#I sculpted and painted this in one night while possessed by the raw energy of Katy Perry's Cozy Little Christmas Music Video

[surely-sims]

𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐌𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟔 𝐨𝐟 𝟏𝟐: 𝙲𝚘𝚣𝚢 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙱𝚎𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚛

TERMS OF USE

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[glennjaminhow]

Winter 1993

“What’re you doing over winter break?” Dennis questions, shouldering his expensive as shit backpack because that’s just how Dennis Reynolds rolls. This bag is awesome; that’s why he makes sure it’s visible at all times. It dangles off a form sculpted to perfection by God himself. He only feels slightly self-conscious as douchebags and whores shove past them both. A massive fucking dick accidentally nudges Dennis’ elbow, and Dennis hisses loudly.

“Watch wear you’re goin’, asshole!” Mac shouts. Ever since Dennis broke his arm in three places last week, Mac’s been even more protective of him than usual. “I dunno,” Mac answers, lighting a blunt for the walk home. He stops, cuffing his hands around it so the fierce winter air doesn’t blow it out. Mac takes a puff, head hanging low and staring at the icy ground below.

Mac’s parents don’t really give a shit about him. Dennis knows this. But he’s bored, and he sure as shit doesn’t want to go home right now. Mom and Dad are both there. They got back from Jamaica super fucking early this morning. It was nice not having them home. It was just him, Dee, and whatever maids worked that day. They don’t even know about Dennis crashing his dad’s car into a tree or Dennis’ ridiculous hospital bill or the blue cast encasing his whole arm from fingers and shoulder; he’ll set off security alarms at airports for the rest of his life.

“Well, what’re you doing right now?”

Mac frowns and bites his lower lip. “Um... nothing?”

“Great,” Dennis says. “I’m coming over.

Mac stops him right there. “Why? We’ve never hung out at my place before.”

Dennis shrugs. Mac’s slicked back hair pokes out from under his black beanie. His leather jacket has a new tear right below his left pocket. “Exactly. We always go to my house. You eat my shit and play my games and drink my beer and sleep in my bed, so now I’m gonna do the same thing to you.”

“Whatever, dude. But don’t complain when you see it. Not everyone’s rich as shit like you.”

Dennis rolls his eyes, but he follows Mac regardless. Mac’s house is further from the school than Dennis’, which always leads to super fucking fun walks in the snow, heat, wind, and rain. Usually, Dennis drives him in his own car (which he’s grounded from) or his dad’s car (which he wrecked). Now that Dennis isn’t supposed to drive, and Dee’s threatening to tell Mom and Dad, they walk everywhere they need to go. It isn’t great. In fact, it’s fucking infuriating. But his secret has to stay a secret. Sure, Mom and Dad’ll see his arm, but they don’t need to know about the panic attack or running of the road into a ditch at 60 miles per hour.

They... just don’t need to know.

Mac shrugs off his leather jacket the moment he unlocks the door, hanging it on a hook and toing out of his snowy boots.

“It smells fucking great in here, Mac,” Dennis says while struggling to remove his coat; Mac does it for him. It smells like cinnamon and cloves and fucking Christmas even though there isn’t a tree or any decorations in sight. Huh. Weird.

“Yeah, I guess,” Mac mumbles. “Take off your shoes, bro.”

“I don’t make you do that at my house.”

Mac shrugs. “Tough shit. My house. My rules.”

Dennis does it eventually. He scowls as he kicks them off, not bothering with untying them because he may’ve sort of hurt his ribs in the accident. There’s bruising around his hips and ribcage. It aches, but not as much as watching Mac flea the car with a bloody nose and two black eyes. Not as much as watching Mac almost break down in tears. Mac never cries.

Okay. Stop. Quit thinking about it.

“Jesus, it’s like spotless in here, dude,” Dennis points out, clearing his throat and roaming around the living room like he owns the place. The TV screen has a slight crack in the upper right corner. The walls are coated with thick, messy layers of paint to combat against peeling. “Your mom must be some sorta neat freak.”

“Nope,” Mac replies simply, plopping down on the sofa. Dennis sits until he’s shoulder to shoulder with him. Dennis scratches his neck; this stupid fucking sling itches and hurts his back, and he’s suddenly feeling the three sleepless nights slamming into him all at once. “Den, stop, man. That’s gotta hurt.” Dennis tugs and grumbles and fusses until Mac coaxes his arm free of the horrible contraption. He places a couch pillow between his arm and his stomach for padding.

He doesn’t tell Mac he can do things on his own because it’s nice having Mac take care of him.

“Your dad?” he asks, even though, Jesus Christ, does he already know the answer to that one.

“Can we not talk about my parents? Let’s just, like, play video games or some shit.”

Dennis ignores him. “How can your couch be this fucking clean?” he asks, almost in disbelief, as if his poor friend Mac doesn’t know how to get off his ass and clean a Goddamn couch.

“I like the house to be clean,” Mac says.

“Yeah, me too.”

“But not everyone has maids, Dennis. Some people do all this themselves.”

“Sure, but parents usually play a part in the whole cleanliness routine. What? Your mom still tells you to brush your teeth every morning and night? Daddy reminds you to wash your balls?”

Mac’s cheeks flame red. Dennis almost bites his bottom lip. He’s egging it on on purpose. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, what possesses him to be such a dick, but he can’t take it back once the words escape his lips.

“Shut the fuck up, Dennis, you rich, punkass, piece of shit. My dad’s in jail, okay? He isn’t around anymore. And my mom? My mom works overnight at a gas station just to keep the fucking electricity on. She doesn’t have time to clean and make sure the house isn’t falling apart.”

“Dude, I –”

Mac gets to his feet. He pops his knuckles. “No. I’m tired of this. What kinda fucking friend are you anyway?”

Dennis holds up his one working hand, signaling for Mac to be quiet. Mac frowns and clams up immediately, and Dennis relishes in the power. “I know your dad’s in jail, dipshit. You only mention it a thousand times a day. I know all about your chain-smoking, alcoholic mother too. I was just busting your balls.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Mac whispers.

Dennis stands up too. “Oh yeah? I don��t know anything about you?”

“You’re always too concerned with yourself.”

“Your full and real name, Mac, is Ronald Herbert McDonald, which, by the way, is still only slightly worse than Mac. Your mom called you Ronnie til you were three; you think that’s when she stopped loving you. You’re allergic to strawberries and swell up like a fucking balloon if you even touch one. You like starfish. You hate The Muppets; they freak you out. Your dad went to jail for the first time when you were five for selling cocaine. You met Charlie in first grade. You met my sister before you met me. You listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers way too often. You –”

Mac sinks to the clean carpet, resting his back against the couch. Dennis sees the tears swell in his eyes and sees when Mac tries to blink them away.

“I pay attention,” Dennis says. “But I didn’t know you were so... into things being clean. It makes sense, though.”

Mac blinks. “What do you mean?”

Dennis shrugs, settling down on the floor beside Mac. “Your life is shit, dude. You gotta control it somehow. You clean. I smoke. It’s all the same.”

“Can... Can we just not talk about this anymore? You’ve fucked with my head enough for one day?”

Dennis gulps, sucking in a deep breath while nodding. “Sure, dude,” he whispers, and, holy shit, it doesn’t even sound like him. He doesn’t sound like Dennis Reynolds.

“Awesome. Great. Thanks.”

Too far. He went too far. Why does he always have to push buttons like this? It’s fucking revolting. He’s 17, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t like talking about his parents, about his past, about what happened to him, so why would it be any different for Mac?

They spend the rest of the afternoon at Mac’s house in near silence, watching MTV and lighting up joint after joint while guzzling a case of cheap beer. Dennis sprawls out on the couch, lightheaded and sore, while Mac relaxes in his mom’s threadbare recliner. It’s almost peaceful, but Dennis can feel that tension in the air. He keeps his mouth shut.

“I’m gonna go crash, man,” Mac murmurs at 2:30 AM.

Dennis yawns and nods. He makes no effort to move.

“Sooo can you, like, leave?”

Dennis whines. “It’s really dark out, Mac. I’m tired.”

He hears Mac exhale loudly. “Fine. But you can’t sleep out here. Mom’ll be back around seven.”

Mac guides Dennis to his bedroom. It’s small, but he has a full-sized bed, karate posters on the walls, and an extensive CD collection. There’s a couple of crosses on the walls; Dennis rolls his eyes and sinks into the mattress. There aren’t any sheets, just a comforter. His arm is on fucking fire, pain burrowing deep inside the bone. He closes his eyes and breathes through it.

“Sit up for a sec, Den,” he hears.

It falls on deaf ears until Mac flicks his cheek.

Mac helps him put that stupid fucking sling back on, settling a pillow beneath his elbow. It relieves some of the pressure. Dennis’ eyes are quick to fill with tears.

“I’m sorry, Mac,” he whispers. “About earlier. I’m a fucking dick.”

Mac collapses into bed, clicking the lamp off. Dennis can smell the cinnamon on his breath. Can feel Mac’s bare feet on his shins. Can almost taste the blunt he just smoked. “You are a fucking dick, Den. But you’re my dick.”

Dennis chuckles softly. “I bet I’m an 12 out of 10 down there then.”

“Gross. You’re nasty, man.”

It’s quiet for a few moments. Dennis rolls over until he’s on his left side, not exactly being careful of his barely mended together arm and not exactly caring either. He scoots until their foreheads touch.

“Is this okay?” Dennis asks, voice punctuating this cold December night.

He’s flush against Mac; Mac nods in the darkness.

Maybe Dennis presses his lips against Mac’s.

Maybe Mac doesn’t pull away.

Maybe, just maybe, they hardcore make out until the sun rises.

There’s a spark of electricity, of pure, raw, unaltered energy that Dennis feels for the first time in his life. Fuck, Mac is a great kisser. Like the dude has some killer moves. Dennis cards his fingers through Mac’s gelled hair. Mac bites Dennis’ bottom lip. He doesn’t... He isn’t... Dennis isn’t sure how this is fucking possible. He’s happy? He thinks. He’s still weird with emotions and can’t really feel them, but he thinks he’s feeling them right now?

Dennis tries not to blush when Mac plants several kisses in his hair.

It’s new. It’s amazing. It’s nearly indescribable.

Mac. It’s Mac.