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“Mal...Mal. Malcolm!”
Malcolm jolts awake, catching himself just before he can topple over the edge of the bed. He can already feel a bruise on his leg where Goby must have kicked him in their sleep.
“Malcolm, dude, I’m so sorry,” Goby’s saying frantically, and Malcolm finds himself waking quickly as he registers the panic in their voice. They’re standing at the edge of the bed, bouncing from foot to foot. “You’re not technically late, but I know you like to get there early and—well, you’re definitely not gonna be early, but if you hurry you might—”
Malcolm's arm shoots out like the strike of a viper in his hurry to grab his phone from the nightstand. Dead. It must have died sometime in the night. He usually charges it while he sleeps, but since the storm took out the power that wasn’t an option. Dammit.
He shouldn’t have fallen asleep playing music last night, it completely drained the battery. That means he missed his alarms.
“Shit,” Malcolm hisses. “What time is it?”
“Uh,” Goby scratches their cheek. “9:52.”
Malcolm spits out a creative string of obscenities, hurling himself out of bed. If he skips the shower, brushes his teeth quickly, maybe skips the hair product too...
Goby helps him, scrambling to get his clothes ready. They throw him his work shirt as he jumps into his slacks, and he haphazardly shoves his arms into the sleeves as Goby sprints to the toaster. He shoves his feet into his work shoes, cursing when the backs pinch his heels.
“Hold up,” Goby says as he’s darting out the door.
Malcolm turns around, still doing up the top buttons of his shirt, and Goby shoves an unevenly buttered piece of toast into his mouth.
“Okay, gogogo!” Goby says, waving their hands at him in a shoo-ing motion.
“Hm-hmph!” Malcolm says, crumbs flying out of his mouth.
“You’re welcome!” Goby shouts as he sprints off.
He bounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and crashes into the pub. His phone is still dead so he’s not sure what time it is, but the few regulars occupying the pub’s corner tables let him know that he’s properly late for the first time in his life. He swallows the bite of toast left in his mouth and tries to ignore the fact that he’s begun to shake.
“Oh, there you are! I was getting worried you might have decided to play hookie without me,” Mona smiles as Malcolm makes his way to her. She pauses to look him over, her brows furrowing. “You okay, love?”
Malcolm tries to catch his breath as he walks behind the bar. His heart is beating harder than it should, and his palms are definitely sweating. He wipes them down on his pants. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Mona says, reaching over to hold his arm. He pulls it away. “You seem a bit...all over the place.”
No, he’s not fine. He knows he’s not.
But he should be fine, because this isn’t a big deal, and it’s pissing him off even more that he’s reacting to such a small thing because it’s not a big deal and something’s touching his skin—
“Malcolm?”
—and there’s music playing over the speakers and people across the pub talking and one of the lights overhead keeps flickering and he needs to call someone to fix it and something keeps touching his fucking skin—
Malcolm’s arm darts up and behind his head, yanking vigorously at the shirt tag that’s been scratching at his neck.
“Stupid—fucking—” Malcolm tugs at it harshly, but it won’t budge.
“Settle, Malcolm, don’t rip it,” Mona says, bringing a hand up to his neck. “I’ll get it.”
Malcolm clenches his jaw, teeth grinding. Her feather-light touch is just as bad as the tag. She seems to sense the way his shoulders tense, and she takes her hand away from his neck so she’s only touching his shirt collar. A moment later he hears a snip! and the irritating tag is gone.
Malcolm sighs. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you’re alright, Mal?” Mona asks, her voice quieter than before.
“I’m fine,” he says, dragging a hand down his face. “Just woke up late. My phone died in the middle of the night, so none of my alarms worked.”
“Oh, hun, I’m sorry,” she says, and she brings a hand up to lightly touch his arm.
He flinches from the touch and snaps, “Well, if you were actually here this morning then I might have—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, but he can already see the hurt in Mona’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and he knows she genuinely means it. “I slept over at Jazz’s place. I should’ve—”
“No, no, don’t apologize,” Malcolm says. He taps the tips of his fingers to his thumb, from forefinger to pinky and then back again, trying to calm himself. “I’m sorry. That was unfair. She’s your girlfriend, there’s no reason for you to stay at the apartment just to make sure I wake up on time. You’re not my mom.”
Mona stays carefully silent for a moment, keeping her hands clasped in front of her. She glances over Malcolm, then says kindly, “Do you need to go back home? Take the day off? It’s definitely going to be a slow day, I can handle it myself.”
Malcolm’s already shaking his head before she’s finished. “No, I’m alright, really. Just need to...collect myself.”
Mona nods her head. “Alright, well, at least take a break to cool down. This place is practically empty, so take as long as you need.”
Malcolm hesitates for a moment, but Mona gives him a stern look until he finally nods. “Alright. Alright. But get me if you need me, okay?”
“Same to you, darling,” Mona says.
He leaves through the back of the store and into the alley off the side of the building, all the while praying that none of the patrons saw him snap like that. He probably looked rabid when he came in, and blowing up at Mona didn’t help.
He sits down, dragging his legs up until his arms rest on his knees. He lets his head fall back until it bumps against the brick wall behind him. He breathes in. The air is always rank out here thanks to the garbage bins, but it’s somehow better than inside, where everything is just. Too much.
He never knows why that happens. Why suddenly lights are too bright and music is too loud and talking and touching and everything is just far, far too much. It’s like a switch being flipped in his brain, and he never knows what to do to make things better but to shut himself away and wait for things to feel calm again. Otherwise he erupts, and sometimes the people he cares about get stuck in the fire.
He feels his eyes begin to sting, and he lets the tears fall now that he’s alone. This helps sometimes, too. Crying. But sometimes it just makes him feel worse. Puffy, burning eyes and that awful clogged feeling in your throat.
He hopes that’s not the case this time. It’s a bit too late to stop.
“Malcolm?”
You have got to be kidding me, Malcolm thinks.
Malcolm looks towards the entrance of the alleyway, where Peter stands with one hand in his pocket and the other hand awkwardly hovering at his side. Malcolm isn’t quite sure what to do, but he knows if he talks that his voice will crack or something equally as embarrassing, so he stays quiet.
Do not come closer. Don’t you dare come closer.
Peter comes closer. Malcolm curses the universe.
“What’s wrong with you?” Peter says.
It might be the fact that Malcolm can’t tell if Peter’s saying it out of concern or out of judgment, or maybe the fact that Malcolm knows Peter can see the redness in his eyes and the dampness of his cheeks, but he feels every nerve in his body explode with rapidfire anger, and he snaps.
“Would you just fuck off, Peter!” Malcolm shouts. “I would literally rather you be anywhere else right now. Just fucking go.”
“You—”
“GO! Leave me the fuck alone.”
Peter teeters backwards, eyes wide. Malcolm can feel his heartbeat in his neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He lets his head fall back rougher than he should, jaw clenched against the brief stab of pain that knocks through his skull when his head meets the wall. He keeps his eyes shut tight. He doesn’t want to see whatever expression Peter has on his face. He doesn’t want to see what other hurt he’s caused today.
Peter doesn’t say anything else. Malcolm hears his footsteps as he leaves the alleyway, fading until they’ve disappeared completely. It’s what Malcolm wanted, but for some ridiculous and idiotic reason it still makes his heart sink.
The ground is still damp from yesterday’s storm, and the coldness of it seeps into Malcolm’s clothes. A drop of rain falls from a pipe above Malcolm and drips into the puddle next to his feet.
He lowers his head into his arms and cries.