Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Cause it's a bitter sweet symphony, that's life
Tryna make ends meet, you're a slave to money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet, yeah

There’s a hole inside of him, where his heart should be. God, there is—a deep, dark, hole inside of him with blood dribbling out the sides of badly sewn stitches, stitches he’d sewn himself when he was a boy, sick and tired of wearing his heart on his sleeve where everyone could see. He’d taken it out, in the dead of night, and hidden it in a box underneath his bed.

At some point, he realises, his Dad must’ve taken the box. At some point, he realises, his Dad must’ve confiscated his heart, in that box, filled with old newspaper clippings and faded pictures of half-naked men.

At some point, he realises, his Dad threw his heart away, and punched a hole in his chest. He has the bruises to show it. The fuzzy memory of the emergency room and his broken ribs pressing into his lungs until he was gasping for air on the floor of his childhood bedroom, seven, eight, nine years old and the nurse asking how he was doing and calling him ‘poor baby’ and saying ‘this is gonna hurt now, but you’re a brave boy, aren’t you?”

He could hear his Dad scoff as he nodded, tears dripping down his cheeks and his neck and making damp spots on his t-shirt. His Dad had just dropped him outside the hospital and left, probably on a drug run, but he was there in the shadows in the corner, in the nurse’s smile, and in the blood seeping into his mouth from his broken nose. It was then that Mac realised there was no such thing as an absent Father. Only a man, absent, and a Father, caring and loving, living in his mind. He’d only taken his heart to keep it safe, is what he told himself. One day, his Father would hand it back to him with a smile on his face, a hand ruffling his hair, an ‘I’m sorry, son,’ on his lips, and everything would be okay.

For now, he just had to wait. He could do that. When it came to his Dad, he could be incredibly patient.

Mac’s twenty years old and filling the hole where his heart should be with a bottle of painkillers. Maybe if his heart stops beating in his Dad’s hands, he’ll feel some remorse for taking it in the first place. Maybe if he’s fucking dead, he won’t keep on thinking about Charlie’s eyes, or Dennis’ smile, or the guy he’d blown in the alleyway next to the gay bar after the bouncer had looked down at his crappy fake ID and let him in anyway, a kind smile gracing his mouth and appreciative eyes roaming up and down Mac’s body.

Maybe he’d stop thinking about the guy returning the favour; his knees digging into the wet asphalt, his feet resting on broken glass.

When they’d kissed, he could taste himself inside the guy’s mouth, and when they’d parted ways, Mac had thought that it was a good thing his Father had taken his heart, probably beaten it to a bloody pulp, otherwise he would’ve given it to that guy in a second. A heartbeat. Instead, he’d spat on the street and walked home, his final act of self-destruction complete.

It was a shame he woke up the next day, a headache building in his temples, late for his shift at the crappy diner he worked at to pay his Mom’s bills, with a message from some guy called Joe on the answer machine.

He deleted the message. Called his Dad’s cell just to hear it go to voicemail. Got ready for work. It was just another day.

He started cutting himself when he was fourteen with the blade from a pencil sharpener he found at school. He could’ve done it with his Dad’s razors but he was too scared to touch them, could’ve gotten a knife from the kitchen drawer but they weren’t sharp enough. In the end, he thinks it’s fate that the pencil sharpener was just lying there, on his desk, begging him to pocket it. Fate that he could undo the tiny screws with the nail on his little finger, and that, when he pressed it to the skin of his upper thigh, it was sharp and hot and so, so good.

It was the first drag of a cigarette. The first inhale from a bag of glue. The first time he’d shared a bed with Charlie. Addictive. As blood caressed the inside of his thighs, he thought that this was what love must feel like.

It didn’t stop. He started to fuck in the dark and admire his cuts when he dressed in the meagre early morning light, avoiding looking at his naked body in the mirror. He didn’t like the scars, fucking hated them actually, but the open wounds, the cuts he could reopen again and again...they looked good. Made him feel badass. Made him feel pure.

He didn’t need to cry himself to sleep with prayers on his lips to earn God’s love any longer, no, this was his way into heaven, his punishment, his way of performing God’s will. He gained some weight—gluttony? He’d make a cut on his stomach. He got angry—wrath? He’d punch a brick wall and press down on his bruises. He got upset? Cried like a pussy? He’d open himself up, cut deep into the skin above where his heart should be, and let the wound weep tears of red. It probably wasn’t healthy, probably wasn’t ‘normal,’ but everyone had their vices—alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, whatever—surely he was allowed to have this?

No one noticed the cuts, the scars. Mac didn’t want them to, didn’t want to be told that he was fucked in the head or anything else he already knew, but sometimes late at night, one hand between his legs, he’d imagine that it was Charlie who noticed. That he’d look at the scars, maybe even gently stroke them, and ask if he was okay. Mac would try and play it off as an accident at first, or something he didn’t have to worry about, but Charlie would see through it, would say ‘I know you dude, c’mon...’ and then he’d break down in the man’s arms, and tell him everything.

Not that there was much to tell. Boo-hoo his Daddy didn’t love him (neither did Charlie’s) and boo-hoo he was a bit depressed. So fucking what? Charlie would probably laugh at him if he knew what Mac was doing, what he’d been thinking, and then he’d call Dennis up so that he could laugh at him too. Dennis probably even gave Charlie his real phone number. They probably hung out behind his back, talking shit about him. Maybe they were best friends now, maybe that was why he hadn’t been seeing Charlie as much lately. It wasn’t their shifts at work that kept them apart but rather the guy trying to figure out how to break the news to Mac before Dennis came back for the summer, so that they could hang out together. Just the two of them.

Mac wondered if they’d like him more if he was dead. If they’d cry at his funeral—if there even would be a funeral. No one would identify the body, after all, what with his Mom being...his Mom, and his Dad being in prison. He’d just be another kid who killed himself before his life even began, another victim of the streets of his childhood. Dennis probably wouldn’t even come home from college early, and Charlie...

Mac shook his head. Envy. Sloth. Lust. He lifted his pillow and grabbed his box cutter.

Rain slashes against his skin like a million shards of glass. It’d been tapping against his window twenty minutes earlier, reminding him of how Charlie would clamber up his drainpipe when they were kids, and tap a special rhythm on the windowpane (so that Mac would know it was him and not some ‘nightman’), begging to be let in. Mac used to do the same at Charlie’s as well, when his house was too quiet and the fridge was empty. He wondered what Charlie’s reasons had been—he’d never really said.

He hadn’t always loved the rain. Rain used to mean being holed up in buildings all day long; no playing on the playground, no excuse not to wear his stupid, ugly, itchy school jumper that he’d fished out of the lost property box, no throwing rocks at trains with Charlie on the weekends (though they always did find a way to sneak Charlie past his Mom and out of the house, wrapped up in his raincoat and two jumpers ‘just in case, man!’).

It used to mean being seventeen and locked out of the house in a thunderstorm, walking to Charlie’s and then Dennis’ but not knocking on either of their doors, not quite ready to admit that his Mom had been too preoccupied watching Friends re-runs to let him in the house. It meant taking refuge in the corner store, the woman behind the counter (she must’ve been at least 40) making conversation whilst giggling and twirling her hair around one of her bony fingers. It meant calling up his Cousin Brett, who he hadn’t spoken to since he was a kid, and asking for a place to crash for the night.

The thing about Brett was that he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t ask any questions, but he always had a look in his eye like he didn’t ask because he already knew the answers. So long as he kept his mouth shut, Mac didn’t give a fuck, but it was a bit...freaky. It made him want to turn away when their eyes met, like the guy could read his mind somehow.

His car was nice though. It had four wheel drive, comfortable seats, a working tape deck, and—most importantly—it was warm and dry. Mac had practically sprinted from where he’d been sat, on the curb above a storm drain of all things, to get in. Brett hadn’t minded. He’d laughed, and ruffled his hair like he was a little kid.

“Hey, there’s some smokes and candy in the glove compartment in case you’re hungry or anything,” he’d said, driving past Mac’s house and raising an eyebrow when he saw all the lights were still on. “You should tell your Mom to turn the lights off when she goes out. To save money.”

Mac had nodded, too preoccupied with stuffing gummy worms in his mouth whilst simultaneously trying to light a cigarette to notice the amused look Brett shot him. “Yeah, totally.”

By the time they’d arrived at Brett’s house, after a torturous half hour of listening to the same fem-glam-rock-shit that Dennis listened to, the rain was coming down in lashes, the car acting as their very own arc. It was probably better than Noah’s, considering his didn’t have any heating and most likely smelt like animal crap.

They ran out of the car, hoods over their heads, and burst through the front door.

“Here we are,” Brett said, shaking his head free of water. Mac did the same, still shivering in his jeans and one of Charlie’s hoodies (he’d left it at Mac’s a while back and, well, he had loads of hoodies. Surely he wouldn’t miss this one?). He heard a switch flick on, then off—the hallway stayed dark. “Randy!” Brett shouted. “Fuck, I think the power’s out. Randy!?”

The elusive Randy appeared at the end of the corridor, a flashlight in one hand. “Hey babe. I mean, man. Uhh, dude—” He was panicking at this point, Mac could tell. He almost laughed. “Oh fuck, sorry.”

Brett sighed, and turned to Mac. “This is my boyfriend, Randy.” Mac could almost feel him holding his breath, waiting for the bomb to go off.

If it were anyone else, any other time, maybe it would’ve. Maybe he would’ve screamed that he didn’t share houses with homos and walked back into the torrential rain, spending the night sleeping on a bench at a bus stop. Maybe he would’ve tried to get a hit in, make his Dad proud (though Randy did look jacked and, well, Mac hadn’t been exercising as much as he should’ve lately). But he was tired. He was there. It was only for one night. He’d never need to see his cousin and his...boyfriend again, and his Dad would never even know he’d seen them in the first place (it wasn’t like Brett was in touch with any of the family). Truth be told, Mac had already known that Brett was gay anyway. Had heard it from his Dad’s mouth, asking if he ‘wanted to end up like that faggot?’ as he grabbed Mac’s jaw and squeezed.

He just hadn’t expected him to have a boyfriend. The guy wasn’t exactly a looker.

“I kinda got that, man. Do you have any clothes I can change into? I’m freezing.”

Brett blinked. “Uh yeah, just a sec.” He walked to the stairs, looked behind him, at Mac, and then continued on up. Mac just nodded, fiddling with the damp sleeves of his hoodie.

“So...” Randy said, leaving the word hanging in the air for a moment, “you like films?”

Mac shrugged. “They’re alright, yeah.”

And that was how Mac ended up on the pull-out couch in the basement, dressed in a fresh David Bowie t-shirt and navy sweats, a flash light that only worked when you whacked it against the armrest in one hand and a portable vhs player resting on his lap. He didn’t watch many movies, always got distracted halfway through and found something cooler to do (unless it had guns and karate, that shit was badass), but it wasn’t like there was anything else to do with the power out. He was tired anyway; would probably fall asleep ten minutes in.

Randy put a bowl of buttery popcorn that had Mac’s mouth watering next to him, and started the film. It was boring as fuck—all about some British rich kids who went to posh universities and sucked each other’s dicks—and by the half hour mark he was struggling to stay awake. He must’ve slipped off at some point, because when he woke up, both Brett and Randy were asleep next to him, and a new character was on the screen.

Mac watched as the new character sheltered from the rain in amongst the woodland. He stared up at a window as it opened, and the blond dude from earlier—the one the whole film was named after, apparently—shook his head out like a dog coming in from the rain. Only, Maurice—that was his name—was leaning into the rain, becoming one with nature, washing his past experiences with that brown haired twat played by Hugh Grant away.

The rest of the film (though maybe not the sex scenes) was shit. He fell asleep before the end, and woke up to the vhs menu screen. But that scene...it stayed with him, somehow, through the rest of his young adulthood. It’d probably stay with him the rest of his life; he’d always have the memory of watching a man so desperate for love want to wash himself clean of his sinful urges at 4 in the morning, his cousin asleep next to him, Randy’s thigh digging into his own, the screen being the only source of light in the dark room.

On Mac’s worst days, he wishes he could go back to that moment, to that house, to the safety and the warmth and the laughter. To the feeling of falling asleep next to someone other than Charlie and feeling comfortable. To his dread rising with the sun. To knowing nothing lasted forever.

Randy gave him his number, after. Said to call if Brett ever didn’t answer and he was in need of help. His smile was as comforting as an ice bath—Mac knew he’d never see him again.

Now Mac stands, his thin, ratty t-shirt soaked through, his Mom nowhere to be seen for days, and thinks about Maurice. The frustration he felt. The therapy that didn’t work. The surrender to nature, to his nature, underneath the pouring rain. He lets it wash him, heal him, and hopes that in the morning he’ll be clean as the Virgin Mary.

Maurice ends the film tainted by his desire, but alive. Free. Loved. Mac can’t say the same. He’s only one of those things, lately.

Dennis comes back from college and the days start blurring together.

One day he’s back in all his glory, a fresh hickey on his neck from the ‘end of term party’ at college, saying that Mac looks like shit, and the next he’s going on holiday to some European country Mac can’t even pronounce. They’re still mates, he thinks. They sometimes hang out after his shift to smoke weed. Mac lets Dennis gloat about all the stuff he’s done at college—all the girls and his Straight A’s—until it’s five in the morning, the high is coming down, and Dennis’ forehead is burning into his shoulder, his tears staining Mac’s shirt. But nothing’s changed. Not really. Dennis is still absent. Or maybe it’s him who’s absent? He doesn’t give enough of a fuck to figure it out.

He shows up to work hungover, twenty minutes late, to find Charlie sitting at the counter talking to one of his co-workers. She seems mildly disturbed, but also amused, and when she catches his eye she gives him a genuine smile of relief before scurrying into the kitchen. What a cunt.

This is something that has changed. After losing his job at the gas station—thanks to a mishap with a baby rat, a hammer, and lighter fluid—Charlie’s had a lot more time on his hands to ‘check in,’ as he calls it. He doesn’t seem too broken up about losing his job—his Mom has enough money for rent, and both of his younger sisters are working at the mall—and Mac can’t help but be a bit jealous at how nonchalant he’s treating the whole situation. He wonders what it’d be like to be Charlie, to live his life. To have a Mother who talks to him like she loves him, and sisters who he loves despite them being annoying as fuck. Must be nice to have people who care, he thinks, eyes locked on Charlie’s own.

“Hey, dude! Thought I’d keep you company at work!” There’s a question in the statement that Mac can’t find the words to answer, but when he says “Nice” and Charlie’s grin spreads to his eyes, he guesses the right one just came naturally.

“Is it always this quiet?” He gestures to the empty diner with a flail of his hand.

Mac takes a cig out of his pocket, puts it between his lips. “Nah,” he says, voice muffled, “It’ll pick up in an hour or so.” He lights his cig and breathes in; then out, shakily. “Want one?”

Charlie quirks his eyebrows but accepts, placing a cig in his mouth and making Mac light it. “Are we even allowed to smoke in here?”

“Yeah.” Mac shrugs. “So long as it isn’t in front of the customers no one gives a fuck. ‘Sides, they took the batteries out of the smoke alarms months ago. There was a gas leak or something.”

“Ah.” Charlie nods, pensive. “It was probably ghouls, they enjoy causing all that tricky stuff.”

Mac lets out his first laugh in weeks, completely unsurprised that it was Charlie of all people, talking about fucking ghouls of all things, who caused it. “Dude, are you high?” Charlie blows smoke in Mac’s face and grins. “Wow, fuck you too.”

They smoke for a while, crappy tunes from the radio and small talk about nothing filling the silence. It’s only when Charlie’s through with his second cigarette that he starts to fidget, getting out of his chair and pacing around Mac.

“You can leave if you want, y’know? It’s boring as hell here.” Mac puffs on his fourth cig. “trust me, I would if I could.

Charlie shakes his head, and stops in front of Mac, hands in his hoodie pocket. “No, I’m good, I’m good, it’s just—” He sighs and Mac’s stomach sinks. “Are you, like...alright, dude?”

Miracle of all miracles, proof that God is one hundred percent real: a group of school kids stumble through the door, obviously drunk off their fucking asses at only eleven in the morning. Mac gives Charlie what he hopes is an apologetic smile, stubs his cig out on the counter, and walks towards the booth to take their orders.

He stands there for a good ten minutes as they all decide what they want. One of the girls flirts with him so embarrassingly obviously that even her boyfriend seems resigned to it, and one of the guys makes a loud remark about the smell of cigarette smoke. Must be rich kids, he thinks, glancing at their tailored clothing and their nearly $40 bill. He considers flirting with the girl, then—at this point, having a rich girlfriend might work in his favour—but she looks about fifteen, so he decides against it. He may be desperate but he isn’t that desperate. Besides, she’s only flirting with him to make her boyfriend jealous—he’s seen it before.

Eventually he relays their massive order to the kitchen, and makes his way back to Charlie, who’s sat at the counter making aeroplanes out of napkins. He tries to make one fly; it nosedives. Mac catches it just before it hits the floor.

“Nice one.” He smirks, squashes it into a ball, and throws it at Charlie’s head. Charlie squawks in indignation and throws it back at him, but Mac easily dodges the napkin and lets it roll across the linoleum floor. “Listen, man. As much as I like seeing you, can we talk about this shit after work?”

Charlie blinks, surprised. “What shit?”

Mac shifts, uncomfortably. “Y’know...my shit.” Charlie’s still looking confused, so Mac lays it out for him. “You asked if I was alright.”

“Oh, yeah!” Fuck, he shouldn’t have brought it up. Should’ve known Charlie would’ve already forgotten. “Are you then? Because you don’t really seem it.”

As soon as Mac’s anger flares up, it disappears; feels like it’s been ripped from his body, leaving behind a giant, pulsing, gaping wound. He feels it in his stomach, in his ribcage, at the back of his throat, and suddenly he can’t speak, he can’t see, he can’t feel. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh—

A bell rings behind them, and the cook—a middle aged guy named Bart who once talked to him about The Beatles for an hour straight—shouts “order!” Mac rights himself, grabs the tray of food, and heads towards the booth. The smell of greasy, fried food overwhelms him. He wonders if that’s what he smells like after work, and wonders how anyone can stand to be near him.

It isn’t that he lies to Charlie, he could never lie to the kid (not about serious shit anyway), it’d break his heart, he just doesn’t tell him the whole truth. He asks if Mac’s alright and Mac says yes, because he is. He’s alright working himself to the bone and not eating for days and cutting himself at every fucking opportunity just to feel—he’s alright with that, truly.

It’s just, lately, he’s been falling apart. A little. He’s covering his co-worker’s night shifts because she’s gone on holiday and he still can’t quite make the rent, meaning he’s only sleeping two hours max every night and living off of coffee and cigarettes like some British rock n’ roll star. They can at least afford to do a three hour concert coked up out of their heads to stop their migraines forming—Mac has no such luxury. So, he’s going to bed at six and waking up at eight, he hasn’t had a decent meal in fucking weeks, and Charlie has stopped visiting the diner.

There was a point where he’d visit every day, for a couple of hours, and they’d fuck about when there weren’t any customers, smoking cigs and playing rock paper scissors to pass the time. It was great, probably the best bit of Mac’s days, if he were being honest, but now Charlie’s gone and fucked off elsewhere, deeming Mac no longer worthy of his time.

It’s whatever. He’s fine. Rent is due next Tuesday. He needs to get his Mom’s washing done. The plates in the kitchen are covered in mould because every second he isn’t working feels his bones feel like they’ve been replaced with lead. It’s whatever.

Until Charlie knocks on his window at seven in the morning, and Mac’s first thought is that he wishes he were fucking dead.

He lets the guy in— can’t exactly leave him hanging from the drainpipe as much as he wants to out of spite—and flicks his light on. Charlie isn’t too hurt, thank fuck, but Mac can see the scratches running down his arms and the tear tracks on his face.

“Shit. What happened?”

Charlie’s looking down at his hands, refusing to make eye contact. “Nothing really, man. Just the, uh, the Nightman. He’s staying with my Mom and he took my room so I just needed to get the fuck out and, y’know, I just felt kinda shit so I came here.” He finally looks up at Mac, and his eyes widen. “I came to see you. Fuck, dude, what...shit.”

Mac wonders what Charlie’s on about, but knows that the guy has trouble speaking sometimes, so waits for him to finish. But he doesn’t. He just keeps on staring at Mac. At his bare legs. His bare arms. He’d crashed on his mattress only wearing a ratty, old t-shirt and a pair of boxers, he realises. He’d been so tired, so, so tired.

Now though? Now he’s pissed. “Dude, you can’t just—jesus, fucking—look away! Alright. Fuck! Fuck!” Charlie’s eyes keep on boring into his skin, making it come alive, freckles jumping and veins wriggling. Mac can’t stand it, can’t stand the feel of his body alive, can’t fucking stand having someone see how much of a fucking failure it is, and especially can’t stand that it’s Charlie who has to find out. It isn’t anything like his fantasies, that’s for sure— though nothing ever is. “The Nightman!? Fucking—Look the fuck away!” Charlie’s eyes are still glued to him. He feels sick.

The punch is quick: right to the nose, with enough pressure to hurt but not quite break anything. Though he’d break his nose in a heartbeat if it’d get Charlie’s eyes off of him, he knows that for a fact.

“Fuck,” Charlie moans, cradling his nose. He doesn’t make any effort to hurt Mac back, simply sitting cross legged on the floor next to his mattress. Mac gets him a tissue for the blood, which he accepts with a grimace. “Thanks. Sorry.”

Mac swallows. “It’s whatever. I just—you can’t fucking look at me like that, man.”

“Like what?” A drop of blood drips onto Mac’s bedsheets as Charlie fumbles with the tissue.

“That. I don’t know. Like you feel sorry for me or something.”

“C’mon, man! If I was cutting myself to pieces I think you’d feel pretty sorry for me.”

“I’m not—it isn’t like that. I’m fine.”

Charlie tilts his head up to look him in the eyes. His gaze falls to Mac’s bare upper arms, and travels down to his feet. “You can’t kill yourself.”

“What the fuck does that mean!?”

“It means—” Charlie’s eyes look directly into his own, green meeting brown. “That you can’t kill yourself, man. Where the fuck would I be if that happened!?”

Mac scoffs. “Wow, I’m sorry that I wasn’t thinking about you when I decided to try and fucking kill myself, next time I’ll be more considerate.” He realises his mistake too late.

“So you did try? This isn’t just some cry for help thing?”

“Fucking hell. Nobody even knows apart from you, Charlie, and that was a fucking accident!”

Charlie falls quiet, keeping Mac on edge.

Then: “You really tried to kill yourself?”

Mac huffs. “What does it fucking matter? It was a while back.”

“Fuck you, dude, of course it matters. Jesus Christ!” Charlie was bordering on manic, scratching at his arms and pulling at his hair. Mac grabbed his hands just to make him fucking stop, and their eyes met.

“Don’t say the Lord’s name in vain, man, c’mon,” Mac mutters, a last ditch attempt at normalcy.

“As if you haven’t said worse.”

Silence envelopes them. Mac realises that he’s still clutching Charlie’s hands. They’re rough, scabbed, picked at, and shaky. He can’t bring himself to let them go.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

Charlie levels him with a look he’s too socially retarded to read, and Mac shuts up. Withdraws his hand from Charlie’s. Immediately misses the feel of it against his own, the warmth. When was the last time he even held someone’s hand? It must’ve been with Charlie, right? Or maybe Dennis...? Though he wasn’t really the touchy feely type, that was all too ‘gay’ for him. It probably should’ve been too gay for Mac and Charlie too, but it wasn’t. Or, if it was, neither of them wanted to bring it up.

“I’ve gotta get ready for work.”

Charlie brings his arms to rest beneath his head. They’ve faded to a dull red, white scratches visible but luckily not bleeding. The colour highlights his freckles, and Mac pictures Charlie’s flushed face, freckles prominent, mouth open and wet and—

“I’ll be here when you get back.” Charlie stares at Mac, unbothered.

Mac shrugs. “Fine. Don’t look through my porn.” He starts undressing for something to do, and is surprised to feel Charlie’s gaze heavy on his body as he does so. “And stop starin’ like a fag.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “You wish, man. I was just making sure you hadn’t sliced and diced your stomach like milksteak.”

Mac flips him off as he pulls his work shirt over his head. He gives it a sniff. It doesn’t smell too bad but could probably do with a clean after his shift. He’d have to steal some washing tablets from the corner store again, or walk to the mall—

“Are you not gonna shower? You look like shit.”

“Fuck off, dude, says you.” Mac scoffs. “How often do you shower, again? Once a month?”

“I shower when I look like shit, man, maybe you should do the same.”

“I always look like shit, man, just fuck off. Seriously. I can’t be fucking bothered with you right now.” He knows he’s fucked up when he sees Charlie’s face, open and vulnerable and broken for a second. The elation he feels at his panic—he’s actually panicking, he actually gives a fuck about something!—is overwhelmed by the guilt he feels, heavy like a stone in his gut. He wants to grab those words and choke them back down, wants to carve himself out until he’s hollow and have Charlie lay down in his shell of a body, warm and loved. Because, sure, Charlie's Mum loves him, she makes him food and pays the bills, but she doesn't listen, and that's why Charlie comes to Mac: they're united by the loneliness they feel, a constant weight in the pit of their stomachs when they aren't in each other's company.

“Do you know why I came here? To your house, Mac?” Charlie’s seething. His fingers dig into his palms and his eyes are black. “Because you’re my best friend. You’re the only person in this shithole that I trust. I love you, man, and I think I’m the only one that does, so don’t you dare cast me aside like some cheap fuckin’ whore.” He takes a deep, quivering breath in, and then out. “What happened to Cat heart Mac forever, dude? You've been so distant lately, I just...I want things to go back to normal. Please."

“My parents love me.” They do. They did. Sure, they had a funny way of showing it—his Dad never answered his calls and his Mom didn’t even acknowledge his existence unless he was in the way of the TV—but they were his parents. They had to love him, right? Mac was the bad one, the one incapable of love, the one who betrayed his parents’ trust and was punished accordingly. His Dad had to hit him, had to put him in his place, had to numb him; it was how he knew his Dad truly did love him. He’d crushed his heart in his bare hands because there was no way someone could love Mac unless they were forced to. His Dad had protected him from unrequited love, from giving his heart to someone who didn’t deserve it, and being shot down. It’d happened too much as a kid; he’d always become infatuated with his new friends, new people on the TV, he’d write letters to fucking Chase Utley every night. Now, he just ached. Yearned for something he could never have. And, most importantly, he kept this aching and yearning to himself.

Though, Charlie wasn’t forced to love him. They weren’t blood related, they didn’t live together. He could abandon Mac anytime he wanted—hell, Mac thought he had—but he...didn’t.

He should've.

“Right. Your parents love you, and I'm the emperor of Japan.” Charlie's anger subsided slightly to reveal eyes full of pity, and Mac wanted to fucking kill him. He wanted to smash his head against the windowsill until he could see Charlie’s brains. He grabs Charlie's wrist, to do what he doesn't even know; Charlie slips a little, yelping, and that's when Mac sees it:

A hickey, red and raw, bitten into Charlie's collarbone.

Mac laughs so hard his throat burns. He falls to his knees, still gripping one of Charlie's wrists, praying single-handedly at the alter of his best friend.

"Wh--what the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?" Charlie joins him on the floor. "You're crying--" Mac wipes his face with his hands and realises he is, in fact, crying. He laughs harder. Jesus, he was pathetic.

What had he expected, for Charlie to requite his gay little crush? For him to love something as horribly broken as Mac?

Charlie's begging mac--"Please just tell me what's wrong, man, we can--we can get you some help! We can steal Dennis' Mom's antidepressants."--but all he can think about is how disgusting he was, taking advantage of his best friend like this. Who was he, Dennis? 

Christ, he was gonna throw up. He needed to escape, needed to get away from Charlie.

He gets up. Charlie follows, his hand entwined with Mac's, and Mac wonders when that happened. He snatches his away, ignoring how nicely their fingers slot together.

"I'm late for work." He grabs the nearest pairs of jeans he can find--the blue ones that make his thighs look fat and have a kool-aid stain on the left knee--and tugs them on.

Charlie looks at him in amazement. "Dude, you look like crap, seriously, just take the day off--"

"I can't!" He's wrestling with his old trainers. They're a bit small, blue, and the sole is cracked so when it rains his feet get wet. "Rent's due soon, Mom doesn't fuckin' work anymore, our hot water's already been turned off so I have to take cold showers when I even have the time to since I'm workin' days and nights! Dude, I'm just sick--! I'm sick of living like this, I'm sick of-- man, I'm sick of this conversation. I'll see you later, yeah?"

And then he leaves. Like father like son. 

Chapter Text

I feel your eyes penetrating my entire life

- Anais Nin, from a letter to Joaquin Nin.

Mac sees himself as a man of very few needs and wants. He used to want everything, before the world turned to shit, before the memories of his childhood swirled around him like an unattainable dream— just out of reach and oh so desirable. He used to want to be a rock star, a pirate, a rich man; he used to have dreams that would’ve taken him far beyond the city, up and up and into the stars.

Now? Now Mac just yearns for a bed, warm and shared with his best friend. He desires a Mother who says she loves him, and a Father with a normal job who doesn’t use his hands over his words. He wants hot water and clean clothes and fresh bed sheets and a pack of Marlboro reds and—fuck, sometimes the thing he wants most, more than anything, is to be 6ft under with no responsibilities and no body and no traitorous fucking thoughts.

He's sat on a swing, swaying lightly with the evening breeze. It’s 7pm and his shift finished at 5 (his co-worker finally came back from her fucking holiday, it turns out. Part of him is relieved since he can actually get some fucking sleep, but rent needs to be paid, and he’s now getting half the amount of money he was used to) but he doesn’t want to go home because he knows Charlie will be there, waiting, nostrils still caked with blood and questions tumbling out of his clumsy mouth, with a hidden mark on his neck made by some girl’s teeth. A girl who could never appreciate Charlie as much as he does, a girl who didn’t grow up beside him, didn’t huff glue with him in his basement just to escape their shitty reality for five minutes or brush her hands through Charlie’s hair whilst he threw up at one of Dennis’ parties after being forced to eat a bar of soap.

She was probably fat, right? Probably a fuckin’ elephant with greasy hair and fatter thighs than his. Probably a one-night thing, or a pity-fuck. Mac laughs to himself—as if he would be anything more. He hasn’t looked in the mirror for nearly a week, too scared of what he would see, petrified to look into his dead eyes and have them follow the soft baby fat still clinging to his cheeks that he’d love nothing more than to rip off. He probably looks fucking repulsive.

He's hungry, he realises as the smell of the McDonalds across the street floats past him. Charlie’s probably hungry too. There’s no food in the house. Only cigarettes.

The money in his pocket feels like a trophy, and he already mourns its loss as he gets up, off of the swing, and goes to get himself a twenty box of chicken nuggets and a fucking Dr Pepper.

“You know your Mom, just, isn’t here?”

Mac shuts the front door with his foot, holding the chicken nuggets in one hand and a paper bag full of fries and drinks in the other. He even managed to get six sauce packets and a beanie baby happy meal toy for Charlie.

“Huh?” He walks into the living room, where Charlie’s sat on the couch, flicking through the same five channels. The absence of his Mother in her usual seat hits him like a dull knife in the back. “She’s probably just gone to get smokes.” He sits down, offering the fry bag to Charlie, who mumbles a thanks and shoves a handful in his mouth.

“She’s been gone all day, dude. I even went to the corner store—didn’t see her there either.” He talks with his mouth full. It’s strangely endearing, as is everything Charlie does.

Mac chews. “Well, shit.” She hadn’t disappeared for more than a couple of hours in a few days too lazy to even talk to him most of the time, never mind leave the house. “She’ll turn up eventually I guess.”

Charlie nods. Tv static and chewing fills the silence. Mac lights up one of his Mom’s abandoned cigarettes. She won’t like that but, shit, she isn’t here. It’s practically his cigarette, what with him giving her the money and all. He passes it to Charlie, who takes a drag.

“Oh.” He fumbles around in the pockets of his worn-out jacket, and pulls out a cardboard box, “here, I got you this.”

Charlie laughs, exhaling smoke as he takes the box from Mac. “No way.” Mac takes the cigarette out of Charlie’s mouth as he rips the mcdonalds toy open, and breathes in the end—it burns. “You really didn’t have to do this, man—”

“It’s fine. Thought you’d like it ‘cause it’s cute.”

“But these are, like, two extra dollars! Seriously man, let me—” Charlie starts rummaging in his pockets for spare change. Mac grabs his right wrist, the one closest to him, and he stops in his tracks.

“At least open it first, dude. It might be an ugly one.” Charlie’s wrist is warm against Mac’s fingertips, and he can feel the man shudder at his cool touch, looking down at his hand. Mac lets go, embarrassed at his lack of self-control, and Charlie’s eyes meet his own.

“Alright.” He sighs, “but only if I can hold your hand after.”

Mac huffs, amused. “You’re joking.”

“Nope!” Charlie grins, though Mac like to think he knows the man well enough to see the self-consciousness behind it. “Your hands are freezing, man. You’ll probably freeze to death if we don’t huddle for warmth. Y’know, like penguins do? That’s funny because there’s actually this law in San Diego where huddling for warmth is illegal because their national bird is a penguin, and, like, penguins aren’t even birds so I don’t really understand that, but—”

Mac places his fingertips on the back of one of Charlie’s flailing hands. They’re greasy from the fries and dusted with crumbs, and for a second his mind screams that he’s being a fat fuck eating all these carbs, but the smile Charlie gives him when he stops in his tracks makes his thoughts quiet and his embarrassment vanish. It’s amazing, really, how Mac’s been trying to tame his mind since he was born, and Charlie can do it in just ten seconds—he’d be jealous if the guy weren’t the best thing to happen to him.

“Alright!” Charlie’s grin has eased down into a somewhat bashful smile. “Let’s see what we have here.”

He pulls the beanie baby out of its box, and bursts out laughing. Mac groans.

“You’re kidding me.”

Charlie grabs Mac’s hand, linking their fingers, and with the other shoves the tiny penguin plushie in his face. “If that’s not a sign from God, man, I don’t know what is.”

Mac rolls his eyes, fond. “Maybe we should name him Jesus.”

“That’s genius, dude.” Charlie takes the limp, burnt out end of the cigarette out of Mac’s mouth; Mac’s lips part automatically as Charlie’s finger brushes against them; Charlie flicks the butt into his Mom’s ashtray and Mac lips his lips, tasting salt. “Jesus the penguin. He’s ours.”

“Yeah.” Mac breathes, wishing he’d put that cigarette out on the skin inside his wrist that Charlie was gently stroking with his thumb. “Ours.”

There’s a beat where Mac sips his drink and Charlie chews on a chicken nugget quietly, as the Tv drones on in the background. It’s playing some old film now, a romcom from the 80s that Mac’s never seen; Charlie must’ve changed the channel at some point because the film seems to be nearly over. The guy’s serenading the girl with a boom box in the pouring rain whilst the girl lies in bed, confused and tired but wanting. Mac almost laughs. If only love were that easy to acquire.

He looks over at Charlie, who’s staring at the inside of Mac’s wrist. “What?”

Charlie startles, as if he’d forgotten Mac could see what he was doing. “I—I was just—y’know...all the goth kids at school always cut their wrists, so...”

Mac sighs. “Don’t worry man, I haven’t cut anywhere visible in ages.”

“Oh, right, because that’s what I was fuckin’ thinking about.” Charlie scoffs, crossing the arm with his free hand over his chest. Mac finds himself yawning, exhausted, and Charlie’s stony face wavers. “C’mon, let’s just go to bed.”

Charlie says it when they’re huddled together under Mac’s ratty duvet with the mattress beneath them dipping from their combined weight, and springs poking into their backs. Mac’s wearing a shirt and his boxers; he’d ignored Charlie’s worried glances when he’d pulled his trousers off, and had forgone brushing his teeth to get his bare legs under the blanket. Charlie’s wearing the same, but his shirt is one of Mac’s that’s become too big for him—he hasn’t worn it since before he graduated High School and it probably smells like mothballs.

Mac’s dozing, tired, always fucking tired, basking in Charlie’s body heat when Charlie says it, and after the words leave his best friend’s lips he knows that he’s irreparably broken; gone. That his Dad may have taken his heart but, shit, Charlie managed to give him his own and jumpstart it.

Charlie says it quietly, against the shell of Mac’s ear. He probably thinks Mac’s asleep because he runs his hands down his clothed back, and fiddles with the greasy hair at his nape. “I love you. So much, man.” His voice hitches. “If you died, I think I’d die. I need you.” Mac turns to face Charlie. Their noses touch. Charlie carries on talking and his bad breath doesn’t even make Mac recoil. “Who else would I huff glue with? Or...or share a bed with? You feel like home, Mac. You’re like...I’m not good with words, y'know, but you’re my milk steak. My heart.”

Mac inhales. It's too good to be true and his first instinct is to fight it. He swallows. "I--" Fuck it. "I don’t know whether I want you to hit me or kiss me.”

Charlie inches forward, presses his lips against Mac’s and it’s heaven, it’s ecstasy, it’s better than cutting and burning himself with cigarettes and choking down a bottle of paracetamol with whiskey as a chaser. It's all the drugs in the world x10 and then some more. It’s everything. Mac pushes his tongue into Charlie’s mouth, deepening the kiss, and rests his fingers against the others’ freckled cheek.

When they separate it’s slow, mournful, painful. Charlie’s tears are salt on his lips and his hand fire on Mac’s waist. “I’m not gay, Mac,” Charlie murmurs, a secret only the two of them are privy to, “it’s just you. It’s always been you.” He stares into Mac’s eyes with so much fondness it’s physically painful. Mac averts his gaze but Charlie nudges him, forcing their eyes to lock once more. “Even when you piss me off and smoke so much weed you throw up and start reciting verses from the bible and are just real fuckin' annoying, I love you, Mac."

He laughs despite himself. "Fuck you, Charlie."

Charlie’s eyes crinkle when he smiles and Mac rests his head against his best friend’s chest, sobbing in time with his heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Charlie's having a dream. He knows he's having a dream because his room is swimming; not in the way it does when he's huffed too much glue or drank too much paint or smoked a fuck ton of weed, no, it's...dancing? It dances to the song blasting from his record player, one of Mac's favourites that he always puts on when he comes over. He thinks it's called Beef...something? Chemical cats? No, that's stupid. That'd be a stupid name for a song.

He's sat on his bed, the same sheets he's had since childhood covering his thin duvet. They're washed and ragged with fire trucks driving across them. One of the trucks turns its siren on and Charlie covers his ears because it's too loud. Jesus, it's so loud.

"Can you shut the fuck up!?" He shouts. It becomes louder. He starts to sob.

"Charlie?" It's Uncle Jack. Of course it fucking is. He always appears right about now in Charlie's dreams, just when he thinks things can't get any worse. "Are you okay?" He takes Charlie's hands in his own and they dwarf them. "I can make you feel better if you want." His hands stray downwards, towards his thighs, and Charlie tries to move but he's powerless. He thrashes against his invisible restraints, knowing this is all a dream but fuck, fuck, it feels so real. Feels just like it did when he was a kid when he had to share a room with the fucking creep and he tried calling out for his Mom but she didn't hear, probably fucking some random dude, and Uncle Jack covered his mouth with his hand and whispered your mom's busy Charlie. Let her work and we'll play...

The room’s still swimming. No, it’s drowning. And he’s going with it—down, deep, deep down into murky water. Uncle Jack disappears. Charlie feels sick. His upper thighs burn. He sees Mac.

Mac’s beautiful. There’s an orb of light is surrounding him, protecting him from everything dirty in the world, Charlie included. But he doesn’t care.

He swims up to his best friend, the only person who really knows him, who really listens and looks out for him, and finds him floating, serene, his hair forming a halo in the water, angelic.

Mac turns to him and smiles. Charlie smiles back. This is a good dream, he thinks. It’d started off bad, yeah, but now that it’s just him and Mac...he likes it. Cat heart Mac forever, he’d written, and fuck he hasn’t written a truer word (or many other words for that matter) since. They’re two halves of a whole, different sides of the same coin, all that crappy romantic shit his Mom put on the TV and cried to—that’s them. Charlie truly believes, at his core, that one could not live without the other.

That’s when Mac begins to choke.

He’s swallowing water (the dirty, horrible, disgusting sewer water that he was meant to be protected from, that Charlie was meant to protect him from), his face turning a harsh shade of red. Oh god, oh no, oh no, oh no. Mac’s dying. He can’t die.

Mac’s dying in front of him and Charlie’s grabbing his shirt and shaking him and breathing air into his mouth from his own but it’s not working. He realises he’s crying, somehow, despite all the water around him, and when Mac smiles at him—a precious, sad little thing that makes Charlie want to choke him to fucking death because no, he can’t die, he’s Mac—he breaks down.

Mac’s body floats away from him and as much as he tries to swim after it, tries to drown himself to death, tries to get to the surface, he’s stuck right where he is. Just watching him go.

“—Charlie? Charlie!?”

Mac had woken up to the rise and fall of Charlie’s clothed chest. It was a nice way to wake up, even nicer than the time Dennis had woken him up by making him huff poppers in his sleep, and when he’d opened his eyes the world had tilted on its axis, all beautiful and bright.

Charlie was muttering. He always had muttered in his sleep, oftentimes narrating his dreams about talking cats and other dumb shit. Mac had learned how to tune it out since they were kids, though in High School he’d always strained his ears, desperate to hear Charlie whimper his name in his sleep—any indication that the boy was thinking about him. Mac huffed a laugh, thinking back to last night. The confession...the kiss...him crying like a little bitch. Christ, maybe his Dad was right: he was a girl. Of course Charlie had been the one man enough to confess whilst he sobbed like a baby.

Mac groaned. He couldn’t deal with this shit right now. His thoughts. Constantly drifting to his Dad and his own failures. He sat up, slow, so as to not disturb Charlie, and searched the room for a cigarette, eventually finding one he’d smoked half of resting on the windowsill. He lit the other half and inhaled the sweet, sweet cancer. That was when Charlie started to groan.

“Jack.” He said, simply, as Mac stared, taking another drag. Who the fuck was Jack!? Was Charlie in his bed, Mac's fucking bed, having a wet dream about some other dude!? Hopefully he was just a celebrity or something, but what the fuck!? That was just, like, bad guest ettiquette or something. 

Mac kept on looking as Charlie curled himself tight into a ball and smiled. It was a nice smile, a real one, that showed off Charlie’s freckles and near-clear skin, but it disappeared almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by a whine. Then a groan. Mac was about to excuse himself to the bathroom to either vomit or wank off (he hadn't decided which yet) when Charlie began to flat out sob.

“Oh. Oh, fuck. Charlie? Charlie!?” He grabbed Charlie’s shoulders and shook him lightly as the man began to claw at his arms, leaving behind raised, red scratches. “Charlie, c’mon dude...wake up.” Mac moved to cradle Charlie in his arms, and only then did he finally awake, breaths heaving and eyes red, as if he’d hotboxed a stolen car.

(They’d done that once, young and reeling on the knowledge that one of them, Mac it had seemed, was a master criminal who could hotwire any car. His Dad had taught him, one of the only things he had, and they’d driven around in a stolen Mercedes until the sun was rising before lighting up a joint and filling the car with smoke.

Mac still remembers how Charlie looked through the smoke, searching for Mac’s hand as he dragged them both into the backseat and insisted on having a ‘cuddle session.’ Mac had squawked and pushed him away, calling him all the slurs under the sun, but Charlie still held on tight. As if Mac was something—someone—worth keeping a hold onto.

Once the joint had burned out and they were all loose and calm, they’d dumped the car in an abandoned lot and made their way to Charlie’s house hand in hand to waste the day sniffing paint and watching cartoons).

“Mac? You’re alive?”

Mac gulped. “Uhm. Yeah, buddy, I’m alive. I’m right here.”

Charlie only continued to sob. “Oh, Mac, it was horrible—Jack, he...oh, god, and you—” He began grasping at Mac’s arms, desperate. “I can’t go back, please, please don’t make me. You can’t die.”

Mac rocked Charlie back and forth, as he’d seen Mothers do to their distressed children on TV. Not that Charlie was his kid or anything, Christ, but, well...whatever. It seemed to be working as Charlie’s gasps turned to hiccups. Only when the boy had quietened down, an almost humble expression on his face, did Mac let himself think about the words he’d uttered.

“Charlie...” He stiffened, and Mac ran a hand through his hair. “Jack. Is that...your Uncle Jack? He's...the Nightman?” He'd always thought the Nightman was some figment of Charlie's retarded imagination, or an excuse he used when he crawled up Mac's drain pipe, claiming that he 'couldn't be home right now.' Not...this. Fuck. The hickey. Of course it wasn't a girl, it was...oh, Mac could just laugh.

Charlie beat him to it, fake and hoarse, as if his skin had been scraped out of his throat. “No. What? No, Mac, it was just a nightmare. Are you stupid? I mean...” He trailed off. He’d always been a horrible liar.

“And...I died?”

Charlie looked close to tears again. “Please don’t, man. Seriously. I can’t—” He rested his head against Mac’s chest, spent, and Mac felt...

He felt everything. Love for Charlie, resting deep in his bones; guilt for not having found out sooner, before, when he could’ve stopped—saved—his best friend; anger. All-consuming anger for the man Charlie called his Uncle. Uncle. As if that word could ever be used for that fucking monster.

“Oh, I’ll fucking kill him.”

Charlie jumped, grabbing Mac by his shirt collar. “Please, please don’t. He’s all my Mom has apart from me... I don’t—I can’t—please—”

“Right, okay.” Mac said to calm Charlie. He’d fucking kill the man someday, but currently his best friend needed him more than some sick fuck needed a knife in his gut. “It’s okay, I won’t. But you’re staying with me.”

Charlie looked up. “What?”

“You’re staying here, with me, until he’s gone. Or until...whenever. But you’re staying. Okay?”

Charlie snorted. “Sure, whatever man. I’m not the one here on suicide watch.”

“Oh, fuck off. You're the freak who loves me." The words come out of his mouth before he registers what they actually mean. Charlie loves him, loves him...he'd said so last night, but he could just have been high or feeling sorry for Mac or some fucked up mixture of the two. Hell, maybe he was just traumatised from being molested by his fuckin Uncle and thought he was gay because it was his way of coping or some shit.

"Yeah, so what? You're the freak who loves me, you freak!" Charlie's angry and his face is scrunched up and he looks so fucking disgusting with snot and tears on his face that, fuck, Mac just has to kiss him. So he does. And Charlie, for all his faults, kisses back like the inside of Mac's mouth contains the secrets of the universe. 

It's fucking weird, what they are now, there's no getting away from it--like some fucked up sitcom, or romcom, or maybe both? They're going to have to tell Dennis that they're fucking (if they ever do, Mac thinks. He hopes they do. Really hopes they do) and his Mom if she ever comes back, and even Charlie's Mom he guesses. They're gonna have to go out in public, gay, and if that isn't fucking terrifying, well.

For now Mac simply listens to his heart beat in tandum with Charlie's, and thinks that he can do it all, everything, hell, he could conquer the world, so long as he stays by his side.