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Admitting his feelings to himself was a terrible idea. It’s like it opened up a dam, all of his stupid emotions rushing to the surface in a flood, and now he can’t stop it.
He can’t get shit done. His thoughts have gone haywire. It’s always Rebo’s voice, or Peter’s face, and it’s getting annoying. At least with Rebo he can just not listen to the radio; with Peter, it’s not that easy. Ever since Malcolm returned from New York, Peter seems to be everywhere Malcolm goes. Malcolm goes to the grocery, and there he is. He goes to the bank, and there he is. He looks out his window, and there the bastard is, jogging around the neighborhood in those stupid jogging shorts. It’s a nightmare.
To make matters worse, he’s starting to imagine Peter’s face at the worst of times. Just the other night Rebo had laughed at something Malcolm said during their call, and suddenly Malcolm was imagining that it was Peter in a fancy leather chair in some studio far away, humoring Malcolm’s playfully mean jokes with a fond smile on his face.
The guy definitely still hated him though. He rarely acknowledged Malcolm’s presence, and on the few times they made eye contact he always looked away before Malcolm could get a word in.
Maybe Malcolm’s desperation for the guy to notice him is the reason why he finds himself in the position that he’s in now: standing precariously on the middle of a skateboard while Mona holds him steady. Goby’s on a bench recording him, waiting for him to wipe out.
Mona had offered to teach him a million times before, and he always declined. But after New York, he got a sudden vision of him skating coolly past Roisin Records, sunglasses over his eyes and his hair wind-swept, with Peter staring at him from the entryway with his mouth agape and his eyes filled with hearts, Looney Tunes style. He accepted Mona’s offer the very next time she brought it up.
She wasted no time dragging him to the skatepark, one hand around her board and one gripping his collar to make sure he didn't change his mind at the last minute and make a run for it. Goby was quick to follow. If Jazz weren’t busy with work, she would have loved to join for the chance to see him eat shit.
Mona is a surprisingly good teacher, so he hasn’t completely wiped out—yet. She didn’t put him on the board and immediately shove him down the bowl like he feared she would; she helped him first figure out what stance is most comfortable for him, then got him used to the feeling of the board beneath his feet. He panicked when she told him to bounce a couple of times to test out the feel of it, but she promised to keep her hands at his sides. He knew she’d catch him if he needed it (which he did, a few times).
The worst part is learning how to fall, which is what they’re doing now. He was hesitant when Mona said he had to fall, but he reluctantly agreed when she said it’ll get the anxiety of it out of the way. He’s going to fall no matter what; might as well learn how to do it properly so he doesn’t hurt himself.
“Alright,” Mona says. “Just keep your body loose and try to roll into it when you can.”
They’ve been doing it on the ground so far, dramatic reenactments of falling off of a skateboard. He does a sort of somersault on the concrete, wincing as his back twinges where it rolls over a pebble.
“I can’t even imagine how stupid I must look right now,” Malcolm says.
“Would you like to see?” Goby shouts from the bench, holding up their phone. Malcolm glares into the camera lens.
“Are you ready to try it on the board?” Mona asks.
He’s not, but he can’t avoid it the whole day. He gets on the board, steadying his feet. He’s not nearly as graceful as Mona always is. His arms are spread outward, pinwheeling every couple of seconds to keep him from toppling over.
“Now, I can’t be holding you for this part, but you’ll be fine. Just do what we’ve been practicing,” Mona says.
He stands on the board, taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself. He puts one foot down, ready to take the fall; but then he gets the feeling of a new pair of eyes on him. He looks up, and there’s Peter jogging past the park, watching them.
His foot pushes too hard. The board shoots out beneath him, and he goes tumbling into the concrete. He tries to roll into it like Mona taught him to, but his knee still ends up scraping hard against the ground. He lands on his shoulder with a loud curse.
He starts swearing up a storm; not because it’s the worst pain he’s ever experienced, but to cover up his embarrassment and his flaming hot face.
“Nice one, Mal!” Goby cheers. “Baby’s first fall!”
“You okay, love?” Mona says, kneeling down next to him. She doesn’t seem too concerned, but she winces when she sees the blood on his shin.
Unfortunately for Malcolm, Peter’s jogging route goes right past them, and he gets close enough for Malcolm to see the sweat dripping down his temples, his chest heaving. Malcolm’s suddenly glad he has his skating screw up to blame for the burn in his cheeks.
“Way to go, dumbass!” Peter calls out.
Malcolm glares at him and flips him the bird. Peter returns the gesture and turns away to continue his jog, but not before Malcolm catches the amused smirk on his face.
“Dude,” Goby says, who’s suddenly much closer to Malcolm than they were before. They’re standing next to Mona, staring down at him. “Was he just flirting with you?”
“What?” Malcolm says. “He insulted me! He called me a dumbass!”
“Practically a marriage proposal,” Goby says.
Peter’s almost out of sight now, but Malcolm can still catch a glimpse of his muscular legs as they carry him out of the park.
“You starin’ at his butt?” Goby says, who’s now an inch away from Malcolm’s cheek. Malcolm groans and pushes their face away with his hand.
“I was not!”
“I dunno, hun,” Mona says, smiling. “It definitely looked like you were.”
Malcolm huffs and stands up, turning to leave.
“Aw, no, come on, we were just teasing!” Goby says, and Malcolm flicks them on the temple.
“I’m not leaving because of you idiots, I’ve gotta get my knee patched up and check on Lady Governor anyway.” He’s also a little embarrassed, but he really can’t remember if he fed Lady Governor that morning or not, so...not a complete lie.
“Do you need any help?” Mona asks.
“Nah, really, I’ve got it. I’ll see you guys later, yeah?”
“Later, gator!” Goby calls out as he walks away.
“Text us if you need us!” Mona says, and he waves his hand to let her know he heard her.
He waits until he’s fully out of sight from the others to really let himself wince at the twinge in his shoulder and the burn of his shin. He wishes he had worn jeans instead of shorts—or actual protective padding. That would’ve been smart. Hindsight, and all that.
Luck finally seems to be on his side for once, because he makes it to the apartment without a hitch. (He’d been on the lookout for Peter the entire walk back. The last thing he needed was for Peter to see him pathetically limping home after his first fall on a skateboard.) Lady Governor greets him as usual as he enters, meowing excitedly and weaving in and out of his legs.
“Make way for the King, my good Lady,” he says as he awkwardly side steps her, trying not to trip over her.
He’s checking her food bowl for evidence of that morning’s breakfast when his phone rings.