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It’s easier to talk to Peter after that. Peter loves to text, apparently, and sends him nonsensical memes in the middle of his workday that Malcolm has to hide from Mona so she doesn’t start interrogating him. Mona catches him, of course, because he’s about as subtle as a brick. She manages to steal his phone during their slow hours and text Peter a myriad of pictures—a photo of Terrance the stick bug in his terrarium, a selfie of Mona smiling next to Terrance, another selfie of Mona with Malcolm shouting at her back, a semi-blurred picture of Mona running as Malcolm chases her down, an extremely blurred picture of the pub after Malcolm briefly knocked the phone out of her hand. Peter responds with an audio message of him wheeze-laughing for seven seconds straight.
“So you two are friends now?” Mona asks him once she finally relinquishes the phone.
Malcolm shrugs, smiling sheepishly as he pockets the phone. “I guess.”
“‘I guess,’ he says,” Mona mocks, cuffing his shoulder. “He’s sending you memes! You’re besties now. That’s, like, the law.”
“You never went to law school.”
“You don’t know everything about me! I could’ve been doing law shit before we met. Maybe I ditched law school to pursue my dream of bartending. Like Nick Miller, but girlboss.”
“I think Nick Miller should qualify as a girlboss.”
“You’re avoiding the subject.”
“And you’re harshing my vibes,” Malcolm says, and Mona kicks at his leg.
When Malcolm tells Mona he’s going out for his lunch break, she gives him a knowing look that he pretends not to see as he ducks out of the pub. He pauses outside Roisin Records when he sees Peter at the counter looking down at his magazine, unaware. Malcolm pulls out his phone and snaps a photo.
A well-defined curl falls over Peter’s eyes in the photo, and his hand is half raised to push it away. Malcolm tries not to stare at it for too long before he sends it to Peter. Peter’s phone lights up from where it sits on the counter, and he opens the message. Malcolm can hear Peter’s bark of laughter from outside.
“And you called me a stalker,” Peter says when Malcolm enters the store. “What’re you doing here?”
“Taking my lunch break,” Malcolm says.
“You don’t have any lunch,” Peter says, looking down at Malcolm’s empty hands.
“Very observant. You do detective work?”
Peter rolls his eyes, then disappears behind the counter. Malcolm peeks over the edge to see him maneuvering through a cramped drawer filled with pens and jars and boxes. Peter makes a satisfied sound and pops back up, tossing something in the air that Malcolm has to scramble to catch.
“Eat that,” Peter says. “I already took my break, I can’t leave again.”
Malcolm looks down at the package of cherry Pop-Tarts. “Dude, I don’t—”
“Eat it,” he repeats sternly, and Malcolm frowns.
“Okay, Mom,” he answers dramatically. Malcolm chews at the Pop-Tart but refuses to let Peter see how much he enjoys it. Cherry is his favorite.
“You’re a grown ass adult now, you better not make it a habit to skip your lunches,” Peter says, returning to his magazine as if he doesn’t care as much as his words imply. “And get out of the way, you’re gonna block customer traffic.”
Malcolm makes an unattractive squawking sound around his mouthful of Pop-Tart. “Where else am I supposed to go? This store is eight feet wide!”
“Come here, stupid,” Peter says, waving Malcolm over.
“Is that allowed?” Malcolm says. “Am I gonna get arrested?”
“Yes, I’ve already called the police. This was a setup.”
“I knew the Pop-Tarts were a trap,” Malcolm says as he hops up onto the counter, and Peter shakes his head at him, but Malcolm can see his lips pulling up into a smile.
“You’re stupid.”
“And yet, you’re the one letting me behind the counter.”
“Already regretting it.”
“Tell me to go back, then,” Malcolm says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out like that—like he’s teasing, flirting—but it does, and when Peter turns to look at him, Malcolm doesn’t look away. He’s taller than Peter this way, sitting up on the counter, and he likes that Peter has to tilt his head up to look him straight on. Peter’s eyes narrow for a moment, and he hums.
“No. I think I’ll keep you here,” he says. Malcolm holds his breath. Then Peter says, “It’ll be funny to watch you try to get back to work on time.”
“Shit, what—” Malcolm jumps from the counter, turning on his phone to check the time, only to see that he still has ten minutes left of his break. Peter has already doubled over with laughter. “Oh, fuck you, dude.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says through giggles. “God, your face. Wow.”
“So not funny, man,” Malcolm says, fighting a smile.
“It’s a little funny.”
“I could’ve had a heart attack! What would you have done then, huh? What would you have done with a heart attack victim on your hands?”
“Save your life, obviously,” Peter says, “I’m CPR certified.”
Malcolm scoffs and turns away, very deliberately not thinking about Peter giving him mouth to mouth. “Yeah, right. You and your string bean arms?”
“String bean?” Peter exclaims. “I’m muscle-bound, motherfucker.”
Malcolm makes a disbelieving noise, and Peter knocks against his shoulder but luckily does nothing else. Malcolm had feared for one mortifying moment that Peter was going to rip off his hoodie to prove he’s as “muscle-bound” as he claims to be. He can’t promise he would’ve been able to look away if he had.
The next day, around noon, he gets a text from Peter that just says, lunch break? and suddenly, it’s part of their routine. (If Malcolm thinks too hard about the fact that they seem to have a routine now, he’ll combust.) Malcolm goes to Roisin Records during his lunch, and Peter lets him sit behind the counter (or on top of it, if they’re having a slow day), and he makes sure Malcolm eats, and they talk. It’s good. It’s really good.
“Why don’t I come to the pub next time?” Peter says one day. “You always come here for your breaks, maybe I wanna bug you for once.”
“You already bug me enough,” Malcolm says, snagging a chip from the open bag of barbeque Lays Peter has under the counter and popping it into his mouth. “And if you come to the pub I can’t guarantee Mona will leave us alone.”
“I like Mona,” Peter says, cramming a handful into his own mouth. Malcolm grimaces and shakes his head. “She’s got pizazz.”
“Oh, she definitely won’t shut up if she hears you say that.”
“Let the woman speak!” Peter says, throwing his arm into the air, brandishing a large barbeque chip the way Shakespear might hold a skull before devouring it with a flourish. Malcolm bites down on a smile.
“You’re dumb.”
“I fight for women’s rights to speak and you call me dumb. Wow.”
Malcolm steals the bag of chips after that, and Peter just laughs. It’s strange, when he stops and looks at Peter, head thrown back and shoulders shaking with unrestrained joy. It’s strange to see this side of Peter up close, just for him. He feels like he was never meant to see it. It feels like a privilege, or maybe a gift. He never wants to look away—but of course, when Peter’s laughter dies down, he does.
Malcolm’s wiping at the bar counter next to Mona the following day when he looks up and sees Peter approaching the pub, a smug grin on his face.
“Oh, that prick,” Malcolm mutters under his breath. He turns to Mona and says, “I don’t suppose I can convince you to take your break, now, right this second?”
“What in the world—” she starts, then cuts off as Peter enters the store. Her confused expression dissolves into a look of pure glee. “Peter, my darling!”
“Mona! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Peter greets her, and she leans over the counter to give Peter a kiss on the cheek. “You should start giving Malcolm fashion tips, he’s in the same pair of jeans every time I see him.”
“Since when are you two so close?” Malcolm says, scrubbing a little harder at a nonexistent stain. Mona raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.
“Since when did you stop hiding behind the counter when Peter comes into the pub?” Mona asks, and Peter chokes on a laugh, eyebrows raised.
“Dude,” Peter says.
“Shut up,” Malcolm says. “Don’t say a word.”
“I can’t just not say something about that.”
“You absolutely can. See, you’re doing it right now. Good job.”
Peter’s smile is incredulous and unrelenting. “You hid? Like, full on, soldier in the trenches, duck and cover—”
“Shut up!”
“He dropped like Andy’s toys in Toy Story,’” Mona says, and Peter wheezes, his eyes squinting shut.
“Yes, thank you for your input, Mona,” Malcolm grumbles. Mona slaps Peter on the back as he struggles to get his breath back through the force of his laughter. Malcolm points an accusing finger at Peter and says, “This is why I didn’t want you coming here. I don’t trust you two together.”
“Well, this would’ve happened eventually since I’m coming over for game night,” Peter supplies. Malcolm closes his eyes, regretting everything he’d done in his life to bring him to this moment. When he opens his eyes, Mona is leaning towards him, looking for all intents and purposes like the cat who caught the canary.
“Malcolm, my love,” Mona says, voice sickly sweet. “Peter’s coming to game night?”
“You didn’t tell her I’m coming?” Peter asks.
“He did not,” Mona confirms. Peter can’t see the devilish grin on her face, but Malcolm most certainly can. Malcolm tries not to squirm. He can feel the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. “It probably just escaped his mind. Excuse me, boys.”
Mona starts to leave, but not before Malcolm catches her pulling her phone out of her pocket. She escapes into the back room, and not a second later Malcolm feels a vibration in his own pocket that he’s sure is from the group chat. He pulls it out to confirm his suspicions.
Malcolm’s bringing a date to game night, Mona has texted.
NOT a date. just a friend.
you have friends? Jazz replies. Malcolm starts to form a retort before she adds, other than us i mean.
yes, asshole
Guess who it is, Mona says. Guess guess guess.
IS IT CUTE BUTT, Goby finally chimes in.
PLS TELL ME ITS CUTE BUTT.
IF ITS NOT CUTE BUTT IM SUING
FOR EMOTIONAL DISTRESS
pls learn how to turn off caps lock ur giving me a migraine
but yes its peter
Jazz replies, i love that you didn’t need a better descriptor to know who goby was talking about, and Malcolm shoves his phone back into his pocket.
“I’m guessing they all know I’m coming now?” Peter says from his seat at the bar.
Malcolm nods. “Mona definitely took care of that.”
Peter looks down at the counter, tapping his nail against the wood. “They don’t mind, right? I’m not intruding?”
“What? No, of course not.” Peter doesn’t look up, so Malcolm moves in closer to get his attention. “Hey, seriously, dude. They’re stoked that you’re coming. Jazz is just glad I’m finally making other friends, honestly. She’s a bit sick of seeing me all the time.”
Peter squints. “Liar.”
Malcolm smiles, shrugging as he turns around to busy himself with useless tasks. Looking at Peter feels like looking into the sun, sometimes. “If you’re not comfortable at game night, you can always leave. And I’m not saying that in a guilt-trippy way or anything. I wouldn’t want you to stick around if you were just miserable the whole time. You’re not obligated to stay, but I think you’ll have a good time if you do. And, uh,” Malcolm clears his throat. “I’d like to have you there, or whatever.”
Malcolm chances a look up into the mirror along the shelves of alcohol and sees Peter looking down at the bar counter again. He’s trailing his thumbnail along his cupid’s bow, an absentminded action. He looks ever so slightly pleased. Malcolm averts his eyes.
Like the damn sun.