#((it would NOT be pleasant! true it would probably be over quicker than suffocation by snake))

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"Junebug?" Josephine echoed with a curious smile, at which Wilhelm's pale, freckled cheeks lit up, explaining, "Ah, well...during one of our first dates, we went on a walk through the park. It was summertime, and all the fireflies were out-she called 'em "junebugs" and, well...the nickname just stuck."

August smiled fondly at this, replying, "My nickname for her when she was growing up was Moonface."

"Moonface?" Lon echoed confusedly, tilting his head at this, to which his grandfather explained, "She had the roundest face when she was born, and a lot of years afterwards: Round face, chubby cheeks, very pale, especially with that black hair of hers; it made her seem even paler."

"She comes by it honestly," Josephine chuckled-both she and her husband had jet black hair, and their daughter proved to be just the same way-clearly, her grandson and great-grandson were the same way. "So, with that pale face of hers, August started calling her Moonface. She used to giggle up a storm when he'd call her that; just a little tot playing in the garden, and she'd run right up to him when she heard him call her!"

As Josephine continued to regale the others at the table with stories from June's childhood (particularly her misadventures in the dirt, loving to make little mudholes to cool down in during the summer-as well as letting the mud dry on her skin as she continued to run around and play, necessitating a bath), August ventured to ask Erika:

"Your grandmother used to dance with me when she was your age-whenever we heard the music from one of the neighboring restaurants, she used to stand on my feet, and we'd dance in the living room. Would...would you like to dance with me, my dear?

You don't have to if you don't want to," he was quick to reassure her, in case she wasn't comfortable with that yet-he just thought he'd ask.

[alwayssunnyprompts]

“The Gang Makes Paddy’s Great Again” Scene Continuation Fic

It’s here. 

Writing this has been a labor of love, but a labor all the same! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing hurt Mac, overwhelmed Dennis, and the emotional fallout of recent events. This takes place post-The Gang Makes Paddy’s Great Again, essentially directly after the end of the episode. Enjoy!

He goes home with Mac. Home to Mac. The ride back from Paddy’s is painfully quiet. At first he tries to make some conversation, asks him about that annoying Cindy and even dances around the subject of…the doll. But, they all fall flat, come up empty. Mac is clearly focused on the road and Dennis can see his jaw clenching, his eyes set and hard, facing forward. 

He doesn’t speak the whole drive.

And Dennis doesn’t like it, because the buzz of the AC blasting through the vents and the ticking of Mac’s blinker cut through the silence so loudly that he can feel them pulse in his head. A switch is flipped and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of every sound—Mac’s deep, measured breathing, the squeak of his breaks, an ambulance in the distance, the click of his own teeth as his jaw works unconsciously, grinding them together. Chills travel up his spine, and he feels cold sweat forming on his aching forehead. His blood pressure is through the roof, whether it’s anger or frustration or fear or guilt or any number of emotions that he’s trying to put a name to but can’t. The Bad Empty Feeling reaches down to the pit of his stomach, and just as he thinks he might throw up—Mac parks the car, and he realizes they’re home.

Wordlessly, Mac unbuckles his seatbelt, hardly waiting for Dennis to follow as he starts up the stairs. Dennis falls in step quickly, terrified to say anything, nausea still rolling dangerously in his stomach.

They get to the fork in the hall and Dennis stands for a moment, swallows convulsively. Why does he feel so afraid?

“It’s um...it’s this way, Den—Dennis. If you don’t remember.” Mac speaks so quietly and so awkwardly that it’s a wonder Dennis hears him at all. The implication that Dennis has forgotten how to get to the apartment they’ve lived in for a over a decade is hilarious and just a tinge painful.

“I know, Mac. I was just thinking,” he keeps his voice level and calm—informative rather than accusatory.

“Oh. Right.” Mac looks down, a blush coloring his cheeks. Is he...embarrassed? In front of him? Why would Mac be embarrassed in front of him? He quiets the part of his brain that wants to demand an explanation.

“Come on,” he says softly, placing a hand on Mac’s back to guide him. He doesn’t expect Mac to tense up, flinching away from the contact, mouth pressed tightly shut again as he walks a little quicker to unlock the door.

Even though it’s a bullshit emotion, Dennis can feel the heartbreak gushing through his veins. He probably deserves this. The nausea is back in full force, and he breathes deeply to try and calm it.

Mac must be angry at him. Really angry. It takes a lot for him to resort to this uncomfortable silence. Usually, he won’t shut up, even if Dennis is tired and volatile and seething with rage. Even then, Mac seems almost willfully oblivious.

As soon as they enter Mac’s meticulous recreation of their apartment, his vision starts swimming. Tears? Vertigo? Either way, he feels sick. He can’t move. Is he breathing? He doesn’t know. His head is tight and his brain feels swollen. Maybe it’s a stroke and he’s dying, and for a split second he wants it to be, because he’s a piece of shit and he’s kidding himself if he thinks he’s ever going to turn his life around.

It’s over, because he ruined the one good thing he had going for him.

He tries to speak but his throat is locked up and all that comes out is a low moan, pathetic and choked.

Mac, who’s busied himself in the kitchen, looks up from the water he’s pouring.

“Dennis?”

Concern fills his voice. He crosses the room in a few large strides, at his side in a second, hands hovering just over Dennis’s arms like he’s afraid to actually touch him. His searches Dennis’s face intently, brow furrowed and eyes squinting slightly. The expression is so familiar, so comforting. But his face is guarded, detached, in a way that it never was before. He’s not sure if his body can handle the waves of regret and guilt that threaten to swallow him.

“Are you okay?” He speaks so gently that Dennis almost bursts into tears. “What is it?”

Dennis feels his head shaking. No, no, no, not okay. Not okay.

“I know, I know,” Mac soothes, “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Does anything hurt?”

He thinks hard before shaking his head again. Not physically hurt. 

Mac gets the message, nodding slowly, his eyes never leaving Dennis’s, warm and caring like they’ve always been, and he leads Dennis toward the bathroom, fingers ghosting over him but still not making contact. This feels like how they’ve always been but it’s all so warped with age and time and mistakes and pain that he thinks he might want to die here, in this moment, rather than think about any of it ever again.

But Mac won’t touch him.

The bathroom is white and smells like bleach, sterile and cold. He hates it. But he feels too sick to be anywhere else in the house, so he lets Mac lead him and sits slowly down on the floor. Mac stands over him for a minute. He looks so intimidating and strong. Dennis’s mind wanders away from him, empty and dazed. Mac is goddamn beautiful.

And then Mac lowers himself to sit next to Dennis, cautious and deliberate, watching him like he’s a wild animal.

It’s still so quiet.

They sit that way for few minutes. Though it could have been anywhere between 30 seconds and 30 hours, at the rate his brain was processing time. Mac is still watching him like he’s going to break, which is ridiculous.

He has already broken.

His hands are shaking so badly that he starts to feel chills from the sensation. Reaches a hand to wipe at his nose before he thinks again and covers his face completely.

Deprived of some of his senses, he tries to force himself to come down from the attack. He focuses on the darkness in front of his eyes, punctuated by slivers of silver light peeking through his fingers. He feels his own rapid, warm breath against his skin, the clamminess of his sweaty hands. Tries to sink into the void of black, insulated and floating and free of feeling anything at all. The fiery tendrils of panic start to fade and a pleasant, familiar numbness takes their place. He knows the emptiness well. It’s the only feeling stronger than the panic and pain, the cacophony of evil emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. He is alone. He is safe.

Except he isn’t alone.

Not physically, at least, as he’s reminded by Mac shifting his leg next to him. He lowers his hands and is struck momentarily at the blinding light that hits his eyes, sending a shooting pain through his head.

Mac is still looking at him. Sad and worried and far-away. But hidden. His feelings are usually on such open display, but now they’re almost cryptically disguised.

Does Mac feel the same emptiness? Is he going through the motions of caring? How does he cope with feeling? To Dennis, the onslaught of emotions is all-consuming and he can’t stand it, and Mac still seems so subdued and if he wasn’t so goddamn miserable he’d laugh bitterly about how the tables have turned, make some stupid joke about what was like to deal with Mac’s emotions constantly, even though he knows that isn’t true. Mac’s stability is what got him through the worst days of his life. His openness, his comfort—but now it’s gone. He needs to accept it, turn himself off, because if he doesn’t, he’ll go crazy.

The cabinets creak and cut through the tension, the silence—it’s so goddamn quiet that he swears he can hear himself blinking—and all he can feel is the distance, the suffocating vacuum, his nerve-endings firing and pulling and aching for anything—

“Talk to me!”

The words tear out of his throat in a voice that doesn’t sound like his. War-torn and raw and so desperate for anything that could fix this, clogged and disgusting from snot and suppressed tears. He’s not sure he’s ever been more pathetic. After all the hard work he’d been doing to try and take control of his emotions, they had beaten him again.

Mac’s eyebrows raise in that incredulous look of surprise that he seems to wear constantly. He looks genuinely shocked. His eyes are wide and Dennis wishes he was close enough to stare into them, see the reflections dancing there, marvel at the way his eyelashes droop in just the right way to make him look even more perfect.

He stares at Dennis for a few seconds, calculating, the gears turning in his brain. Dennis feels like he’s going to the chair, like he’s waiting for a terminal diagnosis, his heart is in his throat.

Mac takes a deep breath.  

“Dennis, I don’t know what to say.”

That’s not good enough.

“Well, you’ve had plenty of time to think about it,” he hears himself saying, “you’ve been ignoring me all day, which is rich, by the way, coming from you.”

There’s venom in the words but he can’t help himself. He’s too tired, he can feel his brain stuttering through the exhaustion, empty and racing all at once. The sweat dampening his skin has gone cold.

For the first time, Mac looks truly upset. Dennis can see a flush creeping down his neck, he eyes harsh and bright with righteous anger. He feels a rush of pleasure that he’s able to elicit a response from him for the first time since he came back. But the pleasant heat of having control is overwhelmed by the nauseating anxiety still sitting in his stomach. He’s lucky that he hasn’t eaten today.

“How could you say that?”

Mac’s voice is controlled, more so than Dennis has ever heard it sound before. Devoid of emotion. It’s a genuine question, he realizes, one Mac expects him to answer, but his throat is locked up again. He’s said something wrong, he’s sure of it.

Mac continues.

“You left, remember? After everything, you left! You hardly said goodbye. And I’m not allowed to miss you? I’m not allowed to be angry? Screw you, Dennis.”

He’s breathing heavy, fire on his tongue and rage burning behind his eyes. He keeps going.

“You don’t even know half the shit you’ve put me through. You’re so bothered by a couple hours of tasting your own medicine that you don’t know what to do with yourself. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it, Dennis. I hated myself when you left, I felt like it was my fault. Like I wasn’t good enough for you. And that’s just it. Even before you left, I was never good enough. You made sure I knew that. So don’t you dare tell me how I’m allowed to feel now.”

Mac is making direct eye contact for the first time all day. His face is beet red and veins in his neck are pulsing. He wrings quivering hands together, over and over. Eyes are bloodshot and tired, a stray tear escapes and he angrily rubs it away.

He wants to tell Mac that he’s wrong. That he was always enough. More than enough. That he’s the one that doesn’t deserve Mac. But even now he can’t make himself that vulnerable, that susceptible to hurt. He can feel the only good relationship he’s ever had unraveling and it’s his fault but he can’t stop himself. He says nothing, staring at the tiled floor. He can feel himself retreating, deeper and deeper inside so he doesn’t have to feel like this anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.”

Mac shakes his head. In disgust, probably.

Should he tell him the truth? Would it matter now? He feels himself whispering, slow and fearful.

“I—I checked myself into a mental health clinic.”

It’s out in the open and he can’t take it back.

Mac looks confused again. Less enraged. The red flush is fading little by little.

“What?” He keeps the word short, still hardened with anger, but his expression falters.

“Things were bad, Mac. I—I wasn’t used to being away from the guys. From you. It was more change than I could handle. I thought that I could, but I couldn’t. I was taking my meds but I was still feeling worse. I was so...angry. Depressed. I was dangerous. To Mandy, to myself. I never hurt her, never even touched her, but she was worried about me. She tried to help. We both knew she couldn’t. She convinced me to go. Even said she’d pay for it. I didn’t let her. Mac, it was one of the only good things I’ve ever done. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t. But I gave you that number and thought that you might put two and two together. It was stupid. But I was terrified and lonely and not ready to say anything. I left you in the dark because I was too much of a coward to—”

Mac’s hand is on his.

Mac’s hand.

Is on his.

Emotion explodes back into his chest, hot and sudden and enough to make his toes curl.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mac whispers.

Shit.

He can feel himself coming down from the high. This isn’t what he wants. He’s bad. He’s selfish. He isn’t worth Mac’s adoration. This wasn’t what he was trying to do. Is he just manipulating Mac again?

“Mac, please...don’t do this, I’m a piece of shit. Don’t be nice to me. Don’t. I can’t take it.  I don’t deserve it.”

He feels tears pooling in his eyes. This is too much. This is too much.

“I don’t forgive you for ghosting me. For leaving me behind without a second thought. I’m still pissed at you, and I’m hurt, and I don’t think I’m going to get over it for a long time.”

Dennis feels his heart sinking, but he’s no longer in emotional freefall. More like  acceptance. He nods. This is what he deserves.

“But you deserve to feel something other than guilt, too. Dude, I am so proud of you. It’s a big step and I’m not gonna let my anger take that from you. You deserve more than that, Den.”

Mac’s voice is dripping with sincerity.

His expression is a mix of hurt and warmth. And Dennis feels himself getting worked up because thank God the warmth is back. In this moment, Dennis loves him. He loves him so fucking much that it takes everything in him not to grab Mac by the shirt and kiss him longer and deeper than he’s ever kissed anyone.

“How? How are you...how can you be like this?”

The words come out sounding like he’s having a stroke, but he’s still numb with shock.

The corner of Mac’s mouth twitches, not a smile, but the ghost of one, the idea of one. The ice behind his eyes is thawing, Dennis can tell.

“Because, even after all this shit, I missed you so much. And I’m so fucking glad you’re back.”

He’s smiling for real now, small and cautious, but a smile all the same. His hand curls tightly around Dennis’s, thumb stroking his palm, brings his other hand over to do the same, cradling Dennis’s delicately. Mac’s hands are big and smooth, and Dennis feels his heart rate rising.

“I missed you, too,” he murmurs.

He feels his energy fading. It's been happening a lot lately. He can’t seem to be awake more than eight hours. Just wants to sleep so badly. He wrenches his eyelids open, so he can stare at Mac’s hands on his. He needs to keep this moment.

Mac notices him staring, offers another, near imperceptible, smile. Lets his hand stroke Dennis’s thumb. He scoots forward, his other hand coming up to rest heavily on Dennis’s cheek, cupping the side of his face, tilting his chin to look at him.

Dennis feels so small. He’s been even worse about eating food than usual. Combined with stress, he’s lost a good fifteen pounds since they saw each other last. But Mac looks so healthy and strong. He radiates warm energy. So warm and powerful that it almost reaches Dennis in his icy shell.

Mac is making unblinking eye contact, the corners of his eyelids crinkle as he smiles, whispering, “I love you.”

Dennis suddenly remembers the first time that Mac said those words to him. Years ago, when the McPoyles duped them into thinking they were being held hostage in their own bar. They were sweaty and hysteric and almost positive they were going to die. Dee and Charlie were most certainly planning to off them if the McPoyles didn’t get to them first. But Mac had grabbed his arm, and confessed his feelings, amidst the chaos. And Dennis hadn’t said anything back because how could he?

He isn’t going to make that mistake again.

“I love you, too.”