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Malcolm tries to be kind to everyone. It’s kind of a principle of his, especially after a particularly nasty episode back in high school that led to him nearly losing every friend he had. After that, he vowed to be a genuinely nice dude. When people think about him, they’ll think, yeah, that guy was pretty swell.
The thing is, Malcolm hasn’t really made a new friend since his current friend group was established. So he’s not entirely sure how to go about this whole “being friends with Peter” thing. He might be a bit rusty at the process of it all.
He decides to go to the record shop. That’s a good start, right? Step one: be in the general vicinity of the person you’re trying to be friends with.
He stands outside of Roisin Records for a solid three minutes before finally forcing himself to go inside. It feels different now, just slightly. The last time he was here, he was in the middle of a full blown panic attack. But then again, it was also the place where Peter really saw him for the first time. Where he turned off the lights without a word, and put his headphones on Malcolm’s ears so gently, careful not to touch him without a warning. Malcolm thinks about that moment most nights.
“Hey, you made it inside,” Peter says when Malcolm enters the store. “I thought you were gonna stand out there forever.”
“Shut up,” Malcolm says, grateful that Peter doesn’t ask further questions, but embarrassed that he saw him standing outside like a dolt in the first place.
Peter laughs and leans over the counter, resting his weight on his arms. He brings a hand up to rub against his shoulder as his eyes flick around the store. “What, uh, what brings you by?”
Okay, so Peter’s feeling awkward too. Strangely enough, that makes Malcolm feel better about his own anxiety. It was easier to be friendly when the circumstances kind of forced it out of them, but when it’s just two dudes in their twenties trying to turn years-long hostility into friendship...well, it’s harder than it sounds to act normal about it.
“I’m looking for a record,” Malcolm answers after a too-long pause.
“Obviously, dumbass.”
The insult makes Malcolm smile. That’s something he’s more familiar with.
“Asshole,” Malcolm says. “I’m...looking for something for my friend. They want to get into more, uh...‘70s punk. Yeah.”
“Good choice,” he says. He hops up onto the counter and swings his legs over, jumping down with a dramatic roll of his torso. Malcolm rolls his eyes.
“You could’ve just walked around.”
“Yeah, but I looked cool, didn’t I?”
He did, but Malcolm refuses to give him the satisfaction.
“Which friend is this?” Peter asks.
“Goby,” Malcolm says, throwing out the first name that comes to mind.
“Goby. That’s the lanky one with the pumpkin hair, yeah? Your roommate?” Peter asks, walking towards the punk section.
Malcolm nods. “One of them, yeah.”
“What kind of music are they into?”
Malcolm considers this for a moment, trying to think of the few times that Jazz let Goby control the aux in the truck. “Mostly dad-rock...some Britney Spears...the Mamma Mia soundtrack...”
“Interesting,” Peter says, nodding his head. “I think I’d like this Goby person.”
“You know what, I have a feeling they’d like you too.”
“Hm. They single?”
Malcolm trips at the question, almost knocking down a stack of CDs in the process. “What? No. I mean—yes, they are, but,” he clears his throat, “I mean, they’re not really your type.”
Peter turns around to look at him, walking backwards as he brushes his hand over a row of records. He gives Malcolm a look. “And you know my type?”
Malcolm’s mouth feels dry. “Maybe?”
“Relax, dude. I’m teasing you,” he says, and turns back around.
Malcolm lets out a relieved breath as soon as Peter’s eyes leave him, and he scrubs a hand down his face. He’s not quite sure how he’s going to survive this.
“You said your friend listens to dad-rock, yeah?” Peter says, flipping through a few records. “‘70s punk isn’t too big of a departure from that. The two can definitely overlap. Well...I guess it depends on the dad.”
Peter looks at Malcolm, and Malcolm blinks. “Right.”
Peter makes a thoughtful noise, turning back around to thumb at a different row of records. He stops and slides out a record, eyes flitting over it before sliding it back in.
“Is the Dictators too dad-rock, you think?”
“Uh. Maybe?” I have no idea.
Peter says nothing, continuing his search. Malcolm watches his back, his shoulders shifting underneath the fabric of his white shirt. He almost doesn’t catch it when Peter speaks again.
“So, Goby’s your roommate, as you’ve said,” Peter says, still turned away from Malcolm. “Why don’t you just let them listen to the ‘70s punk albums you already have? I’ve been to your apartment now, I know you have a few.”
Malcolm falters. “Not enough, I guess.” C’mon, dude, work on your lying skills. “We play that stuff all the time. I figured they’d like something new, that’s all.”
Peter nods. “Fair enough. It was a pretty sad collection.”
“Wh—fuck you, it’s not that bad!”
“It could definitely be better, dude,” Peter laughs, pulling out another record. He hands it to Malcolm. “I guess you’ll just have to come by here more often.”
Malcolm looks at Peter. He wonders if Peter’s looking into his eyes or in between his eyebrows this time. “I guess so.”
Peter’s eyes flick down, and Malcolm goes a little dizzy before he realizes Peter’s staring at the record that Malcolm hasn’t done anything with yet. Malcolm looks at the album.
“The Dictators,” Malcolm reads. “Not too dad-rock after all?”
“It’s their debut album,” Peter says, heading back towards the front counter. Malcolm follows him dumbly. “Could probably fall under the dad-rock umbrella, but it’s definitely a good place to start if your friend’s wanting to get more into punk.”
“Right, yeah, totally.”
He’s running out of time. Peter’s at the counter now, ringing up his item, bagging it, holding it out to Malcolm. Malcolm takes it, gears up to say something. Anything. This is his moment.
“Have a good day, man,” Peter says.
“You too,” Malcolm says.
And he turns to leave.
He makes it all the way to the door before stopping. He has to force his heels into the ground to keep himself from bolting right out the door. After a few customers frown at him for blocking the exit, he turns around and marches back to the counter. Peter eyes him curiously the whole way.
“Back so soon?”
Malcolm takes a breath. “You don’t have to pretend around me, you know.”
“Oh,” Peter pauses, his expression unreadable. He blinks at Malcolm. “What?”
It wasn’t what he had been planning to say, but it’s out there now. Can’t stop now. “You just—you never have to pretend to be someone you’re not when it’s just me. Or—or my friends, Goby and Mona and Jazz. You can always be yourself with us, you know? You don’t have to, um, mask. I don’t know if I’m saying that right, but, uh...yeah.”
Peter, for the first time since Malcolm’s known him, seems to be at a loss for words. He shakes his head a bit. “I appreciate that. Really, but...I mean, as long as I’m working in the shop or getting groceries or whatever, I’m probably gonna mask just to avoid the stares. It’s just...easier. Safer, sometimes, too.”
“No, yeah, I get that, yeah,” Malcolm says, “but, I mean, if you ever need a break from doing all that, we can always just hang out at my place or something.”
That...was not what he wanted to say. Peter’s eyebrows shoot upward, and Malcolm feels his ears go hot. He just invited Peter Tollemache to his house. To hang out.
“The whole gang will be there!” Malcolm rushes to say. “We have game nights all the time, so like—you can totally come to the next one, if you want? I mean, you’ll be free to be yourself there. None of us will judge you; I mean, you’ve seen us.”
Peter finally smiles. “Game nights? Now who’s 80?”
“Shut up,” he laughs. “It’s still you.”
Peter breathes out a laugh and shrugs. Then he sticks out his hand. “Okay. Gimme your phone.”
“Why?” Malcolm says as he hands it over.
“So you can text me your address, stupid.”
“Oh,” Malcolm flushes. “Right.”
Peter’s fingers fly across Malcolm’s phone screen in a flurry, and Peter’s phone screen lights up with a buzz on the counter. Peter picks his phone up and tosses Malcolm’s back to him. Malcolm’s phone has barely reached his hand before it buzzes with a reply.
hey sexy
omg malcolm not at work
“You ass!” Malcolm shouts, and Peter dodges his hand with a delighted laugh. “That’s so not funny.” Malcolm grabs his bag and stalks out of the store, grumbling to himself as Peter’s laughter fades with distance. He texts Peter his address before he can forget, along with a slew of middle finger emojis, then stuffs his phone into his pocket.
(It isn’t until he’s nearly home that he remembers, quite suddenly, that Peter’s been to his apartment. He already knew the address.)