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Peter digs out a spare pair of flip flops from the back for Malcolm (he’s afraid to question where or who they came from), and Malcolm’s infinitely grateful that Peter doesn’t mention how the flip flops dwarf Malcolm’s small feet. They wait until Peter’s coworker comes in before leaving. Malcolm finally gets a good look at Travis; messy blond hair, sunken eyes, pale as a roll of toilet paper. He looks like a Travis.
“Trav owes me one, so I can take a bit longer on my break if we need it,” Peter explains as they walk down the sidewalk. Malcolm has no idea where they’re headed, but Peter seems to know what he’s doing at least.
Malcolm kicks at a pebble, watching it skitter down the sidewalk a few feet in front of them. Once they reach it again, Peter kicks it. They take turns like that, kicking the pebble like a little soccer ball. Once Peter kicks it out of their path, Malcolm says, “I wish I had known about you.” Peter gives him a curious look. “About you being like me. ADHD, or autistic, or whatever. If I had known we were more similar than I realized, maybe we could’ve bonded and...I dunno, become friends a bit earlier.”
“You think we’re friends?” Peter says. Malcolm shoves his shoulder, and Peter laughs. “Nah, I don’t fault you for never knowing about me. I’m not surprised. I’ve had, like, years of practice when it comes to blending in with neurotypicals. It’s fucking exhausting, but it means survival when you’re in a town as closed-minded as ours.”
“Tell me about it,” Malcolm says. He takes a breath, steeling himself. “Being queer doesn’t help either.”
Peter makes an understanding noise. “Yeah, I get that. I’m gay.”
They keep walking, as if Peter hadn’t just thrown Malcolm’s world off its axis. Malcolm clenches and unclenches his fist, keeping his eyes ahead of him and trying to remember how to walk like a normal person.
“Anyway, I probably should’ve caught on to what you were going through earlier,” Peter says. They walk beneath the shade of a tree, and he flicks at a leaf absently. “I’d seen how kind you were to your friends, and I always wondered what it was about me that made you hate me so much.” He clicks his tongue. “I never considered it was just some real shit timing when we met. We could’ve skipped years of animosity if I had clocked onto it sooner.”
Malcolm’s shaking his head before Peter’s even finished. “It wasn't your job to do that. Just because there’s a reason for why I acted like that doesn’t mean I get a pass for never trying to fix things with you. The hurt I caused during my episodes is my responsibility, not yours.”
Peter shrugs. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and says, “I’m not saying it’s necessarily my fault, but I still wish I had noticed. At least you wouldn’t have been alone.”
Malcolm looks away, flustered by Peter’s kindness once again. He thinks, You’re not gonna make it easy to get over you, huh?
***
Peter leads them to a small burger joint that Malcolm has only been to a couple of times. It’s covered wall to wall in windows, so he can see the worn leather booths on the inside, and the open grill where an older man flips patties. There’s a sign out front, handwritten in chalk:
HOW DO THEY PREVENT CRIME IN HAMBURGER CITY?
WITH BURGER ALARMS!
Malcolm breathes out a laugh through his nose, even though it’s not a particularly funny joke. Peter notices the sign and groans. “They always do this,” he says. “This one doesn’t even make sense. Burger alarm?”
“I think it’s a play on the word ‘burglar,’” Malcolm says. “Like a burglar alarm? But, you know. Burger.”
Peter falters. “Oh. That makes sense. Still terrible, though,” he says. “They write a new one every week, and I’m pretty sure they get worse each time.”
“I can’t imagine it could get worse than that,” Malcolm laughs.
“Oh, trust me. Next time, you’ll see.”
Peter opens the door, and Malcolm forces himself to focus on the chill of the interior of the diner instead of the exciting promise of next time. Peter didn’t exactly say there would be a next time together, but—you know. He’s pretty sure it was implied.
The host tells them to take a seat wherever they like, and Peter leads them to a table in the corner.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “This is where I always sit.”
“You come here a lot, then?”
Peter nods. “One of my favorite places. Whenever my sister’s in town, this is where we go.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Malcolm.”
There was a short time where Malcolm had wondered if he had chosen the right name. He had picked it quickly, and he worried that he was too hasty with his decision. But after hearing Peter say it so many times today, he knows he made the right choice.
The waiter comes by with a cheerful “Welcome to Mr. B’s!” and writes down their drink orders; a Sprite for Malcolm, and a lemonade for Peter, who complains about soda having too many bubbles. (Malcolm argues that that’s the best part.) The drinks are given to them in little styrofoam cups and lids with the pushable buttons on top. Malcolm dents them all inward with his fingernail, and when he looks across the table he sees that Peter has already done the same.
Malcolm orders a bacon cheeseburger with fries, and Peter orders a double burger with no tomatoes. When they get their burgers, Peter immediately opens the top bun and removes the lettuce, pickles, and onions with his fork.
“Why didn’t you just order it without all that stuff if you’re gonna take it off anyway?” Malcolm asks, tearing off a piece of bacon that was falling off the side of his burger and popping it into his mouth.
Peter smiles down at his burger as he continues to dissect it. “It’s gonna sound silly.”
“It won’t.”
“It will.”
“Okay. Tell me anyway.”
Peter gives him a look, but Malcolm presses on. Peter’s lips purse for a moment, then he says, “I feel weird asking for a burger without all of the vegetables, but the tomato juice stays on the burger if I leave it, so I order without tomatoes at the very least.”
“You don’t like the veggies?”
Peter shakes his head. “Not on my burgers, at least. The mixed up textures kinda—” he gestures at his head, “make my brain freak out a little. Doesn’t feel good.”
“You know no one actually cares if you order your burger without greens, right?” Malcolm says. “There’s no burger police.”
“That’s not what the sign out front implies.” Malcolm rolls his eyes, and Peter says, “I know it sounds weird. And you’re right that no one gives a shit about my order, I know that logically, but...I don’t know. That’s just how I do it.”
Malcolm sips at his soda, looking at Peter consideringly. “Is that part of how you—what did you say, blend in? Ordering a burger with shit on it you don’t like just so people won’t look at you weird?”
Peter shrugs. “That’s probably more of a weird anxiety thing than a blending in thing, but yeah, I guess that’s part of it too. It’s just less stress and effort to say ‘no tomatoes’ and pick off the rest.”
“That seems like more effort to me.”
“Yeah, to you.”
Malcolm tries to imagine it for a moment—calculating every single move you make, just to make sure that no one ever notices you being out of place. It’s not that hard to imagine, considering he spent years paying attention to the way he walked and asking Jazz if it was obvious he didn’t have a penis. Jazz had to remind him fairly often that most people won’t be looking at his crotch for evidence of his crown jewels.
“That must be draining,” Malcolm says after a beat.
Peter looks at him consideringly. “Most people just call me picky.”
“What else do you do? To, y’know, blend in,” Malcolm asks.
“It’s called masking. And, uh, for example,” Peter reaches over the table and brings his thumb up to the area right in between Malcolm’s eyebrows, then smooths it over the arch. “I can make eye contact with people usually, but it doesn’t come naturally, so it can be kinda draining to put in the effort. If I need a break, I’ll look right here. Most of the time people won’t notice that I’m not looking at their eyes if I just look right above them, or in between them.”
Peter’s hand still rests along Malcolm’s brow, and Malcolm swallows. Peter’s eyes flicker downward—just once, too fast for Malcolm to track—and he removes his hand.
“Do you do that with me?” Malcolm asks. Not offended, only curious. “The eyebrow trick?”
“Not a lot, no. It’s easier when I know the person. Even easier if we’re friends.”
“And we’re friends now, yeah?”
Peter makes a considering face. “I think we’re getting there.”
Malcolm looks down at his fries and pops one into his mouth, smiling. “Cool.”
“You know, I think if we had known each other in our grade school years, we might’ve been friends,” Peter says. He nudges at Malcolm’s ankle with his foot, and Malcolm feels his spirit leave his body for a moment.
Malcolm scoffs. “I was still just as much of an asshole back then as I was in college. Also, I was a complete loser. You were probably Mr. Cool.”
“Mr. Cool?”
“Yeah!” Malcolm smiles and Peter barks out a laugh, leaning back in his booth. Malcolm leans forward, as if his body can’t help but gravitate towards the other. “You’re all cool and chill, y’know? I bet you were super popular in high school.”
Peter’s laugh fades naturally, and his smile goes soft at the edges. “I have a friend who said the same thing.”
And Malcolm begins to feel a sense of deja vu.
Peter continues, “I’m surprised none of my teachers ever insisted on me getting a diagnosis of some sort. I was a poster child for ADHD back then. Bouncing off the walls in the middle of class, your typical hyperactive kid.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed,” Malcolm says genuinely. “You’ve always seemed so down to earth.”
“I told you, I’ve had years of practice toning down my ‘muchness,’ as my friends used to say.”
“Your friends said that?” Malcolm asks, his mouth agape in surprise and offense for Peter.
“Yes! They did! ‘You’re too much, Peter, tone down the muchness,’” Peter puts on a voice to mock his old peers, rocking his head left to right.
“Well, that’s just rude as hell, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I said!” They’ve started laughing now, and neither of them can find a good reason to stop. “God, teenagers are such twerps.”
“Twerps? What are you, 80 years old?”
“That’s what they are!” Peter insists, spreading his fingers wide across the table in emphasis. “They’re fucking twerps!”
Malcolm doubles over and lets his head fall to the table, his whole body shaking with laughter. He can hear Peter laughing as well, and their legs are bumping together, and Peter is slapping his hand against Malcolm’s arm as if he can push the joy into him through skin contact alone. Malcolm bites down on his lip.
The silence that falls after their laughter dies out isn’t awkward. They continue to eat, comfortable in the quiet between them. Every now and then, Peter’s foot will nudge against Malcolm, and Malcolm will go a little insane trying to decide if it was a deliberate action or just a twitch of a muscle.
“Hey.”
Peter looks up, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Hey.”
“I like this better than fighting.” Malcolm sips at his drink, and it makes that slurping noise that happens when you’ve hit the bottom. He hadn’t realized how long they’d been here already.
Peter makes a noise in agreement, nodding his head serenely. He’s fully relaxed into his seat, his arms crossed, hands loosely cupping his elbows. “Me too.”
Malcolm squints at Peter’s shirt, noticing the faded graphic displayed on his chest. “Hey, what is that?”
Peter unfolds his arms, looking down at his shirt. It’s an image of Han Solo, pointing his blaster. Malcolm feels a grin split across his lips.
“Oh my god,” Malcolm says.
“Don’t you dare make fun,” Peter says, faux-threateningly.
“I would never!” Malcolm says. “Good choice, man. Han Solo was literally the catalyst for my bisexual awakening.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a part of everyone’s sexual awakening.”
“As he should be,” Malcolm says. “So you’re a Star Wars fan?”
Peter nods, eyebrows raised and a fond smile on his face. “You could say that. My sister and I, we’ve loved the movies since we were old enough to watch them. Even the prequels.”
Malcolm makes a face. “God, the prequels?”
“Hey! I won’t have some—uncultured troglodyte diss the charm of the Star Wars prequels.”
“Troglodyte?”
“Yeah!”
“I feel like I need a dictionary just to speak to you,” Malcolm says.
“I think that says more about your intellect than anything else.”
Malcolm snatches a fry from his plate and throws it in Peter’s direction, who tries to catch it in his mouth but ends up getting a salty fry to the nose instead. He wipes off the grease with a crumpled napkin, laughing.
“We used to watch the movies every Christmas,” Peter continues. “My sister and I. We’d fall asleep before we could get through them all, but we’d try our best.”
Malcolm crosses his arms on the table and rests his chin on his arm, looking up at Peter through his eyelashes. Peter isn’t paying attention to him, too lost in the memory. His eyes are fixed on some spot on the table, unfocused. The smallest of smiles quirks the corners of his lips upward. Malcolm can’t seem to look away from it.
“I used to call her Jabba,” he says. He laughs, and it's light and airy, and Malcolm can’t help but laugh with him. “God, she hated that name. There’s this character in the show that works for Jabba the Hutt, or entertains him or whatever, so she called me that as revenge. Not a very good comeback, though, since the name is sort of catchy.”
“What was the name?” Malcolm asks, his voice still breathy with laughter.
“Rebo,” Peter says. “That’s what she called me. After the Max Rebo Band.”
Peter’s too caught up in his own happy memories of his sister to notice Malcolm’s laughter fade away. Malcolm stops smiling, frozen in place, and thinks:
Oh.
Oh, fuck.