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For the past few days, Dennis has had a nasty cough, one that weakens his joints and keeps him feeling woozy. Eventually he gave in to it at around day 6 and stopped with his whole ‘if I were sick, I’d simply not be sick’ bullshit, allowing Mac to do simple deeds for him like take his shirt off before a shower when his arms were sore, or fetch him some medicine (and he’d deny it if asked, but a few times he might’ve ‘needed’ help drinking his medicine, laying back as Mac spoonfed it to him with gentle hands and a few reassurances when he couldn’t stomach the taste.)
That’s how they’ve ended up here, Dennis sitting on the edge of the slowly filling tub, freezingly naked as he impatiently rubs his own arms for warmth as Mac is getting a clean towel for him.
“Can you be any slower?!”
“Sorry, Dennis!”
Dennis sighs, rolling his eyes and rubbing his knees together when Mac comes in, pointedly looking away as he sets the (not so folded anymore) towel down on the sink counter, moving forwards to stop the tap without being asked to do so, Dennis not even being aware of the dangerously rising water level until the knobs were twisted until the tub settled. “Thanks,” his voice croaks a bit, and he rubs at his throat, staring down at the ripples of water from where he’s absentmindedly swishing his feet.
“Do you need help getting in?” Mac asks, and Dennis wants to say ‘of course not, I’ve got it,’ but he knows by now that all of his recent attempts at independency just end in his limbs hurting and the room swaying with the effort, so with a bit of hesitation he just nods silently, allowing Mac to hold him under his armpits so he can slip into the water with criss crossed legs. Dennis settles, the shaky tension in his shoulders dissipating in the warm water. Mac smiles, a simple one, and moves to leave.
Dennis can’t help but call out “wait,” and the other man pauses, turning around with his eyebrows raised, his hazel eyes sparkling with a certain fondness that really doesn’t help Dennis’ nausea symptoms. “Wash my hair?” Dennis tries, the words coming out weakly and with obvious vulnerability. Dennis almost worries Mac will say no and laugh it off, but his body language seems to shrink down with his height, shortening as he crouches to sit on his knees at the side of the bathtub, knees sinking into their ratty bath rug.
“Yeah of course, Den,” It’s whispered, a promise only meant for him, and Dennis felt his face tilting down, his gaze pointed up at Mac through his fanned eyelashes, suddenly feeling smaller than he had before. Cared for. His face is hot now, and he knows it’s not his fever.
They sit for an awkward beat, until Mac moves to grab Dennis’ bottle of shampoo, the container a royal purple, some fancy shit he insists on buying for ‘maximum hair health.’ Mac doesn’t buy it of course, sticking to his 4 in 1. As he squeezes the bottle, Dennis notices he’s put too much in his hand and hisses at him, snatching the bottle away with much less finesse than he usually would, setting it down hard on the shower cubby with a clack, glowering at Mac’s sheepish expression. But he doesn’t make a big deal, doesn’t scream, probably out of exhaustion rather than being magnanimous.
Mac is relieved, so he moves to scoop up a handful of water in his non-shampoo-filled right hand, pouring it gently over Dennis’ hair, his eyelashes fluttering shut and his brow furrowing so as to not get any of the water in his eyes. “You’re fine,” Mac insists, using his left (and right) hand to now scrub his damp brown locks in the light pink gel, rubbing his fingers into Dennis’ scalp none too roughly until suds rise to the surface of his hair, Dennis slowly tilting his head back as Mac’s hands move up to the front of his scalp, brushing a few wet curls out of his forehead as he goes, unsticking the pieces so gently Dennis can hardly even feel it if it weren’t for the way his fingers can’t help but coil each piece around his digits before letting go. The sick man opens his eyes gently, looking up at the focused expression clouding Mac’s face, his downturned eyes gentle and soft, distracted and not even noticing the others’ ogling, gaze roving over his saturated hair and the drops of water that trail down his pale back.
“You have such pretty hair, Den…” Mac whispers, sharp in the quiet room, underlined by the gentle swishing of the bathwater and the drops of water hitting the surface. Dennis hums, closing his eyes again as he feels Mac put his right hand on his brow, the other hand dipping under the water. “I’m going to wash your hair out now, keep your head tilted back.” Dennis realizes now that his right hand is protecting his eyes from the racing suds falling down his head as a few handfuls of warm water cascade over his head, and he sighs as he swears he can feel his sickness almost washing out too, picturing it a putrid green swirling with frothy white shampoo, Mac reaching over and taking the drain stopper out and letting his worries deplete until the murky water swirls in a small vortex over the shower drain like a tornado.
They sit for a while, mostly quiet, with Mac conditioning his hair gently and talking to him only to clarify what he’s doing. Dennis hardly thinks at all, his mind floaty and gentle like his head is clogged full of cotton and he couldn’t think if he tried.
“Time for your body now, dude,” Mac prompts, and a beat passes before Dennis realizes he’s asking to leave so he can wash his own body, alone. He finds himself dreading that prospect. His last bath was actually a shower, and Mac hadn’t helped him at all with bathing, just fetching the towel. Dennis flushes, embarrassed at remembering late that this was a special circumstance, and Mac does do a lot for him, but draws a line at washing his body. A line Dennis hadn’t even considered, or oddly enough, even cared about. Mac shifts to stand, but is soon stopped much to his confusion as Dennis grips onto his forearm, soapy water dripping onto his skin now. Mac sits down again, intent on whatever the other man may need him for now.
“Help?” Dennis pleads, wheezing a bit as he’s suddenly hit with vulnerable illness again. Mac stammers at the picture Dennis paints. The peaks of his collarbones slick with dripping moisture, his eyes rimmed a deathly red and permanently watery as of late, with his saturated curls sticking to his face like a cherub. Mac nods, fervently. “Yeah –” he chokes a bit, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Of course, man.” Dennis weakly loosens his lithe hand until it’s back in the water, pressed against his other hand on his lap. It’s easy for Dennis to ease back into that curiously calm state, with Mac moving his arms up to scrub his sides and propping him back to take his smooth leg into his grip easily, running the soap along his skin with a certain delicacy that makes Dennis feel… small, again. Not insignificant, but protected.
He doesn’t tussle, doesn’t scratch, and certainly makes no trouble for Mac as he simply complies to his suggestions as if they’re commands, not even nodding but just doing. Moving his head to allow Mac to rub at his back and neck, sitting up on his knees so Mac can scrub his sensitive inner thighs, one hand wrapped around his middle to stop his strained knees from giving out.
Mac doesn’t even consider seeing Dennis’ cock until he’s raised above the water, and his freckled cheeks burn red as he tries super hard not to look at his soft dick, laying delicately, and he hysterically thinks it might be beautiful. He rubs and scrubs at his thighs and stomach, rubbing at the small of his back without much thought, wanting him to be cleaned and cared for but mainly just stalling. It’s pretty clear now that Dennis wouldn’t mind if he touched him there to clean him, so he raises a tentative hand to press his wet fingers against the space below his navel, looking up at Dennis for permission. Oddly, Dennis doesn’t answer, just waits and looks at him with this spacey expression, his eyes wide and anticipated. “Can I touch you here? Just to get you clean,” Mac promises, and Dennis blinks at him for a long moment before nodding, letting a hand rise and fall onto Macs’ shoulder and darkening the fabric of his sleeveless tee.
Turns out, it’s pretty easy for Mac to ignore what he’s touching with how distracted he is, his mind immediately racing towards taking care of Dennis before it races to freaking out. And the other man doesn’t seem too bothered, just shifting a little on his knees and breathing out shakily when Mac accidentally runs his hand over his shaft a tad too prominently.
Dennis’ ears unclog and he groggily looks at Mac after a long while, and realizes now that they’re done and he’s been trying to get his attention. “– need to get up now, dude. Gotta get into bed.” Before he can formulate coherent words, he's practically lifted out of the draining tub and patted dry with that bath towel until he’s good and dry enough to exit the bathroom without getting the carpets all wet with his footprints.
Mac practically holds him up until he’s gently sat on his bed, groaning a bit at the posture change and soon forgetting about it when Mac hurries to shush him, rubbing at his side and cooing until he’s calm again, padding over to fish clothes out of Dennis’ dresser until he’s holding pajama pants, a tee shirt and boxer briefs in front of Dennis, waiting for him to move until Mac realizes once again that he’s just waiting for him to do it, so he shuffles the other man into a lying position, wincing in sympathy as he lets out a bad cough, sniffling as Mac grabs the pair of blue boxer briefs and pulls them up the expanse of his smooth legs, tucking his soft cock into them gently and shifting the waistband until it’s snug with his hips, and Dennis swears he can feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress, as if half awake, yet not at all tired (if you don’t count physical exhaustion.)
“Need to get your shirt on Den,” Mac says, pulling Dennis up gently by his back with two hands until he’s sat up, not having to ask before he’s already lifting his arms and accepting the fabric being pulled down his head, dropping his hands to his sides and laying back down heavily when he knows now that his pants are last. They’re easy to get on, and when Mac’s done dressing him, he pats his hip and sits up proudly, smiling down at Dennis before leaning back down to lay him in the middle of the bed instead of half on the mattress with his calves dangling off the side. “Wasn’t so hard, now was it?” Mac muses with a grin, and Dennis finds himself nodding, his eyes halflidded and vocabulary gone. “You okay?” Mac asks with genuine concern in his voice, palpable concern, the kind only Mac could formulate with his eagerness to please, and Dennis nods again, whining low in the back of his throat and waiting. Until, he realizes there’s hardly more to do other than tuck him in now, and suddenly he feels an urgency for Mac to help him longer. With what? Hell, he doesn’t even know. If he could think, he’d probably still need hours to come up with something. “Help?” He mirrors himself from about twenty minutes ago, his voice tiny and far away, as if that’s the only word he knows.
Mac furrows his brow at him, and Dennis realizes now with a warm face what he needs help with. Through the fog of his unusually slow cognitive skills, he soon realizes that he can feel steady and nauseating arousal pooling in his tummy, pulling at his tendons like puppet strings and filling him with panic and need, as if not having Mac’s hands on him to guide him is the same as dropping him outside in the cold rain, abandoned. He feels abandoned, and needs help. Help to not feel alone and forgotten. With panic, he reaches out for Mac’s wrist and pulls his palm in to cradle his cheek, pressing into it, looking up at the brunette through his eyebrows.
It seems now his intentions are effective, as Mac’s breath gets caught in his chest, and he moves to sit next to Dennis on his bed now, looking down at him carefully like one wrong move will either shatter poor, sick Dennis or even himself into a million tiny pieces. He knows that kissing Dennis’ mouth is not just unsafe, but also hella gross, so he instead leans down to brush drying curls out of his forehead to press his lips against the skin and kiss between his eyebrows, his hand roving from cradling his cheek to instead cradling his neck, rubbing his thumb against the side of Dennis’ throat. Dennis whines unhappily, sounding distraught as if it isn’t enough. And for a moment, Mac feels a bit confused until he hears shuffling and looks down to the side to see Dennis’ hips moving uncomfortably, pressing up as his back arches into a smooth curve, as if offering himself on a silver platter for Mac to do as he pleases. The thought itself causes his arousal to swell, his cock hardening and his throat feeling clogged as he tries to swallow.
“Can I touch you?” Mac asks, and Dennis nods, his tongue running over his lips and leaving them shiny in the trail. So he reaches out, shuffling a warm hand to press over Dennis’ feverish belly, swiping the smooth skin of his midriff until he’s shivering, hands still laid to the sides of his head, allowing Mac to do this to him, like he couldn’t have control even if he wanted to. “Mac, ‘m so sick,” Dennis cries, and Mac shushes him with no malice. “I know.”
And soon, Mac realizes Dennis still is asking for more, and Dennis moves to lazily bring his own pants down, his wrists floppy and fingers lacking deftness as Mac has to take over and bring them down for him, groping at his (still flaccid) bulge with gentleness, before hooking his thumbs into the waistband and pulling his boxer briefs down too, freeing his soft cock and letting it rest on the tiny curve of his flat tummy, laid out and vulnerable. Begging to be cared for. Mac shifts on the bed, now sitting with his legs out and propped up on his elbow, resting it on the pillow next to Dennis' head.
“Can I touch you here?” Mac asks, and Dennis sobs in response, squeezing his hazy blue eyes shut and nodding, pressing his face into the juncture of Macs’ armpit with a crackling whine as his soft cock is gently gripped, a mindful thumb rubbing over his cockhead and massaging down his shaft like it’s the most fragile thing in the world, and his head is spinning again, urgency overtaking his veins and he just needs more.
Mac can feel Dennis’ cock hardening in his palm, reddening at his tip and slowly growing. He can’t help but think it’s so perfect, so gorgeous. Curving slightly to the left, long and thin but not very large, but that’s fine. More than fine, he’s the perfect size, fitting in his palm like a well tailored glove. His pink tip is flushing red the more he fondles at his crotch, smiling to himself as he watches Dennis’ face twisted in teased pleasure, panting and resting heavily into Mac’s chest, pressing the side of his face into his shirt as his hips buck weakly and he makes mewls so silent they hardly have any sound to them.
Soon his cockhead is leaking steadily, and the wetness gets spread over his length as Mac works over his cock with care, watching him and pressing kisses into his hair. “You’re so perfect, Den, just for me,” He coos, and Dennis whimpers in response, probably not even listening. He’s never seen him in this context, and certainly not like this. “Such a pretty cock,” Mac says, tilting his head with an odd stroke of pride, watching Dennis react and cry for more, more, more.
Dennis tries to say something but it’s muffled in Mac’s shirt, leaving him to hum in confusion and falter his stroking rhythm a bit.
“Please, please… ” Dennis whispers, head tilting to the side to let his words be clear, his eyes pressed shut and his throat letting out nonstop sounds as Mac hums in amusement, stroking his cock a bit faster, twisting at his head and rubbing his thumb under his sensitive cockhead. “Please what? What do you need?” Mac prompts, well aware that Dennis doesn’t even know. Just asking for entertainment, if anything.
He continues stroking at Dennis’ cock, running his fingers over his swollen dick and fondling at his balls, exploring for himself rather than entirely for Dennis’ pleasure, until Dennis makes a startled sound and he realizes now that he’s close, his moans pitching the way they do in his tapes, his breathing labored as he claws his fingers into Macs’ shirt, nuzzling into his chest. “You can come whenever you need,” Mac offers, and Dennis nods absently. Pushing his hips up and into Macs’ fist with much more effort than before.
Dennis’ orgasm comes with the force of a sledgehammer to the dome, making him gasp and cry as his joints all seem to lock up with the intensity of it, his come shooting up and over his tummy, some of it getting on the backs of Macs’ fingers, his loads coming out in four spurts before he settles again, sagging as he pants, sweaty. Mac is running his mouth the whole time.
“Good job, Den,”
“So pretty, just for me,”
“So beautiful when you come.”
Tears form and seep from his eyes, weak sobs wracking his shoulders as he wraps his tender arms around Mac, pressing his face into his (in comparison to Dennis’) soft tummy. Dennis feels a hand combing through his dry, curly locks, detangling a few pieces with ease as Mac lifts his chin with his hand, staring down at him with concern written over his features. “Are you okay?” He asks, so genuine it hurts, and Dennis nods.
His verbal response is weak, short, raspy. “Yes.” But it’s still more than enough as Mac calms, smiling at him before turning a little to grab a tissue from Dennis’ nightstand and wiping his come off of his stomach and and his spent cock, and now Dennis is thankful that Mac had the mind to leave him with tissues the day he started sneezing up a storm.
His briefs and pants are soon pulled up, and he’s dragged heavily into Macs’ arms.
He falls fast asleep, and if he has any dreams, he knows they’re only good ones.
Dennis hums a little, shifting against his pillow as he wakes up, his eyes blinking open as he rubs at them, checking his alarm clock. It’s early in the morning, and he feels… Good. Not sick, nor feverish, nor… anything, really. He hasn’t gotten sleep like that in ages, fuck.
He smiles as he rises from his bed, a rare occasion, and stretches his arms up with a yawn as he walks out of his room, finding Mac easily, him standing in the kitchen attempting to cook eggs. Much like he has been for the past few days, probably keeping up the habit like he’s assuming Dennis is still sick, and must need the energy.
Dennis slots himself behind Mac sleepily, resting his chest on the others’ right shoulder and sighing, wrapping his arms around his middle. This sort of affection from him is… bizarre. But it feels good right now, so why not do as he pleases?
“Good morning,” Dennis says, tilting his head as he watches Mac really fuck these eggs up bad.
“Morning.” Mac says, his smile apparent even if Dennis can’t hear him. “Still sick?” He asks, sounding worried, and Dennis shakes his head. “Not anymore.” Mac flips a burnt egg, humming absently. “Well that's good, man. I’m glad.” Dennis hums, smiling. Soon the stove is turned off and Mac turns around, bumping their noses together as their gazes meet, giddiness apparent in both of them, humiliatingly enough. Soon their lips meet, seriously, and it’s sweet and purposeful and warming Dennis up like a campfire.
However, it’s soon broken and Mac pulls a strange face. And before Dennis can ask what’s wrong, he’s sneezing and Dennis breaks away in time to dodge it, barely, the projectile hitting him right in his clean shirt, splattering disgustingly.
“GOD DAMN IT, MAC!”