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Malcolm can’t remember the very first time he had a panic attack. One moment he was fine, then suddenly he was hyperventilating nearly every week in the abandoned restrooms in middle school. Sometimes he still can’t tell when it will happen. Sometimes it’s not until he’s right in the middle of one that he’ll realize what’s happening. Sometimes, when he’s lucky, he can see the signs before it starts.
He makes it a full 24 hours after Rebo’s call before the reality of what he’s done fully catches up to him. He listens in on the show the next night and brings his hand up to his phone a total of eighteen times, but pulls back before he can call in again. Rebo spends the rest of his segment sounding on edge. Malcolm feels nauseous.
“Jazz,” Malcolm says into his phone.
“Malcolm? You sound like shit, dude, are you still sick?” Jazz’s voice crackles through the speaker.
“No,” Malcolm says. “No, I’m—” he sucks in a breath, and it hiccups in his throat.
“Malcolm? Are you alright?”
“I’m—” Malcolm tries to breathe again, but it feels like the air in his room refuses to cooperate with his lungs. “I can’t—”
“Hang on, we’re coming,” Jazz says. “I’m going to FaceTime you, okay?”
“Mm,” Malcolm says.
The phone lights up with the call, and he brings a shaky thumb down on the answer button.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Mona answers. She’s out of breath but makes sure to smile down at him. “Not a good night, huh?”
“Mm-mm,” Malcolm shakes his head, his face crumpling. He hiccups again.
“It’s okay, hun, it’s okay,” Mona says as she jumps into a car. Malcolm can hear Jazz cursing at the truck to turn on faster. “We’re just a few minutes away, alright? I’m gonna use my phone to call Goby, is that okay?”
“Mm-hm,” Malcolm nods his head. He brings a hand up to his chest, wrapping the other around his torso and squeezing.
He can hear Mona and Jazz talking, and a moment later footsteps come bounding down the outside hallway and into his room.
“Heeeey, buddy,” Goby says, crouching down in front of him as he sits on the edge of his bed. “Mona and Jazz are on their way. I’m right here, it’s alright.”
“Guh—mm—Goby,” Malcolm tries to say. He forgot what it’s like sometimes, panicking this intensely. He can barely get his words out. He might be dying.
“You’re not dying,” Goby says before he can even voice the thought. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re gonna be okay. We’ve been through this before, yeah? We can do this. You’re gonna be alright.”
Malcolm shakes his head.
“Yes, yes it is,” Goby says. “It’s gonna be alright. There—you hear that? Jazz and Mona are already here.”
Goby’s right, Malcolm can hear two more pairs of footsteps rushing into his room, and he tenses up.
“Chill, guys, we don’t need a stampede right now,” Goby says to them.
“Sorry, sorry,” Mona says.
“Where the fuck did I put it...” Jazz mumbles, barely acknowledging their presence as she rummages through Malcolm’s closet.
Mona mirrors Goby’s position and kneels in front of Malcolm, palms up. “Is it alright if I touch you? Or no touching?”
Malcolm shakes his head. He’s distantly aware that he’s sobbing.
“That’s alright, love, that’s okay. Do you think you can talk yet?”
“He won’t be able to,” Jazz answers. “Can you guys get him to lay down?”
Goby and Mona do as they’re told, helping Malcolm to fall back onto his bed with the least amount of touching as they can manage. Jazz shuffles quickly over to his nightstand, dragging a portable fan with her that Malcolm had forgotten he even owned. She plugs it in and turns it on high, pointing it directly on Malcolm’s body.
“He’s overheating,” Jazz says. “See if he can take his sweatshirt off.” Malcolm starts to shake his head, but Jazz says, “It’s okay if you don’t want to, but it’ll cool you down faster. You know you’re safe with us.”
Malcolm eventually relents, letting the others help him undress. The air feels good against his skin, his neck and forehead burning from the panic and the lingering aftermath of his illness.
“Come on, deep breath, you can do it,” Mona says, breathing in deeply through her nose. He copies her the best he can but chokes on the breath out. “That’s okay, you’re doing so well. Let’s do another one, love. Deep breath. You’ve got this.”
Malcolm follows her guidance, breathing in as deeply as his lungs will allow, and breathing out even more. The others do the same, until they’ve become a ring of deep breathing.
“Don’t forget to stim if you need to, buddy,” Goby chimes in gently. “It helps. I’ll do it with you.”
Malcolm glances at Goby, who has started to shake their hands in front of them like they’re flicking water off their fingers. It takes a moment before his hands finally unclench against his body, but eventually he’s able to move them, albeit weaker than Goby can do. He waves them weakly above his chest, his fingers limp and dangling.
Mona and Jazz glance at each other. They don’t stim quite as often as Goby and Malcolm do, but after a moment they begin to follow along anyway. Mona wiggles her fingers in the air, and Jazz twists her wrists back and forth.
“This is nice,” Mona says. “We should do this more often.”
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Goby says.
“I feel like I’m conducting my own little worm concerto.”
“That’s certainly one way to view it.”
They stay that way for longer than he can keep track of. Malcolm stares and stares at his friends, still breathing in sync, and now shaking out their hands together. It’s an odd sight to anyone but him. His lips finally do their best to quirk up into a grateful smile (he thinks he’s squinting more than smiling, really) and it takes a moment for the others to notice that he’s winding down.
“How are we doing, Mal?” Jazz asks, who’s added a small little hop to her stimming. Now it looks like she’s dancing very lazily.
“Better,” Malcolm says.
“Hey, we’ve got a word!” Goby says brightly, and the others give a quiet cheer. Malcolm chuckles, wiping the snot from his nose on his sleeve. Jazz cringes but says nothing.
“Are you ready to talk about what happened here?” Mona asks.
Malcolm looks at Jazz. She nods her head.
“Okay,” Malcolm says. “I think it’s about time I told you guys some things.”
***
It takes a bit to explain it all without sounding nuts. Jazz sits on the bed next to him, a steady force as he relays the information to those who had been left out of the loop. Talking to Peter, talking to Rebo, Peter helping him with his episodes, finding out Peter is Rebo, avoiding Peter in a last ditch attempt to run from his feelings and the guilt of lying to him about his identity, and now Rebo/Peter inviting Clark/Malcolm to meet in person.
It’s a mess, and from the looks on Mona and Goby’s faces, they think so too.
“And you were aware of all this?” Mona asks Jazz.
“Don’t give me that look, baby, I had to keep his secret,” she says. She turns to Malcolm and puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’s really struggling with this.”
“Well,” Goby sighs, puffing their cheeks out and planting their hands on their hips with finality. “You have to tell him.”
“What?” Malcolm says, startled. “Why do I have to tell him? Can’t I just run away to the woods and live as a wolf-man?” Even the thought of telling Peter is bringing the panic from earlier back, and he grabs a fistful of his bedsheets.
“Hey, no, no,” Goby stoops down and pats his hands. “It’s okaaay, it’s alriiight,” they coo in a semi-sing-song voice. “It’s no stress, dude, it’ll be fine.”
“It will not be fine,” Malcolm stresses, stressfully.
“He deserves to know the truth, love,” Mona says, coming over to sit on his other side so he’s encircled by the whole group. “Even if that means he might be mad at you.”
“And who knows,” Jazz pipes up, “maybe he’ll be happy about it.”
“Happy?” Malcolm says, incredulous. “I’ve been lying to him for months, Jazz. Who would be happy about that?”
Jazz blows a raspberry. “Someone who’s got a massive crush on you and Clark?”
“Oh, we’re talking about that?” Mona says, eyebrows peaked. “I thought we were leaving that unsaid.”
“Not like he would’ve figured it out,” Jazz mutters.
“Are you joking?” Malcolm says. “Peter doesn’t have a crush on me. On Clark, maybe, but he definitely won’t anymore once he finds out who Clark really is.”
“You’ve got some serious self-esteem issues to work on,” Goby says.
“It’s not a self-esteem issue, it’s reality,” Malcolm says sternly. “There’s no guarantee he’ll forgive me after all this time, and even if he does, I’ve still betrayed his trust. There’s no way I’d have a chance with him after this.”
“So what I’m hearing is,” Goby says slowly, “you’re going to tell him?”
Malcolm pauses. He looks between Jazz and Mona, who are both staring at him, waiting. He says to Jazz, “I thought you said I didn’t have to tell him right away?”
“I believe the situation’s changed, buddy,” Jazz says, her lips downturning in a sympathetic frown.
Malcolm sighs, long and defeated. “I’ll try,” he says.
They all crowd around him in a hug, one that he has to fight his way out of once their combined body heat gets to be too suffocating. They trail out of his room one by one, ending with Jazz, who gives him a grin and a two-fingered salute on her way out. Malcolm turns to his radio.
He left Rebo’s station playing despite never calling in. It’s almost time for the segment to end, so Malcolm gives in to the masochist in him and turns up the volume a few notches.
“This is a song that reminds me of one of my closest friends,” Rebo says, his voice lacking its usual energy. Malcolm can’t help but feel it’s because of him. “Sleep well and sweet dreams, everybody.”
Malcolm’s breath hitches in his throat, and he stares unblinkingly at the radio as the slow strum of “Cosmic Dancer” bleeds through the speakers. He stays awake long after the song has ended, but the tune plays on in his mind until morning.