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Malcolm stares unblinking at the popcorn texture of his bedroom ceiling, fingers rubbing against the soft fabric of his bed. There’s a notepad abandoned on the floor next to him containing two lists. The first is titled “Things I Know About Rebo,” and the second, “Things I Know About Peter.” He brought the two together in a Venn diagram and eventually came to the conclusion that he is the biggest fucking idiot alive.
Of course they’re the same person.
His brain feels appropriately melted. He hasn’t even begun to touch on the whole “having a crush on two people who are actually the same person” mess. If he thinks about it for longer than a second he might scream.
He turns his head. The clock tells him it’s only been an hour since he’s been home after his lunch with Peter. Peter, thank god, had to go back to work soon after Malcolm’s realization, so he didn’t notice Malcolm’s odd behavior. Malcolm’s never been great at lying on the spot. Now it seems he might have to.
Because what the actual fuck will he do if Peter finds out who he is?
***
By the time Rebo’s voice filters through Malcolm’s radio, Malcolm hasn’t moved an inch from his bed. He startles at the sound, turning to stare at the old radio as if Rebo himself would pop out of it at any moment. Now he knows what he’d see if he did. Dark brown eyes, long legs, a scar on his top lip. It’s how he’d started imagining Rebo anyway, but now he knows it’s the truth.
He sits for a long while, just listening to the voice on the radio. Rebo. Peter. Shit. He’s not sure what to call him now.
The longer he listens, the more he realizes why he was so oblivious to Rebo’s identity this whole time. It’s Peter’s voice, he can hear that now, but it’s different on the air. Calmer. More sure of itself. Is this what Peter sounds like when he has nothing to hide? No one to try and blend in with—just him and a microphone? Is this what the real Peter sounds like? Or is it another act? Another mask?
Does he even know Rebo at all like he thought he did?
It doesn’t matter now. Rebo and Peter are undeniably the same person, and all Malcolm can focus on is how foolish he feels for never noticing it before.
“Hey,” Malcolm breathes out when he’s patched through. There’s a pulse in his ears. He swallows. “It’s Clark.”
“Clark Kent!” Rebo says, like he always does. He sounds relieved to hear Malcolm’s voice. “You had me scared for a minute, buddy, I thought you’d gone ahead and fallen in love with another handsome radio host.”
Despite everything he knows now, Malcolm is hopeless to fight the smile that grows onto his face. He’s scared shitless, but he really can’t help it. It’s still Rebo. It’s just that it’s also fucking Peter Tollemache.
“You know you're the only one for me, Rebo,” Malcolm says, a little weakly. He’s more aware of his voice than he’s ever been before. He wonders what Rebo hears on his end—if he has an image in his head of what Clark looks like. He wonders if it looks anything like him.
How has Peter not figured him out yet? If Rebo sounds this different from Peter, how different does Clark sound compared to Malcolm? And if Peter and Malcolm are getting closer—which he hopes is what’s happening—does that mean Peter is going to figure him out eventually?
Is there a time limit on how long Malcolm can have all of this?
“Clark?”
Malcolm blinks at Rebo’s voice. “Hm?”
“Are you alright?” he asks kindly. “You sound kind of off.”
Shit. Malcolm needs to get better at hiding his feelings if he’s going to keep this up. He doesn't want to lose whatever he has with Rebo—or with Peter. Not any sooner than he has to.
“Yeah,” Malcolm says, clearing his throat. He’s shit at lying, but this is a truth he can tell. “Sorry, I just had a call with my mom earlier today. It didn’t go great. They never really do.”
“Oh, man,” Rebo says, “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“Oh, you know, the usual,” Malcolm sighs. “She accepts me being trans, but it hurts her and everyone else around me. Being myself is an act of selfishness. Yada yada yada.”
It’s silent, and Malcolm realizes with a twist in his gut that he probably said too much depressing stuff. In a fit of nervousness, he starts talking even more.
“I mean, it could have been worse,” he says when Rebo fails to respond. “At least she didn’t say I was never gonna find real love cause I’m only ‘sort of a boy.’ She saves those talks for special occasions.” He laughs, but it’s a weak sound, and Rebo doesn’t laugh back. Malcolm gulps, waiting and waiting for Rebo to say something.
The voice that returns over the phone is Rebo, but it’s darker than Malcolm has ever heard it before. “She says that shit to you?”
“Uh, yeah...yeah, sometimes.” All the time.
“Clark,” Rebo says, and Malcolm shivers. “Listen to me. Not a thing that woman says is true, you hear me?”
“Yeah, I know,” Malcolm says, an automatic response, but Rebo cuts in before he’s even finished.
“No, no, you don’t. I can tell, man, I can hear it in your voice, her words are in your head. And I’m telling you, they’re bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. The people who really care about you don’t care that you’re trans. They don’t just love you in spite of it, they love you including it, yeah? You and all your queer fuckin’ glory, that shit’s amazing, you hear me?”
Rebo’s kind of rambling now, but Malcolm doesn’t care. His cheeks are hurting at the force of his smile, and his eyes are stinging; he’s about to cry on air, but he really, truly doesn’t give a shit.
“And all that shit about you not finding real love because of who you are, that’s ultra bullshit!” Rebo goes on. Malcolm laughs a bit giddily into the phone, but Rebo doesn’t stop. “I can tell you right now, with absolute fuckin’ certainty, that you won’t have a single problem finding someone to love you for exactly who you are, Clark, ‘cause I—”
He stops abruptly, as if the call had been cut short. Malcolm pulls the phone away from his face to double check that he hadn’t accidentally hung up.
“You...?” Malcolm prods.
There’s a breath over the line, and Rebo says, “Anyone would be lucky to have you, Clark. Anyone would be goddamn lucky.”
Malcolm’s heart might just beat out of his chest.
“Ah,” Rebo says, “looks like my supervisor’s had enough of my cursing for the night. I’m gonna have to let you go. But you’re coming back, right?”
Malcolm nods and says, a little shakily, “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
After the call, Malcolm turns over onto his belly, letting the cold side of the pillow cool down his burning face. His stomach is raging with butterflies, toeing the line between pleasant and uncomfortable. He can already tell they’ll be keeping him awake tonight.
“Well,” Malcolm says into his empty room, cheek squished against the pillow. “I’m fucked.”