing him.
“Oh, bro, you, uh, you were looking a little pale yesterday. That’s all.” Mac isn’t sure why he’s lying. He just is. “You still comin’ to the bar?”
Dennis grimaces, collapsing into a kitchen chair. “Does it look like I’m going to the bar?”
“Well…” Mac thinks of all the times Dennis has claimed perfect control over his immune system. Sickness begone! “I don’t know, bro!”
“Dude, I’m out.” Dennis struggles to his feet, spilling a little coffee on the floor as he stumbles back to his room. He aimlessly wipes it up with his sock as he says, “Tell— Tell Dee I’m gonna kill her.”
“Sure.” Mac watches Dennis shuffle into his room, elbowing his door almost-closed. “Will do, Dennis!”
He goes back to the forms, perfecting them until he looks super, totally awesome, and he’s not thinking at all about the way Dennis’ bluer-than-blue eyes had been glassy. Rimmed all red.
—
Mac thinks about Dennis all day. That’s not unusual, exactly, although it’s not normally this pervasive. This consuming. Even his relayed threat to Dee falls flat; the bitch just laughs in his face, lingering cough making her lungs rattle.
Dennis does their check ins like normal, but each message gets vaguer and more concerning. The first hour, Mac gets:
Dennis: Hey dude can you grab cough drops and tissues on ur way home?
As he’s leaving, the texts have degenerated to:
Dennis: nt dead
Dennis: ye t
By the time Mac actually gets home with the cough drops, tissues, and a ton of other shit he’d grabbed without looking, Dennis is fast asleep, drooling onto his pillow.
—
M: You feeling any better, dude?
D: …No. Do I look better, Mac? I feel like shit— Hey. What are you—?
M: It’s bright as shit in here. I’m closing your blinds. Is that better?
D: Actually, yes. Thanks.
M: You got it, bro. You want coffee?
D: God, yes. You… you’re gonna get it for me?
M: Yeah, Den.
D: …
M: You don’t feel good.
D: I know that.
M: You probably shouldn’t talk so much, bro, you’ll hurt your throat more.
D: …Wait, Mac, will you…
M: What is it, Dennis?
D: Will you, uh, make me some soup?
M: Is that it? 'Course I will.
(Dennis smiles, letting go of Mac’s wrist where he’d grabbed hold, and his clammy fingers leave as much of a mark as his sweet, pleasant, exhausted smile, eyes closing as he sinks back down into the bed.)
—
Soup is a generous term for what he’s made.
An expired, half empty container broth he has no memory of buying, found all the way at the back of the fridge. Six and a half baby carrots, chopped. Chicken from last weeks takeout. Pepper, but no salt—Dennis wheezily asks for low sodium, and even though Mac’s not sure why, he’s not going to argue with someone who looks like they’re dying.
One tomato.
A handful of pasta that won’t fully cook no matter how long he lets the broth boil.
Finally, Dennis insists that he won’t be able to taste it anyway, so Mac just needs to feed it to him before he collapses, dies, and decomposes.
When Dennis takes the first sip, bowl held in his shaking hands with his shirt pulled over his palms to protect his skin, Mac watches him, enraptured.
Mac ignores the movie playing on low in favor of Dennis, and Dennis seems too out of it to notice. Sipping at his abomination of a soup and squinting at the TV.
When Dennis finishes eating, Mac takes the bowl from him, Dennis’ clammy hands heated oddly against his own.
“You want more?”
Dennis shakes his head, curling up on his side, eyes just barely open, now.
By the time Mac finishes cleaning up the kitchen, Dennis is passed out on the couch. When Mac sits back down, Dennis stretches out in his sleep, the top of his head pressing against Mac’s thigh, body-warm and greasy when Mac’s hand ends up, inevitably, in his hair.
—
Dennis gets out of the shower, hair wrapped in a towel, robe tied tightly around him. Mac stares, amazed at how much more alive he looks, pink-cheeked and smiling even though his eyes are still exhausted.
“Dude, I think I’m getting better!”
When Dennis holds out his hand for a hi-five, Mac gives it to him without feeling like Dennis is gonna break.
“Score.”
Dennis retreats back to his room to get dressed, giving Mac a thumbs up before the door slams shut between them.
He reaches for the box of tissues, ready to throw them into the back of his closet until next flu season, when something stops him.
Maybe Dennis will still need them.
Maybe.
Maybe he’ll still need—
—
“You are such a goddamn bitch,” Mac yells, fists clenched, shaking.
Dennis shouts back, braced for a fight from his position behind the bar, “You’re an idiot, Mac! Idiot! There’s no way in hell that lemons are better than limes!”
“You’re wrong! You’re wrong, bitch!”
“Asshole!”
“Dickwad!”
“Idiot!”
“I miss when you were—“
Dennis’ eyes narrow. His hand, raised in a menacing claw, slowly lowers. “When I was what?”
“When you weren’t such a bitch,” Mac says, grimacing at the sloppy coverup. “Bro, how are you supposed to have lemonade, huh?”
“Limeade!” Dennis, redirected back to the argument, turns on that stupid, annoying cockiness of his. “And how are you going to do tequila shots, Mac? Or make margaritas?! Guacamole?! Key lime pie! Mojitos—“
“Okay! Okay, asshole, I get it! You’re, like, so cool just because you’re a bartender—“
“Oh, is that why?!” Dennis shakes his head, blinking fast, bitch, bitch bitch! “You’re just mad because I’m right. Lemons are— They’re stupid, alright? The worst citrus fruit—“
“You take that back, bro!”
“They’re only good for lemonade, Lysol, and sick people, you asshole!”
Dennis may keep talking after that; in fact, Mac’s sure of it. Spends an hour or so explaining all the shit you can do with a lime while sucking one down. He only stops once Charlie gets there, bringing up—of all things—grapefruit.
But Mac’s not really listening to any of the citrus conversation. He’s stuck on Dennis’ words.
Sick people.
How much better everything had been when Dennis didn’t felt good. How Mac had been happy taking care of him, and how Dennis had been happy being taken care of, and how last night Mac offered to make Dennis soup and Dennis had—very rudely—rejected him.
Mac watches Dennis grill Charlie—do you even know what a grapefruit is, dude?!—and he forms a plan.
What is it Dennis is always telling him? Demonstrate value. Nurture dependence.
Mac’s forgotten the rest, but he assumes it’s more like that. Fills in the blanks as Charlie begins to question what, exactly, fruit is.
—
Fear. Pain. Writhing from an uncontrolled, uncontrollable source. Excruciating. Dread so large it doesn’t feel like it should fit. Existential to feel such fear when you are so small. An animal. A creature. Inhuman and terrified.
What is a wild thing caught in a trap? Subdued?
Ha.
—II—
“Mac, please, I’m so cold, dude, just—“
“Sorry, Dennis.” Mac snuggles deeper into his coat, hands shoved into his pockets.
“You didn’t tell me we were going to a hockey game,” Dennis seethes, begging quickly replaced. “You told me to dress light.”
“I didn’t think you’d dress that light, asshole.”
It’s true: Mac’s plan is working even better than expected.
Dennis—rarely seen in short sleeves even in the hottest of weather—is currently in a t-shirt. This pair of jeans are taken in so extremely at the thighs that Mac’s pretty sure the cold of the stadium seat is seeping straight through.
“Dude, come on, I can’t stay here like this—“
“You can’t leave!” Mac blinks into Dennis’ stunned face. “I mean… monthly dinner night, Den! You can’t bail on me here!”
“I— Ugh. Fine. Just— What are you— What are you wearing under that coat, bro?”
“…Nothing?”
Dennis’ light eyebrows disappear with how wide his eyes go. “No. No, you’re wearing a shirt, asshole.”
“Nope. Just my jacket, bro.”
“Why— Why would you do that?!”
Out of explanations, Mac throws his hands up. “Monthly dinner, dude!”
Thankfully, the game starts in earnest and cuts him off, but Mac can feel Dennis watching him the whole time. Alternating between confused, and scowling. Searching Mac’s face for something, and glaring at him while wrapping his arms pointedly around himself.
His arms are covered in goosebumps.
Dennis is pissed off for days, but he doesn’t get sick.
—
“Mac!”
“Yeah, dude?!”
“Get in here!”
Mac groans, struggling himself out of bed to where Dennis is seething in the kitchen. “What? What is it? I’m trying to sleep, Dennis, you can’t just—“
“What the fuck is this?”
Dennis is referring, of course, to the large bouquet of flowers on their kitchen table. Mac shrugs appropriately. “They’re flowers, dude. You have seen them before.”
“Yes. Outside. Where they belong, asshole!” Dennis sneezes into his elbow, rubbing his nose with the fabric covering his hand. “Why are they in here?! You know I’m allergic to—“
“You are? Huh.” Mac figures: if he’s up, he’s eating. Snags an apple from the counter and starts to peel. “Since when?”
“Since when— Since always! I don’t do pollen, Mac, so—“ Dennis sneezes again, looking more and more miserable by the second. Mac would be more pleased if Dennis wasn’t mad at him about it. When Dennis has recovered enough to speak, his voice is nasal. “So, get these goddamn roses out of my house before I skin you. And I will skin you, Mac.”
He turns, stalking for the door, and Mac takes a bite of his skinless apple. “They’re not roses, dude. They’re carnations.”
Dennis shrieks back, “I don’t care!”
The door slams, and the bouquet on the table rattles. Violently red.
—
Mac tries everything. He forgets Dennis’ scarf when they go to the park in snow—part of a Dee scheme, which predictably fails, through no fault of their own for changing everything at the last minute.
He hides flowers and Poppins fur around the apartment, but Dennis finds them, getting more agitated—and allergic—every time.
He tries to get a sick woman in a store to cough on Dennis, but she refuses, even for five dollars. He successfully gets a child to cough on Dennis for five dollars, but he’s not sure the kid was really sick; Dennis only gets grossed out, and yet he remains well.
And when Dennis is well, he’s miserable. Bitchy and mean and bored with everything. Even when he’s happy, he’s not happy with Mac. Not specifically. Not enough.
He won’t let Mac take care of him or tell him what to do.
Mac stares at the tissue box, untouched since Dennis got well, and he figures:
Maybe it’s time to take it up a notch.
—
Fear, biting and all consuming, pushes the animal forward. It’s four legs beating upon the earth as if it knows the way to freedom; some indiscernible path trodden by the dread of its ancestors. As if one more root, stone, clod of dirt, bramble, stream, or fallen leaf will mark the end of the suffering. The end of the running. The cessation of fear.
But the forest is dense. Unknowable, and endless.
And the hunter is a capable creature.
The animal is faster, but it runs out of endurance long before the human ever does.
—III—
“Here’s your shake, bro.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Dennis sips it, grimaces, starts buckling his seat belt slower. “This tastes weird, dude. What’s in here?”
“Same as usual,” Mac lies. “Maybe the spinach is just off?”
Dennis sips it again, scowling. “Don’t put any in, next time. This tastes like shit.”
“But how will you get vitamin C?! No way, Dennis, I’m not taking it out. You’ll just have to get used to it. Unless… you think you can’t handle it…”
Dennis rolls his eyes, but he quickly moves on to fixing his mascara as the car heats up. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
“Great,” Mac says, suddenly cheerful. “Enjoy it, bro.”
Dennis, tired of waiting, starts to drive, one hand on his makeup, the other on the shake, not a single hand on the wheel. Not even looking at the road.
Mac steers from the passenger seat until they have to park outside the bar, driven like that all the way from home.
—
Halfway through the day, Mac watches Dennis disappear into the back office, claiming a headache. His travel mug is empty when Mac tests its weight. When Mac checks on him, he’s bent over the garbage can, looking exhausted and miserable and pale.
“Dude,” Mac says, reminding himself to wait to care until Dennis won’t be mad. “Next time you’ve gotta puke, use the ladies.”
Dennis gives him a thumbs up as he doubles back over the trash.
Mac makes a mental note that 8 NyQuil liquidgels are too many.
At least, for breakfast.
—
“Man,” Dennis whines, head pillowed on his arms. Slumped over the bar like he’s a corpse. “I feel like shit.”
Dee doesn’t even look up from her phone. “If you’re getting sick, stay away from me, Dennis.”
“You bitch, you gave me your cold like three weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well, I have an audition, so—“
“I should cough on you right now,” Dennis says, but when he tries to, he just ends up screwing his face up, laying back down again. Muffled, Mac can hear him mutter, “Bitch.”
“She’s right, dude.” Charlie’s been keeping a more than reasonable distance from Dennis all day. It’s an improvement, at least, from how he’d acted during the real sickness. Mac still doesn’t know where he’d gotten that hazmat suit. “If you’re sick you should, like, seriously go home.”
“‘M not sick,” Dennis argues. “Just… ugh.”
“Charlie’s right,” Frank grumbles, because of course he thinks Charlie’s right. Mac won’t ever understand that relationship, either, but he does know it’s annoying when they back each other up. “You look like shit. No one’s gonna wanna buy beer from that. You’re— I mean, you’re really hurtin’ our business right now, Dennis—”
“There’s no one in here,” Dennis counters. Before he can process what Frank said about his appearance, though, Mac steps in.
“Den,” Mac says, pushing his voice halfway to where it wants to go. “You sure you don’t want me to take you home?”
Dennis swats at him, hand limp and flopping around. “I’m fine, Char— hmm. Listen… guy. I’m fine.”
“…Okay, let’s get you home.”
“No,” Dennis whines as Mac drags him off the barstool.
“You just forgot my name, dude, you’re not fine.”
To prove his point, Dennis lurches, feet dragging, until his whole body goes fully limp. Mac rolls his eyes, noting that it’s too much NyQuil if Dennis needs to be carried.
Struggling, Mac lifts him, getting Dennis’ body over his shoulder. Strangely light and strangely sturdy. Both at the same time.
Behind them, the rest of the gang has begun bitching about something or other, ignoring Mac as he readjusts Dennis’ dead weight and tries, desperately, not to think of Dennis’ ass right next to his head, or Dennis’ bulge—soft, only noticeable because he’s thinking about it—where it’s pressed against Mac’s chest.
—
Mac tosses Dennis in the backseat—read: places him as gently as he can, which is still maybe more of a toss—and then gets going, pleased but not pleased enough at the results. Mac can make the best soups, or buy the brand of cough drops Dennis likes without him having to ask. He can carry Dennis to the car or tuck him in or play with his goddamn hair.
None of it matters if Dennis isn’t awake.
Mac laments this dosage failure until the last red light before their apartment, when a pale, shaking hand reaches up between the console, grabbing for the hem of his shirt.
“Dennis? You okay back there, buddy?”
In the rear view mirror, Mac can see Dennis’ glassy eyes, barely open, close again.
His hand stays fisted against Mac’s hip until he’s managed to get Dennis all the way upstairs, in bed, having to fight him to let go.
—
Dennis recovers remarkably well. By morning, after sleeping for the rest of the day and all night, Dennis actually looks better than before. Well rested. Shit.
“Morning!” Dennis swipes his—reduced dosage—shake off the counter, sipping at it and barely even making a face. “Dude, I don’t know what happened to me yesterday, but now? I feel great.”
Mac scrambles, following Dennis as they head downstairs, trying to sound normal when he bullshits, “That’s— That’s great, Dennis! Really! I just hope it’s not one of these new… uh. Flus.”
“New… flu? Dude, you’re not making any sense.”
“Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s been goin’ around. You start to feel better, and then… bam! Worse again. But not as bad as before. Just, uh, you know. Kinda sick.”
Dennis gives him a look, but it’s more amused and fond than actually annoyed. “I thought I told you, bro, you gotta stop reading those weird Christian newsletters.”
“They’re in the mailbox for a reason, Dennis,” Mac huffs, settling into the car. “God wanted them there.”
“Sure, sure. God. Not a fifty-something year old guy with nothing better to do than to try and scam a few even older guys. Face it, Mac.” Dennis takes a noisy sip of his shake. “You got got.”
“I did not! I did not get got, Dennis! I—“ Mac bites his tongue, remembering that he also did not, in fact, read anything about a new flu in the weekly newsletter. Just more fundraisers, a bake sale, and an announcement that some old lady in the congregation croaked. “You don’t— Ugh. You don’t get it, bro. But it’s… fine.”
“Oh, really?” They’re at the same light they were at yesterday when Dennis had grabbed him and didn’t let go. “It’s never fine with you, man. Come on, spit it out. Am I gonna burn in Hell? Is that it?” Dennis’ laugh is both grating and refreshing, the way it always is when he’s being an asshole but he doesn’t really mean it.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Mac promises. “You’re gonna be in Heaven with me, dude.”
Dennis smiles, the shake staining his teeth yellow before he licks them clean. “Yeah, sure, Mac. You know, you are right about one thing, though.”
Mac tilts his head. Dennis sips again at the shake.
“When we die? We’re for sure going to the same place.”
Based on Dennis’ toothy smile, Mac’s not certain he means that as a good thing.
It doesn’t matter, though, because Dennis is smiling drinking the shake, and the sun is shining, and when they die in some super cool, cinematic, totally badass, awesome, fiery explosion? They’re both gonna go to Heaven.
—
Dennis makes it through the whole day. Even though he’s sluggish by the time he finishes the shake, Dee—traitorous bitch—pours him a shot and ruins it.
If it weren’t for the half-assed scheme Charlie has them pull, requiring Dennis to getaway-drive them frantically away from a house fire, Mac would be more disappointed.
As it stands, panting, hand on Dennis’ shoulder where he’s crammed in the backseat with Frank and Dee, Dennis’ wide eyes meeting his in the rearview, flames casting a fading orange glow as they speed away—well, Mac is just glad that Dennis is awake.
—
Day three, Mac ups the dose. Not as much as the first day, but more than day two, and then he keeps Dee away from the shots, and Charlie away from any lighters, and Dennis away from the floor when he starts aimlessly tipping over on his stool.
Charlie helps Mac get Dennis into a booth, and then he says, “Woah, dude, you alright? You’re not getting sick again, are you? Because I’m telling you right now, do not get me sick, dude. I’m being so serious right now. Don’t do it.”
Dennis looks up, face slightly swollen and also weirdly gaunt, eyes wet and pleading. “I think you were right, Mac.”
He thumps his head down onto the table, and Mac frowns. He’s gonna be so pissed if that leaves a mark.
“I have the goddamn— new flu!” Dennis screeches, and then he coughs, and then he gets creepily still, totally frozen before suddenly launching out of the booth and making a mad, flailing dash for the ladies room.
Dee slides up next to them, shoulder checking Charlie. “Shit. That bad, huh?”
“Yeah.” Mac stares at the door. They can all hear the retching. Shit. Dennis isn't allergic to NyQuil, is he?
Frank bursts out of the mens room, kicking his leg awkwardly in the air to get rid of an errant piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe. “What’s goin’ on? Whadda we lookin’ at?”
Dee clears her throat. “Huh? Oh, Dennis is sick or something.”
Charlie rushes off, presumably to disinfect. That, or to perform any number of those odd, probably satanic rituals he thinks will ‘protect’ him. Ha. As if he couldn’t just pray.
Mac tunes back in to hear Frank rambling about immune systems, and stupid vaccines, and, kids these days couldn’t survive a—
Dee levels him a stare, and she looks so much like Dennis for a second that Mac has to do a double take, and then wipe that image from his mind.
Quietly, so Frank can’t hear over his denouncing of their generation, Dee says, “Whatever you’re doing to him? Do it on your own time.”
“…What? I— I’m not—“
“I don’t care what you’re doing, Mac, but this shit’s getting annoying.” Dee tosses her hair over her shoulder, and Mac hates her. “I’m serious, keep… whatever this is between the two of you.”
When defense doesn’t work, offense! “You’re just mad ‘cause Dennis is puking in your toilet right now.”
“Well, yeah, Mac! That’s my bathroom, okay? And sure, maybe Charlie uses it sometimes— and Dennis, I guess, too. And anyone who has to puke— Alright, my point still stands, okay? I don’t want to have to do this every day!”
“Well, as soon as Dennis recovers, from his illness, I’ll be sure to let him know how much of an inconvenience he was to you, Dee. That’s real nice.”
“Wait, no, I didn’t mean—“
“Great job, Dee!”
“I just—“
“I mean, I guess maybe Frank’s right. The family just isn’t what it used to—“
“Mac, come on, that’s not fair! I—“
“No, no,” Mac holds up a hand, and, surprisingly, she stops talking. Frank too, until they can hear the pitiful retching again. “I don’t think there’s anything else to say. Do you?”
Cowed, Dee shrugs. “I— I guess not. But I only meant—“
“Ah, ah! I don’t… care.”
“Right, well, yeah, that’s—“
The ladies bathroom door swings open, and Dennis stumbles out, looking upsettingly grey.
“Mac,” he says, wiping at his cracked, dry lips. “You gotta get me home, man.”
And then, he passes out.
—
The animal chokes. Gags. Stares to Heaven, and wonders why God favors Mankind.
Or maybe it’s just losing the fight.
—
Dennis groans, licking his lips delicately. “This tea tastes weird.”
“It’s, uh, it’s probably the flu.” Shit, that’s good. “Oh, you know what, bro? That’s probably why you thought the shake tasted weird, too. I read it can mess with your taste buds.”
Dennis frowns, nodding, taking the information in until his features smooth out again.
When he takes the next sip, he doesn’t react at all.
—
“Why is it worse,” Dennis moans, flopping over onto his bed when Mac shoulders him over.
“It’s always worse at night, bro. You know that.”
“Ugh— I can’t do this,” Dennis whines, shaking hands grabbing onto Mac’s clothing, keeping him there with a surprising amount of conviction. “Don’t— don’t go, man, please, I—“
“Hey, it’s okay,” Mac croons, pressing his palm against Dennis’ head. He’s not much cooler, but he is drier; Dennis’ sweat clings unpleasantly to his skin. “You want me to stay, Den?”
Dennis closes his eyes, pressing his head into Mac’s hand in lieu of answering.
Mac climbs into bed, and the two of them settle together like they do this all the time; sharing a bed because Dennis isn’t feeling well. Intertwined.
It feels weird to talk to God, here, but Mac does it anyway, his hand in Dennis’ hair and the Lord’s Prayer stuck between his teeth.
—
Dennis had fallen asleep a few minutes ago.
Twisting, fully dressed—he’s still got his goddamn shoes on. Converse leaving smudges on his bedspread.
Mac should probably get him into pajamas. Undressed, at least. Stripped down to the underwear that Dennis swears aren’t for girls.
He starts with the Converse, swiping halfheartedly at the dirt on the bed before tossing them aside, working on Dennis’ painted-on jeans. Dennis thighs are sweating. Pale and shaking and shiny when Mac finally pulls the denim down.
The button up is pretty easy, except for when Dennis’ arm gets stuck, and he wakes up, groggy, licking his lips again.
“Wha—?”
“Hey, Dennis,” Mac singsongs, tugging his arm without success. “Trying to get you undressed, buddy. A little help, here?”
“Oh.” Dennis rolls, and Mac finally gets the damn shirt off, leaving Dennis in his underwear that can’t possibly be for men. It barely covers his ass.
So… skintight.
Mac swallows against the matching tightness in his throat, helping Dennis back over.
(The underwear doesn’t cover much on this side, either.)
“You, uh, you feeling okay, bro?”
“No,” Dennis groans, rolling again, ending up with his teeth against Mac’s leg, his barely covered ass right there. Pale where Mac can see around the edges of the dark blue underwear. Panties.
“I’ll make you some soup, yeah?” Mac rubs between Dennis’ sharp shoulder blades, trying to ignore Dennis’ hand clinging high up on his leg. His inner thigh.
“Don’t want soup,” Dennis complains. Before Mac can call him a brat, Dennis shifts his hips, moaning. It doesn’t sound like suffering.
Mac lets his hand drift further down Dennis’ back, rubbing at the tense muscles on either side of his spine. “Okay, well… What do you want, Den?”
Dennis shoves his face down further against Mac’s leg, twitching against the bed again.
If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.
— Leviticus 20:13
Or…
Whoso stoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor (sick, poisoned, overdosed on NyQuil), he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard.
— Proverbs 21:13
Mac doesn’t specifically think of either of those scriptures. Instead, he thinks first of God’s unwavering stance on homosexuality. Then, he thinks of God’s equally unwavering stance on refusing to help those in need.
Plus, like, him and Dennis have jerked off together. That’s not gay, and God approves, so why not… this?
Mac’s hand moves further down. Dennis’ back. His waist. His hips.
His ass.
As grabbable as it fucking looks. Even better.
Dennis jerks, hand on Mac’s leg tightening. He groans out a confused noise, pressing closer.
Mac can feel how wide his own eyes are. Breathing through his mouth as he pushes his fingers under the fabric. Skin to skin.
Oh. It’s so soft.
Arousal—heat—and desire so strong he can taste it. Biting his own tongue so he doesn’t moan just from sticking his hand down someone’s pants.
Not just someone. Dennis.
The backs of Dennis’ calves twitch when Mac squeezes. The backs of his perfect, feminine thighs. Soft and smooth and full, but still muscled, lightly; just enough to remind Mac of whose ass he’s looking at.
As if Dennis’ head by his hip—Dennis’ hand grabbing almost at his crotch—isn’t enough. Dennis’ curls tucked under his arm as he leans down, over Dennis’ body, to push his fucking panties down.
This is the worst idea Mac’s ever had.
But…
He’s already here. And maybe this is bad, and wrong, and he’s probably-for-sure going to Hell, but Mac can repent! A good Catholic can always repent, and God will always forgive, and maybe there’s a part of Mac that hopes Dennis will forgive him too, although he’s not sure what for, yet.
Demonstrate value. Nurture dependence. He's just remembered another.
Engage physically.
And right now, with Dennis’ clumsy, thin, bone-white fingers trying really hard to get into Mac’s pants, well, there’s only so much he can take.
Mac helps Dennis out, tugging his dick out frantically, barely getting to jerk himself before Dennis’ hand is grabbing for him, limp wrist and loose, freezing fingers making for a mediocre handjob.
(But it’s Dennis, so Mac is in ecstasy.)
And if jerking off side by side isn’t gay, then getting jerked off probably isn’t either, especially when Dennis turns to look up at him with glassy eyes, mouth open, a look on his face like he adores Mac. Like he’s astounded by Mac’s existence. Like love.
Horny isn’t even the right word for the pleasure he’s feeling. Mac’s not sure he’s ever felt so happy in his whole goddamn life as he is right now, with Dennis, getting the worlds most okay handjob.
But Mac wants more. And Dennis isn’t being taken care of like this; Mac’s hand on his ass can’t be doing that much for him, even if he is rutting sporadically into the mattress.
“Dude—“ Shit. Mac cringes at the sound of his own voice, as if Dennis might have been confused, up to this point, about whose dick he’s fisting.
Dennis doesn’t blink. Just keeps on looking, gently stroking.
Mac clears his throat and tries again. “You have lube?”
Sluggishly, Dennis points to the bedside table.
It takes him a fumbling minute, but then he’s shoving his slick fingers between Dennis’ ass cheeks, rushing before he can psych himself out.
(If jerking off is fine, and getting jerked off is fine, then what’s fingering? Walking the line?)
Mac sinks one finger in, surprised at the lack of resistance. Girls are normally way harder.
Dennis bucks, hand tightening finally on Mac’s dick before it goes loose again.
It’s muffled in the bed, but Mac still hears Dennis swear.
“Did I— You okay?”
Dennis turns his head again, nose in his elbow. It’s slurred when he says, “Too hard. Bozo.”
“Shit, sorry.” Mac tries to go gentler, although he’s not exactly sure how to shove his finger in a hole any other way. He eases up on the pressure, wiggling a little. “Better?”
Based on Dennis’ full body sigh, it’s better.
Mac pushes in as far as he can, and then slowly drags them back out, fucking Dennis on his fingers while Dennis fumbles with his dick.
It’s so hot inside of Dennis’s body. Mac’s never noticed that before; how hot the human body is. Or maybe Dennis is just running a fever.
It doesn’t concern him for very long, though, because Dennis leans forward, shaking violently, before licking a wet, hot stripe up the side of Mac’s dick, and nothing else matters after that. Lord’s Prayer forgotten. Fingers shoving in too hard—he knows it, this time, but Dennis just moans, licking again, saliva coating his lips like he’s been sucking instead of drooling over Mac’s dick.
“Den— I—“
Dennis gives up on licking, pitching forward, head digging painfully into Mac’s stomach. Hand working at his spit-slicked cock, swiping at the precum Mac’s leaking. Moaning so loud that Mac can feel it vibrating through his pelvis.
Oh, God.
Mac doubles over, over Dennis’ back, fucking him faster while reaching beneath him for his trapped dick, jerking him off in tandem.
“Mac,” Dennis pants, cheek against Mac’s cock, tongue clumsily licking from the corner of his mouth. “Help me. Help me, please. Help—“
“I’ve got you,” Mac promises. His jaw works against Dennis’ spine. His teeth scrape the skin. His arms are killing him—time to up the karate—but he keeps going anyway, keeping up a rhythm the way he knows Dennis likes from the tapes. God, is this too far? This isn’t gay, is it? Mac can’t see the line, anymore, but that’s probably just because he’s so far away from it.
“Help me, Mac, I— Help me—“
Mac shushes him, soothing, feeling the feverishly hot, overly slick rim of Dennis’ mouth wrap around the head of his dick. Let me take care of you. “I’ve got you, Den.” Let me—
Mac feels Dennis tense, so he pushes his fingers in as far as they’ll go, squeezing harder as he jerks him off.
He can feel Dennis cum.
Tight around him, dick twitching in his hand, a full body reaction. A pretty red flush blooms up under his shoulder blades. The equally thin skin of his ass. Dennis’ mouth pops off Mac’s cock, and his moaning is so weak and so tender that Mac shudders, hips fucking up against nothing.
He works him through it, until Dennis squirms, whining, flopping back down to the bed to get away, and Mac’s fingers—still slick—slide out. Suddenly cold without Dennis’ body wrapped around them. Sticky and wet.
Mac does the only reasonable thing, wrapping that hand around his own dick and jerking off furiously.
He goes to wipe his other hand—the one covered in Dennis’ cum—on the bedsheets, when a cold hand stops him, wrapping around his wrist and dragging his arm over to where Dennis is laying. Dennis’ mouth: open wide. Mac’s cum-covered fingers disappearing.
Fuck!
Hot and wet and tight and slick and perfect, even as Dennis bites, lightly, against Mac’s knuckles, and Mac presses Dennis’ tongue down, just to see if he’ll let him. Slides his fingers in until he’s bumping the back of Dennis’ throat, the space between fingers flush with Dennis’ pulled-taut lips.
Shit. Shit. Shit!
Pleasure so painful it’s almost pleasure again. All consuming. Entrancing! Everything about Dennis, made to fit together with everything about Mac. His fingers fit perfectly in Dennis’ mouth. Dennis hands fit perfectly around his wrist.
Dennis looks up at him, sucking on his fingers, swallowing around them, moaning, both hands keeping him there, and Mac can’t take it anymore.
He cums, closing his eyes when he can’t take the way Dennis is looking at him. There’s the line again. It's in the eye contact.
It’s all too much.
Mac opens his eyes when he’s done ruining a t-shirt with jizz. He looks down at Dennis, who’s looking away.
When Mac pulls his fingers back, gently removing them from the claw-like cage of teeth inside Dennis’ mouth, Dennis lets him go.
—
Eventually, the struggling will cease. The animal will still, go limp, lie down in the confinement. Stare aimlessly, as if tired. Close it’s eyes.
Do not confuse the stillness for submission.
Let their table become a snare before them: and that which should have been for their welfare, let it become a trap.
— Psalms 69(ha):22
Epilogue
—IV—
Mac doesn’t know exactly why he stops drugging Dennis’ shakes. Maybe it’s because he runs out of NyQuil and he doesn’t feel like buying more. Maybe it’s because Dennis can’t be sick forever. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t been able to close his eyes since that night without seeing Dennis there, looking at him like he—
He just stops.
Today they’re having breakfast at the table, and Dennis’ shake doesn’t have anything except lettuce, vitamins, and protein powder. Mac’s peeled them both apples. He’s not thinking about it.
The animal, when held with a loosening hand, may run. It may flee, never to be seen again, having learned its lesson on how to disappear into the safety of the the forest.
Or, it may turn on its heel, and bite.
When Mac looks up, Dennis’ eyes glint in the bright winter morning sun, wild and cold.
He sips his unaltered shake.
He looks horribly, terrifyingly pleased.