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Goby’s gone when Malcolm wakes. He vaguely remembers making it to his bed after playing far too many rounds past midnight, the brightness of the TV screen digging into his eyeballs like daggers. The headache it gave him then must’ve stuck around, because there’s pressure behind his eyebrows and along his cheeks that feel like his brain is trying to push out of his skull. He tries to lift his head for a brief moment, only for the world to tilt drastically to the left, leaving him with no choice but to flop back pathetically onto his mattress.
It doesn’t take long to realize that he’s sick.
He tries to take note of his symptoms through the fog in his mind. He’s sweating through his clothes, the fabric sticky against his skin, but the few parts of his body that are left uncovered by the blankets are shivering against the fan in his room. He tucks himself further into the sheets, leaving only his face out in the open so he can breathe. He tries to sniff through his nose, only for his breath to halt suddenly against the blockage. He coughs wetly and takes in a shuddering breath through his mouth. It grates against his throat like sandpaper.
God, he’s really sick. His eyes travel with little coordination around his room, dazed. He blinks, and when his eyes open again, Mona is kneeling beside his bed. He doesn’t know how long she’s been there.
“I guess I shouldn’t bother asking why you aren’t ready for work yet,” she says. She places the back of her hand against his forehead. “Goodness, you poor thing. You’re burning up. Why didn’t you call for one of us?”
Malcolm grunts, trying his hardest to keep his eyes focused on Mona but failing. They go back to traveling around the room aimlessly, and when he looks back towards Mona again, the furrow in her brow has deepened.
“Geez, you’re really out of it,” she mutters, more to herself than to him. “Hang right here, I’ll be right back.”
Malcolm blinks again, and Mona’s there with a cooled washcloth in hand and Goby at her side.
“What’s goin on, dude?” Goby asks as Mona places the washcloth over Malcolm’s forehead. It dampens some of Malcolm’s hair, but he can’t find the energy to move the few strands away.
“He’s sick,” Mona says. “He’s burning up and I noticed he can barely focus his eyes on anything.”
“Shit,” Goby hisses. “I have to get to work soon. Can you watch him?”
“I’ve got work too, but I’ll cover for Malcolm. ”
Malcolm pushes at the sheets, dragging one leg to the edge of the bed with the slowness of a plague victim. “Work...I hav’tuh...go work...”
Mona pushes him back down onto the bed, cocooning the blankets around him. “Nuh-uh, doll, you’re staying right here. I’ll text Jazz and see if she can come by, maybe bring some medicine.”
Goby holds up a hand before Mona can bring her phone out. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
Malcolm closes his eyes. He hears footsteps leaving the room, then Goby’s voice speaking low. Not to him—to someone else. They might be on the phone. Before he can even try to figure out who it may be, he’s slipping away once again.
***
Dreams never quite make sense like they do in movies. In Malcolm’s dream, he doesn’t see his father’s face, but he knows the body on the hospital bed belongs to him. Malcolm’s there, sitting by his bedside, and then he’s somewhere else, somewhere outside of his body, watching him and his father together. The skin on his father’s hand begins to bleed over onto Malcolm’s, like mud. Then the scene changes.
Malcolm’s somewhere else now, somewhere darker and bleeker. The basement of a hospital. Or maybe this is just what hospitals look like now. His father is on a gurney, being rolled away from him. Malcolm runs towards him, pushing past hospital door after hospital door, and with each door that he opens the hall gets longer and longer, until the people taking his father away turn a corner and disappear. Then the scene changes.
He’s on a bench, and his father is there. His skin is glowing and all his hair is intact, graying but healthy, and Malcolm knows the cancer hasn’t touched him yet. His father holds out a closed palm, and Malcolm guesses, “Even.” When he opens his hand, three marbles are resting in the middle. Malcolm blinks, and his father is gone. He doesn’t dream again.
***
There’s something cool and refreshing pressed against his skin when Malcolm comes to. The washcloth must have slipped off his forehead in his sleep, because he can feel its dampness against his neck in a crumpled ball. The cool thing on his forehead pushes his hair out of the way, and Malcolm lets a relieved sigh slip through his cracked lips. He presses into it, wishing the satisfying chill would spread to the rest of his burning body.
Fingers weave through his hair, slicking it back, scratching at his scalp. Another sigh, but not from him this time. “What am I going to do with you?”
Malcolm wills his eyes to open, and after a few moments, they obey him. He smacks his lips together, wishing there were even an ounce of moisture to them. “Peter.”
Peter holds out a glass of water. “Malcolm.”
Malcolm tries to reach out to take the glass, but it takes a while, and his arms are shaking when they emerge from the blanket. Peter quickly places the glass on the nightstand and helps Malcolm sit up. He puts a hand on Malcolm’s back and lets Malcolm use the other as a crutch for balance. Peter doesn’t mention the clamminess of Malcolm’s palms, thankfully.
“How did you get like this?”
Malcolm shrugs and tries not to slur his words together when he says with a waved hand, “There’s’uh...bug goin’ around.”
“And you haven’t been sleeping.”
Malcolm furrows his brow as much as he can with what little energy he has. “How’d’yuh know that?”
“Goby told me,” Peter says. He hands Malcolm the drink. “They said you’re acting pretty out of it, even if you are sick.”
“Don’t like bein’ sick,” Malcolm says, punctuated with a phlegmy cough that causes Peter to wince. Malcolm downs a few gulps of the water, and Peter grabs at the glass gently.
“Not too fast,” he says. “Just take sips. And no one likes being sick, dummy.”
Malcolm gives Peter an irritated look but makes sure to slow down. The water feels good to his dry mouth, although swallowing is still difficult with how sore his throat is. He takes a few gentle sips, then lets the glass rest in his lap. He can feel his mind starting to drift again, the fog taking over.
“I can’t tell if you’re dissociating or just delirious from fever,” Peter says, a little more worry in his voice than there was before. He still has a hand on Malcolm’s back. “Can you name three things you can see?”
Malcolm lets his head flop to the side, looking up at Peter. He blinks slowly, trying to name what exactly he’s seeing. “Pretty eyes.”
Peter looks away, clearing his throat. “Delirious it is.”
Malcolm starts shuffling again, slowly but surely scooting his bottom down the mattress, and Peter gets up to help him lay back down. Peter flips the pillow so Malcolm’s head rests against cool cotton, and Malcolm smiles weakly in appreciation. When he looks at Peter, Peter is looking at the floor.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Peter says quietly.
Malcolm starts to shake his head. “Nuh-uh.”
Peter’s smile is almost amused, but it’s mostly just sad. “I won’t grill you for it now since you’re sick and all, but just know that I’ve noticed.”
Malcolm looks up at the popcorn ceiling, wishing he were in a better state of mind to give Peter the response he deserves. Instead, he inhales deeply, a mistake he regrets as soon as he starts hacking up a lung once again. He turns his head to the side so he isn’t just spewing germs into the air. His body relaxes back into the mattress as soon as his coughing fit is over, and he puffs out a few uneven breaths.
“Ugh,” Malcolm says with feeling. “Hate being sick.”
“You’ve already said that.”
“Reminds me of my dad.”
“Your dad have asthma or something?”
“No,” Malcolm says, eyes fixed on a small raised scar on Peter’s knee. He wonders where it's from. He wonders how many more scars Peter has that he doesn’t know about. “Had lung cancer.”
Peter falls silent, and Malcolm knows he didn’t miss the use of past tense. Peter looks down at his hands.
“Should I say sorry or is this one of those things that you want people to move past without mentioning it?” Peter asks. Malcolm would think he was being an asshole if it weren’t for the genuine look on his face.
Oddly enough, Malcolm finds the fact that Peter even asked more touching than any response he’s gotten before about his dad. Usually when he drops that bomb it’s all awkward ‘sorry’s or ‘I had no idea.’ That never made sense to him. Of course they had no idea, he never told them. This is the most honest reaction he’s ever received about it.
Malcolm shrugs as best he can with his heavy limbs. “I dunno. Wha’ ya wanna say?”
“I’m not really good at these things. I’m not sure if it’ll be the right thing.”
“If...If it’s the truth, I don’t think...it’ll be wrong,” Malcolm gets out. “Come on, we’ll—” he pauses, catching his breath, “—we’ll try again.” Malcolm clears his throat, gathers whatever energy he has left, and says, “Peter—my dad’s dead. From lung cancer, specifically.”
Peter nods determinedly, taking a deep, albeit awkward, breath. “That sucks, dude.”
Malcolm feels his face dripping into a slow smile, and then he snorts, which unravels into an uncontrollable giggle-slash-coughing fit. He covers his face with a hand, more in disbelief than in any attempt to hide his amusement.
“Shut up!” Peter shouts, a little distressed. “You said it wouldn’t be the wrong thing to say!”
“It’s not, it’s not,” Malcolm assures him, his words slurring a bit so it sounds more like he’s repeating the word ‘snot’. He forces himself to relax before he passes out from lack of oxygen. “That w’s perfect. Ya hit the nail on the head, buddy. It does, in fact, suck.”
“You’re one confusing guy, Malcolm.”
“Got that from Firefly.”
“What?”
“My name,” Malcolm explains, eyes starting to fall shut again against the weight of sleep. “Got it from...from Firefly.”
There’s a pause, and Malcolm wonders what Peter’s face is doing. “The TV show? With the space cowboys?”
“Mmmm-hm,” Malcolm says. Malcolm giggles a little deliriously. “Had a crush on the captain...so I stole his name.”
“You are a nerd, Malcolm.”
“Okay, Han.”
Peter laughs, but it’s lost through the haze of Malcolm’s half-sleeping mind. He slips in and out of consciousness for what feels like ages before he’s back again, this time due to a poke to his forehead.
He grumbles when he gets poked again. “Let me die.”
“You’re not dying, you’re just stupid,” Peter says. “Sit up and eat this soup.”
Malcolm whines but follows the order. He cups the bowl in his hands, the steam soothing his irritated nose. “Careful,” Malcolm says. “Remember what happened the last time you had soup around me?”
Peter shakes his head. “I’m gonna sit here until you’ve had all that, and then you’re gonna get some rest.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
Malcolm blows a raspberry, bringing the soup up to his mouth slowly. He knows part of him is going to be drawing this out just to keep Peter here, and he hates himself for it. He’s the one who’s been avoiding him—he doesn’t get to keep him too. He can’t have both.
“You’re ridiculous,” Peter says when Malcolm takes a solid thirty seconds to sip at one sad spoonful of chicken noodle soup. He comes over to sit on the bed and grabs the bowl, bringing up the spoon to hover in front of Malcolm’s mouth. “Open up.”
“Now this is just sad,” Malcolm says. “A man can’t feed himself now?”
“Not my fault you’re slow,” Peter says, and nudges the spoon at Malcolm’s mouth. “Open.”
Malcolm furrows his eyebrows, now thoroughly embarrassed, but he obliges. He opens his mouth, and Peter feeds him the soup. It tastes marvelous, actually, but Malcolm’s pride is hurt, so he doesn’t let his face show any emotion beyond annoyance. That almost slips when Peter grins, though.
“Good job,” he says once Malcolm’s swallowed. It’s supposed to be teasing, Malcolm’s sure of it, but apparently his heart isn’t getting that message. Malcolm opens his mouth for another spoonful and tries to convince himself he isn’t paying attention to the way that Peter is just a few inches taller than him here, forcing Malcolm to tilt his head up to keep eye contact.
They go through the whole bowl that way, mostly silent except for the blood pounding in Malcolm’s ears. Then the spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl and Malcolm flinches.
“Sorry,” Peter says, grimacing. “I hate that noise too.” He gets up and leaves the room with the bowl, then returns with a small cup of some dark green liquid. “Lay down, doofus.”
Malcolm groans but once again does as he’s told. “Doofus...you’re the doofus.”
“Uh-huh,” Peter says, then holds out the miniature cup. “Drink.”
“We takin’ shots?” Malcolm grins.
“Maybe another time, hot shot. Now drink.”
Malcolm downs it, then sticks out his tongue. “Blegh. No. Bad. Bad taste.”
“I know, hun, I know,” Peter says. Malcolm thinks he imagined the pet name. “Lay down. This shit’ll knock you out pretty quick and you’re already dazed enough, I don’t need you cracking your skull open on the dresser or something.”
“So much faith in me,” Malcolm bemoans, slowly settling into his bed. “I’m not...not that clumsy...”
“Mm, whatever you say,” Peter says, and that cool feeling of his hand on Malcolm’s forehead returns. He brushes his fingers through Malcolm’s hair, and Malcolm is suddenly so grateful that he gets to feel this one more time before he messes up their friendship forever.
Sleep grabs at Malcolm with hungry fingers, pulling him under so quickly that Malcolm can’t remember the words Peter says to him before he’s deep in a dreamless slumber.