Title: answer in code
Fandom: It’s always sunny in Philadelphia (Mac/Dennis)
Rating: M
Length: 4200~
Notes: no specific spoilers for late seasons, some slurs, definitely no nice people anywhere. Title from The Mountain Goats because it is apparently macdennis culture.
Summary: They have all sort of rules they don’t talk about

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i. no god stuff

They’re twenty three the first time Dennis lets Mac kiss him. They’ve gotten themselves thrown out of Joly’s pizzas for what is apparently the third time and they are making staggering efforts to get through their second bottle of tequila.

Now, Mac’s not a bad looking man. A bit scruffy, maybe. Definitely chubbier than what Dennis would go for, if, you know, he was into that sort of thing. But this is not the time he has danced around this, danced around Dennis, it’s just that he never thought he’d actually have the balls to follow through. He remembers being fifteen: Charlie passed out in one dark corner of the basement they used to hide in. Mac didn’t go anywhere without him, so it was always Dennis, with Frank’s stolen wallet, Mac, with his never ending bag of weed, and this dirty, feral midget who spent more time unconscious, rests of glue in his jaw, than actually talking to them. And when Mac was high —which was often— he stared at Dennis. He stared at Dennis a lot. Then again, by the time that summer had ended, Dennis had definitely been taller and skinnier, his cheekbones popped out and Dee’s jeans looked better on him than they ever did on her scrawny body, so who could blame Mac, really.

Right now, there’s an ugly plastic cross hanging around Mac’s neck. Dennis will think back on this when he’s about to fall asleep: this is what sets things in motion.

“Jesus,” he can hear himself spit it, and doesn’t that already grab Mac’s attention, “Jesus, we talked about the God stuff.” The cord is black and cheap, he feels it tense around his finger when he tugs at it, leaving behind the smallest red mark just below Mac’s left ear. Dennis scratches at it absentmindedly. “Stop that,” and something slaps his hand away: Mac, faster than he should be by any tequila related standards, “what God stuff?” Dennis’ mother had been adamant that they get a decent dining table, even if it there really wasn’t any more furniture around. No couch, no chairs yet, only Mac’s stinky mattress, which he had brought back from his old room and dropped unceremoniously on the floor while Dennis waited for his bed to arrive. A proper bed, thank you very much. Mac might be used to living like a savage, but that was not his case. So he had sneaked a couple of shot glasses from the bar, and Dennis had lost it, it’s still fucking stealing if you’re— You’re just stealing from us, you idiot, what the hell. But you know, free drinks. And after a while they had run out of lime and crashed together in the middle of the sad, empty room, until Dennis had caught a glimpse of the disgrace that was Mac’s necklace.

This bit gets hard to explain sometimes, the lack of motion, the stillness of it. Dennis needs to prop himself up on one elbow to look at him, “no—” he starts, rapidly trailing off because his tongue feels fuzzy and Mac’s staring at his bottom lip again. “You know, no god stuff in the,” hand fluttering about, Mac’s head hits the floor trying to avoid getting smacked in the face, “in the common areas.”

“Ugh, dude,” for a second there, Dennis believes he’s about to fight him on this, and he’s a little bit dizzy, but he thinks he’d probably win, “shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, “I totally forgot about that.” The apology makes his voice drop in a way that makes Dennis itch. It happens every now and again. Mac will say something irritating, as he does. His voice will carry out like tiny, little knives that carve their way into Dennis’ skin. His gaze wanders along the reddened marks in his neck.

“It’s alright,” he can already feel himself deflating. Mac looks almost out of it, ready to call it a night, and then exhales slowly as Dennis continues: “I forgive you”. His blessing seems to make Mac chuckle, which only leads to the knives digging a little bit deeper.

“Yeah, okay.”
“Okay.”

He leans in, presses his forehead completely against Mac’s throat: flushed, burning up. His curls are getting out of control and it feels a little bit like being back in high school: getting high, getting drunk with Ronnie the Rat, so he’s due for a haircut any day now. Something shorter, something that will sharpen his features. Mac’s fingertips settle on the nape of his neck, the brush of nails making it seem like something’s crawling all over his skin, he shudders as they tangle in the curls and then start trailing up, up, up. “You should, huh” Dennis is mumbling now, drinking in the way Mac’s breath falters underneath him. He only wishes his mouth didn’t feel like cotton, like he needs to make an effort for the words to come out the way he intends them to, “just”, he lifts his head to look straight at Mac, already feeling drained, “just, pull? A little” which makes his lips part slightly. Sad, really, the way he is constantly trying to bring attention to this fact.

Dennis is drunk enough that he can’t feel his fingers. He won’t get up, but he lets his hands fall at Mac’s sides, pushes them against the floor until it feels real. This is a good thing, he reminds himself. Solid. Mac’s hand keeps moving distractedly in his hair: as if he’s waiting for something, as if he didn’t hear Dennis, as if he’s not half hard and pressing against his leg. It’s too quiet, too still, so he just— He moves around, lifts himself up enough so that he’s hovering above Mac. Just fucking pull, you pussy, he wants to say, except he doesn’t want to say, he wants to shout it in his face. It makes something click in his expression, going from a soft, feverish look to what seems to be determination, and suddenly— and suddenly Mac’s fist is clenching, tugging at the curls on the back of his head. In a moment all his skin feels dry, ready to crack at any second now.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” he sounds hoarse, does he sound hoarse? They skipped the salt and the lime in the last round of shots, went straight for the bottle like they were drowning and now his throat is raw.
“Yeah?” and Mac’s licking his lips now, Dennis’ gotten very, very good at overlooking that.

He nods; a fidgety, almost tense sort of quiver. “Sure,” he says, and Mac meets him halfway, hand still buried deep in his hair. It’s a sloppy kiss, he’ll make a note of it. Their teeth clash at first and Dennis’ lips don’t feel like anything really, they feel like they belong to someone else. So he lunges at Mac, light-headed, trying to make him see. Mac’s good for that. Dumb, and blunt, but reliable. Dennis likes reliable, which is almost funny because he fucking hates Mac. He has to remember that. “I’m gonna barf,” he mutters against his jaw, and Mac pushes him away so fast it’s like he scorched him.



ii. no touching the make-up

His mother’s make-up closet is the only thing they ransack together. They spend quite an obscene amount of time doing so, actually. They had been drunk for most of it, either celebrating (Dee) or trying to contain whatever emotion was threatening to spill after the funeral (Dennis). They brought a couple of bottles of wine, emptied the closet on top of his mother’s expensive coverlet and fought each other over every single item. It feels like the first time in months they’re not at each other’s throats, and Dennis grabs Dee’s hand without thinking, “hey, remember when I used to do your nails”, thirteen and sort of giddy, trying out whatever new colour his mom had brought in that week. Of course, Dee has to ruin it by saying “hey, do you realize Mac fucked mom in here” and takes her monstrosity of a hand away.

From then on, it becomes a ritual of sorts. Theirs. The only one they have that doesn’t involve the rest of the gang or a weird amount of backstabbing. They will go out, have lunch, spend a shocking amount of money (Frank’s) and talk about his mother. A lot.

“You know that’s weird, right? The way you say that.” Dee gets him to try a new base after pointing out what appears to be a shadow, a shadow of a wrinkle in his forehead. Which is. Just. Absurd. “My mom. She was my mother too, you dick. And this? Is kind of fucked up.”

Dennis is twelve the first time his mother takes one long look at him and sighs, very slowly, very deliberately, tracing his cheekbone with one pointy, perfectly manicured nail. “You know, honey,” she sits beside him on the kitchen counter, “we might need to do something about this pimple here.” Something about the way those words are wrapped like a present, dripping with mimicked affection, makes his stomach curl in on itself. He doesn’t go out that day, of course, just waits for his mother to wake up from her ambien nap and guide him through her stash of make-up. “Good as new, darling,” she says when she’s finished.

“Don’t take it out on mom just because you were an ugly child, Dee.”
“One time she pointed at me and said: we need to do something about that. She pointed at me as a whole, Dennis!”
“So?”
“Goddammit,” the eye pencil breaks in her hands. “Well, I’m not paying for that.”

Mac’s never so much as mentioned the make-up, not since he saw him in light blue eyeshadow the weekend before leaving for Penn.

(“Dude, is that glitter”, Dennis had not slept in two days and felt thirsty and stretched too thin, barely able to contain the excitement at the chance of leaving. His skin felt wired up, electric. It must have been excitement. “Just trying something,” and he’d pressed his cheek against Mac’s sweaty neck. And for sure, he’d visit, he’d crash on Dennis’ couch at Penn, it would be just like he hadn’t left, he’d promised. Is that a threat. “Don’t know if I’m gonna have time for you, man”, because— Because what if he didn’t, right, this was his time after all. He grabbed the other side of his neck and felt Mac stiffen, so he pulled away, “but, you know”, you know, he could see the spot where he’d marked him, traces of highlighter and flushed skin where he’d grabbed a little bit too tight.)

And then he kicks him out of his stupid music group, which he didn’t even want to be part of anyway, and suddenly Dennis’ closet has been raided, isn’t that just— Isn’t that just rich. “It’s fucking nail polish, Den, it’s not like I stole your Prada purse.” And it feels like quiet, liquid rage, making his way to every single one of his pores. “It’s a handbag! And goddammit—” he didn’t even like this colour, didn’t even know why he had it. Maybe he just didn’t want Dee to have it, what did it matter. “Don’t touch my stuff.” Dennis is definitely taller, so he’s not sure why he’s the one who’s trembling, who’s clenching his fists right now, trying so hard not to hit something. Mac falls back against the couch, looking ridiculous in those worn jeans and ripped t-shirt, and is that eyeliner? “Whatever, man,” he says, not looking at Dennis.

He sets up an inventory, it takes him maybe forty five minutes and three beers, and then Mac’s peeking from the doorway, balancing himself from one foot to the other, still looking like an idiot.

“I could do you, you know,” just to see what happens, just to see how Mac’s eyes widen slightly, “your make-up, I mean. It’s not like you’re gonna look better than me.” Although he’s got the nicest skin, Dennis is still irrationally mad about that.
“Fuck,” and Dennis doesn’t even dignify that with a response. “Yeah, okay,” two steps towards his bed and Dennis still feels his hand shaking, “none of that gay shit, though,” he adds.

Dennis snorts, “sure”, he makes room for him on the mattress and feels it sink when Mac sits, just a couple of inches too close, “none of that gay shit.”



iii. no talking about the kisses

He gets married and it feels fucking great. Maureen is soft and her voice doesn’t always make him cringe, when he fucks her it feels exhilarating, it feels like something is right and his skin is on fire. He tells Mac about this, after turning off his phone, because it just. It won’t stop. Going off.

“And you know, man, her breasts, it’s like—” Frank and Charlie have already left and Mac pushes another shot towards him. “Whatever you say, dude” “no, listen, listen” he’s grabbing Mac’s face with both hands now, he stinks of Dennis’ aftershave because there’s nothing, no tiny space of Dennis he hasn’t touched, stolen, made himself a part of. “It’s fucking great, man, I’m telling you, I’m just so—” His breath is uneven, too quick, heart pounding against his ears until it makes him nauseous. “I’m just so fucking happy” he gets out through his teeth, Mac’s jaw feels tense against his hands. He kisses him once. Then again. “Hey,” he says, Mac’s not wearing any lip gloss so really, his lips shouldn’t feel like that, shouldn’t feel this smooth, “hey, let’s just” and gets one last look at them, red and wet and slightly parted, “let’s just keep drinking at my place.”



It will happen.

When Mac comes back from prison is almost always the same. He will feel the need to whine about it to someone. More probable than not, the lucky person will be Dennis. He will sit there, on the opposite side of the couch, going on and on about Luther’s achievements in jail. His voice will get an octave higher and Dennis’ migraine will pierce through his skull, will make him want to claw his eyes out. Showdown in Little Tokyo is on, and Dennis has the vague hope Dolph Lundgren will distract Mac, but instead he just says “oh! And he had one new scar on his cheek, like this?” sitting excitedly on one knee, like an overeager, overweight puppy, “it looked so cool, dude.” He lets one hand fall to Dennis’ lap and he desperately wants to crawl away, instead he looks at it thinking maybe it will disappear on its own accord.

They will do this, and Dennis thinks about these instances: they sit maybe too close, and suddenly Dennis’ world comes into focus, painfully aware of Mac’s hand on his thigh. He hates being sober for this. He tries not to be, when he kisses Mac. It shouldn’t matter, really. He grabs his wrist so he won’t take his hand away, tugs at his shirt and the fabric feels uncomfortable and cheap. “Dammit, Den,” his voice keeps going higher, what is he, just trying to get him to crumble, trying to make him mad. “Shut up, will you,” and Mac will do, always does. He will answer with one pathetic, undignified little moan and they will kiss for a few minutes, until Dennis feels like himself again, feels in control again. “Another beer, then?” and Mac nods furiously, staring at the tv screen.



Sometimes.

Some days Mac comes barging in at midday, unbound by all the implicit rules that say that Dennis’ room is off limits. Those are the days it takes him hours to get out of bed; he pulls the duvet over his shoulders, over his eyes. “Goddammit, Mac,” and is that how his voice usually sounds, not rough from the hangover, just sharp and empty, “what’s your fucking problem.” Something hits him, either Mac or a cushion, not hard enough to even register as a threat.

“I’m not covering your shift, asshole.”

His jaw tightens, “no shit”, eyes closed; breath deep, breath slow. “Just get Dee to do it.”

He gets five minutes of blissful silence before the covers get pulled from him. Dennis doesn’t look at him, not even when he lays down beside him, taking up half the fucking bed like it’s his. He won’t even take his boots off, and Dennis thinks he should care, would probably care, will probably care. Tomorrow, a couple of days from now.

“So what are we doing then.”

And the thing about Mac is that he is a fucking furnace, that he will lure Dennis into a false sense of warmth. He will hole up in his life, like a parasite, and suddenly Dennis will feel like this is something he needs, something he wants. He finds himself like this, unable to move, but also unable to run, and Mac wiggles around in his mattress while Dennis thinks this, overly aware of his own personal oven, this is as close to Hell as he is getting.

Mac won’t shut up unless he answers, so he just closes his eyes. “Sleeping in.”

“Sweet,” and Mac stares at him for a moment, thinking about something.

Their kisses are dry like this. Mac tries not to sink the whole bed when he moves, fails spectacularly. Dennis doesn’t particularly care.




iv. date night is fair game

Their car breaks down halfway to Moorestown. “This is what happens when you get a rental”, Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose, “Jesus, Dee, why did you have to be such a cheap bitch.”

She manages to look surprised by the statement. “Me? You’re the one who didn’t want to bring his Rover out here.” They both stay with the car: Charlie’s fast asleep, or fast drugged would be more appropriate, and Frank and Mac have been gone for about forty minutes. They opened their last can of beers and Dennis is only slightly buzzed and wearing his good shoes, they are not ‘walk five miles to a gas station’ shoes. “Oh yeah,” Dee says, hair barely holding up in her ponytail, “I always forget, you get extra fucking prissy when it’s your stupid date night.”

“What did you just say?”

She steals his beer, “you know, I’m hearing diner food is very in right now, you could have an old-fashioned dinner, like in the fifties, buy him a milkshake.”

They do not get the rental back and do not get to Philly in time, because of fucking course, but Frank finds them a motel and Dennis only has to take one look at reception and say “jesus, Frank, is this where you store your prostitutes?” Dee clicks her tongue behind him and Dennis takes one deep breath, unbuttons the collar of his shirt. “You know what, fine, it’s fine.” Mac partners up with him by default, throwing an arm around his shoulders that Dennis shakes off without thinking.

He is alone when he goes into the room: there are two queen-sized beds that take up most of the space and somehow make it seem dirtier, more oppressive. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, so he settles for hiding them in his pockets, opening the bathroom’s door with the tip of his shoe. He feels lightheaded, and it’s not until Mac comes back and finds him lying on top of an open bed, staring at the ceiling that he realizes he hasn’t eaten anything since that morning. Mac throws him a snickers bar, which Dennis fucking hates, and he throws it back at him. “You know we had a reservation for tonight, right?” The two beds are barely apart, and is this how it’s going to be? Mac, barely a few inches away from him, stinking of sweat and mud from his walk, is he supposed to just accept that and move on?

“Is that why you’re being annoying?” he’s opening his own chocolate bar, barefoot and sitting on top of his bed. “There’s a strip bar five minutes from here, we could— “ with one chunky thumb he pushes the rest of the bar into his open mouth, leaving traces of caramel on his lips, “go out, have a few drinks.” And this is somehow the worst thing about Mac, the way he throws this stuff around like it doesn’t even register for him.

“Yeah, why not,” he says. He could go out. Not with Mac. Wander around, find the crappiest bar this area has to offer and buy a girl a drink. Someone blonde and tiny, with a waist he could fit in the palm of his hand. “Yeah, I might go out.”

And Mac’s face softens, his lips become this round, comical imitation of surprise. “Oh,” yes, oh, and it’s like something’s sitting on his chest, just tightening its hold and Dennis finds it hard to even get one shaky breath out. “I thought—”

“What,” Dennis snaps. “What did you fucking think, Mac.”

This is the first time Dennis goes down on Mac: they’re just leaving Guigino’s after the realtors scheme and Mac’s hair is parted to the left, no mousse on. Dennis gets this uncontrollable, foolish impulse to mess it up; takes one look at the white, perfectly ironed shirt he must have stolen from him years ago, and Dennis’ skin is prickling, it feels too cold now that they’re leaving the restaurant’s air conditioning. And Mac looks— He looks composed; he looks, Dennis realizes, he looks good, so there’s nothing he wants more in that moment than to mess that up, drag him down with him. They get into the car and Dennis’ eyes don’t so much as pass near his lips, they go straight to his belt and Mac doesn’t even try. He doesn’t even try to stop him, not once.

Mac lets his legs fall to the side of the bed, throws the candy wrapper to one corner of the room. “Sure, I’ll just”, Dennis starts to get up, “Charlie was saying something about fishing in the pool, but he was still pretty high.” He bites at his bottom lip, licking away any rest of caramel. Dennis finds himself mimicking that, thinking I could do that for you with absolute certainty that Mac wouldn’t push him away. Then again, disappointment slides off Mac with a natural ease, so he’s not sure if it would have any real impact.

The thing is, Dennis doesn’t remember much of the first time Mac fucks him.

He’d just gotten divorced and they hadn’t done their thing in a while: gone out to dinner, compartmentalized. Dennis is good at that, good at keeping things in separate corners of his mind where they won’t bother him until he decides they do. He remembers they hadn’t actually made it to dinner, just started lazily making out at the back of the bar. Because it felt nice, just the two of them. He remembers Mac saying he’d missed him, which, of course, how could he not. It had felt embarrassing and kind of hot, he knows Mac— Well, it’s kind of obvious, how Mac feels. Has been obvious for years. But sometimes Dennis’ skin will feel too thin, barely able to adapt to whatever Mac throws at him. So Mac will say something like that, something like “I missed you” and Dennis will say “just get me something to drink”, that will take away the sourness, make it palatable.

That’s how it usually goes, there’s something gentle and crestfallen in the way that Mac handles these situations. Tilts his head to the side, looking exhausted, one tiny smile making its way to the surface. “Hey, doesn’t this remind you of Penn a little bit.” Mac had spent an awful lot of time in his dorm room, especially after the first few weeks of not answering to his messages. He’d appeared, made himself home on his floor for days. And what is Dennis supposed to do with that.

“Suffocating?” he flexes his fingers, brushes his knuckles against the rough fabric of the coverlet. “Yeah.”
“Come on, dude, it was not that bad.”

This is tonight, so it doesn’t count. “I guess,” these days he wakes up with a knot in his stomach, “it wasn’t terrible.” He does not know how to tone it down, the constant need to scratch at something until he doesn’t feel bare, unprotected.

“Anyway,” Mac claps and Dennis is ripped away from that thought. “Have fun out,” like he’s not dying to pin Dennis to the bed. But that— It’s fine. So he goes out, waits until he’s far enough to punch the nearest wall.