Chapter Text
Mac doesn't remember the last time he allowed his body to relax, to escape the constant state of alertness. His life had always been like this: a constant tug-of-war, walking barefoot through broken glass, sleeping among time bombs. Mac felt like he was being careful, extremely careful, doing everything as his father had taught him. Always choosing the words he had heard his father use, imitating his gestures, his voice, trying to open his eyes as wide as his father did. However, no matter how decently a situation seemed to be going, no matter how well he thought he was doing things, suddenly it happened: a word that should never be spoken, a gesture that should not be reproduced. Mac didn't always understand what his mistake had been, but the people around him managed to let him know exactly when he had crossed that invisible line: his father, his mother, his classmates. Predators ready to pounce on his jugular at the slightest sign of weakness, hunters attentive to every one of his movements, waiting to find that moment of carelessness, that mistake to grasp and use against him. To humiliate him.
There is no way to win the struggle. Sometimes, the mistake is to lower his head, to show submission, to accept being subordinate in the hope that they won't shout at him, won't hit him, won't call him "useless," "idiot," or worse, "faggot." Other times, the failure is just the opposite. To respond, to open his mouth to return the insult, to raise his face and tense his arms trying to appear bigger, tougher, stronger. Mac had tried everything. Surrendering, fighting, being loud, becoming invisible. Hiding from the fight, getting into it. Defending others, mocking them. But no matter what he did, Mac always lost.
Locked in the bathroom of his house, examining his bruised lip from a fight at high school, Mac wonders what is so wrong with him. He looks closely at his face, his hands reddened by the punches he tried to throw while defending himself. He sees a small trace of blood sliding down his fingers and falling into the sink, disappearing down the drain. He feels incredibly tired. He tells himself it's because of the fight, but it's not entirely true. He is tired from the constant tension, from the constant threat hanging over his body, from the ceaseless script he writes and rewrites in his head trying to find what he should say, what words will make him be what his parents want him to be. The words that will make his classmates fear and respect him. The words that will make his parents trust him and tell him they love him.
He kneels on the bathroom floor, with his arms resting on the sink, and he prays. The ceiling is full of dampness, worn-out paint, mold, but Mac knows that God doesn't care about that. God wants his words, his commitment, his devotion. With his gaze fixed on one of the cracks in the ceiling, Mac murmurs prayers, petitions, promises. He asks God to please, please, help him understand what he needs to change, how he should do things. Let it be as easy for him as it is for everyone else. Always knowing what to say, how to say it. Give him strength to fight when necessary and eloquence to negotiate when needed. Please, please, please, let him be like his father. And please, please, please, take all those impure thoughts out of his head.
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Spending time with Charlie is one of the few respites Mac finds in his daily life. Charlie is strange, sometimes it feels like he is alien. Like Mac, Charlie doesn't understand what is socially acceptable to say or do, but unlike him, Charlie doesn't seem to care. Charlie makes mistakes and they laugh at him, boss him around, manipulate him for fun. And Charlie goes along with it as if nothing happened. He doesn't tense up and try to hit them, he doesn't shout or insult them, he doesn't plan revenge or ruminate about what he should have said or done once the argument is over. Charlie lets the storm pass. He lets every insult go through him, pierce him, poke holes and hurt him, but he just… lets it pass. And then he goes on with his day as if nothing had happened.
In moments like that, when their classmates make fun of them and Mac falls right into their provocations while Charlie remains silent, Mac wonders if Charlie is weaker or stronger than him. When the other boys tease him, Charlie doesn't have that insistent spring that makes him jump and get defensive. It's as if he has already given up, so he accepts that something bad is going to happen to him and just cooperates to make it happen as soon as possible. It's terrifying to see.
But Mac enjoys spending time with Charlie. When they are alone, when no one comes up to them wielding mockery and laughter, being with Charlie is the closest Mac has felt to having a friend. With him, he can let his guard down, tell him anything, be stupid, be loud, be clumsy. Charlie listens to each and every one of his fantasies and not only that, but he plays along, nurtures them, encourages him to make them more and more impressive, unbelievable. Mac could have started with a story about throwing a stone at a stray cat, and the story would escalate to the point where it seemed like he had engaged in bare-knuckle fights with tigers and lions. Charlie allows him to do that. He makes him believe he can be someone better. He allows him to believe it.
And then, there's Dennis. The other side of the coin. With him, once again, Mac never wins. With Dennis, there's no way to win.
Mac remembers perfectly the day Dennis spoke to him for the first time. Charlie and he were hiding under the bleachers, trying to protect themselves from the sun and the prying eyes. It was a hot day, summer was near. The asphalt radiated heat, the air was dry, arid. Sitting on the ground, Mac and Charlie watched the insects crawling out of the earth and discussed the absurd idea of organizing bug fights. Catching a spider and trapping it with a beetle to see who wins. Or a bee against a wasp. Maybe they could set up a betting network and get rich, or record it and create a TV show. They tossed around increasingly excessive and absurd ideas, laughing, shouting, congratulating each other on their ideas as if they had stumbled upon the formula for success, the idea that would give them a new life away from there. No doubt, weed and glue were not helping them keep their feet on the ground.
Then, a voice interrupts them.
"Hey!" It's a melodious voice, firm. Calculated. "You're Ronnie the Rat, aren't you?"
Once again, there's that spring. Mac stands up and tenses his entire body with such effort that a slight tremor can be seen in his arms. He lifts his chin and crosses his arms over his chest. His gaze fixed, his eyes wide open, just like his father always had them. It was an artificial posture, studied over and over again in front of the mirror. He had tried numerous variations: arms in a fighting stance, lips tight, legs wider apart, closer together. A faint smile, a growl, a grimace of disgust. Mac had practiced that pose a thousand times until he found one that made him feel big, powerful, intimidating. However, as he does it now, far from home and the familiarity of his room, his confidence begins to waver. He thinks of Luther, of his terrifying grimace, his gaze, praying that all the genes he might have inherited from him will come into play and help him appear fearsome.
"It’s Mac," he growls, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. "Who's asking?"
For the first time since he arrived, Mac takes a good look at the guy in front of him. Oh, yes, he recognizes him. Dennis Reynolds. One of those damn preppy guys who go to high school with him. They've never spoken, but he knows who he's friends with, and he knows for sure that he has been one of those background laughs that seal the humiliation of an insult, amplify the mockery so that there is no escape or response with even a shred of dignity. When you're on the losing team, there's nothing you can do to come out victorious. And that guy was always among the winners.
"Dennis Reynolds," he replies with a furrowed brow and a grimace of disgust, as if it were obvious, as if there was no way a rat like him wouldn't already know exactly who he was talking to. However, a second later he notices the threatening posture Mac is trying to maintain, and, for a brief moment, a reflexive gesture can be seen on his face. It's just a second, almost imperceptible, but when it's over, his expression is much more cordial, almost friendly. "You're still selling weed?"
Oh. Right. Weed.
Mac relaxes his face slightly, but he doesn't stop tensing the muscles in his arms, trying to make them look as big as possible. The high school's dealer, that's him. The only time people approach him to talk with a minimum of humanity. To ask, to buy. Because he has something they don't, something they want. They ask and ask like Mac asks God for forgiveness on the bathroom floor. They have no choice but to come to him, as Mac had made sure to be the only dealer at school by snitching on all the others. At the time, it seemed like a brilliant plan, but obviously, he hadn't stopped to think about the consequences it would bring. Being a rat. Ronnie the Rat. When he had told his father what he had done, burning with desire to earn his approval, hoping to hear for the first time in his life that his father was proud of him, his hopes were shattered with a strong punch to the face. His father had never hit him so hard, it was such a powerful blow that Ronnie fell to the ground with a groan. His eyes filled with tears, confused, and with panic and obsession, he once again asked God why, why why why he never understood what was expected of him, why was he always confused. Why could he never win.
"How much do you want?" he grumbles under his breath, trying to modulate his voice to sound as deep as possible.
The guy, instead of answering, approaches him with a calm demeanor. He has curly hair, well-groomed, slightly disheveled from the passing day but still soft, shiny, smooth. His face exudes confidence as he puts a hand in his pocket and takes out a few dollars, flashing a mocking half smile. Being this close to each other, Mac can see how blue his eyes are, and he can't help but keep staring at them a couple of seconds longer than he should.
Dennis doesn't seem to mind that gaze. On the contrary, his chest swells slightly, satisfied to be receiving that moment of admiration.
It's not until Mac sees that cocky gesture that he realizes his tough facade is starting to crumble, so he quickly regains his composure. With a grunt, he counts the money the posh guy has given him and hurriedly picks up his backpack from the ground to give him what he owes. As he always does, he gives him slightly less than he should. Fuck him.
"There you go," he says, furrowing his brow. "You can leave now."
Throughout all this time, Charlie hasn't said a word. Charlie always stays on the sidelines when Mac is selling drugs. He doesn't quite understand why he does it, but he knows his mother doesn't like that he and Mac are friends because his family is dangerous... And drugs are undoubtedly part of what scares his mother so much.
Dennis carefully observes the bag, lost in thought. For a moment, Mac fears that he might have noticed that the amount is not correct, so he furrows his brow again, trying to instill fear. However, his threat proves ineffective, and when Dennis raises his face to meet Mac's defiant gaze, all he does is slightly roll his eyes and scoff.
"Jesus, Ronnie, relax," his gesture denotes a certain incredulity, as if he couldn't believe that the high school rat would get defensive with him instead of, I don't know, worshiping and thanking him for even deciding to speak to him. "Come on, if you roll me one I'll share it with you guys, sounds good?"
In those moments, Mac doesn't know it, but they are starting a tradition that will follow them for the rest of their lives. Mac rolls the joint, Dennis lights it up and takes the first, second, and third puff. Then, he reaches out his hand to pass it to Mac, with the smoke still in his throat.
When Mac's and Dennis's fingers touch, a slight electric charge seems to take hold of Mac's body. As if a mere touch against Dennis's skin could flood his own, as if that boy carried within him an inhuman heat, the burning of hundreds of suns held in his chest, ready to lash out the moment another body comes close to his. When Mac takes his first puff, he's unable to look Dennis in the face, so he lowers his eyes, praying that the other guy won't be able to see the terror that overwhelms him every time their hands touch, desperately hoping that his body won't reveal any kind of longing or desire. However, the gleam that lights up Dennis's eyes seems to indicate that he knows, of course he knows. He knows, and that's why every time they pass the joint between them, Dennis slightly exaggerates his gesture to turn the simple act into a caress, prolongs the interaction hoping to elicit a tremor, a choked breath, a look of desperation from Mac. Dennis feeds off the attention that Mac seems reluctant to give but can't help but bestow, lost in a sea of desire that floods him, lashes him, suffocates him. There is nothing, neither God nor the fear of his father nor the guilt that follows those longing thoughts, that can stop the incessant attraction Mac feels every time Dennis touches him. That's why, in the years that follow this first encounter, Mac always says yes when Dennis asks him to roll a joint to share. To feel his warmth, to brush against his fingers. Even if it means fueling the feelings he has worked so hard to bury deep within his core, even if it means spending the night praying for hours, begging for forgiveness, compassion and mercy. Mac will pray for hours for a simple touch, for a second of contact that becomes the floodgate to his most cherished fantasies. Dennis will appear every night in his prayers like a nocturnal terror, an incessant pursuit. He will promise himself that it's the last time he'll let him touch him, the last time he'll speak to him, that he'll stay away from Dennis forever. He promises it to himself and to God. But each and every time, Mac knows he's lying.