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“You’re doing the right thing, love,” Mona says. Her hand is in Malcolm’s. Goby holds onto his arm on the other side as Jazz leads them towards Roisin Records. Their footsteps echo against the wet asphalt, and Malcolm hops over a puddle left from the afternoon’s rain.
“Yeah,” Jazz says, turning around and walking backwards in order to face Malcolm. “We know this isn’t easy, but we’re proud of you.”
Goby nods in agreement, tightening their hold on Malcolm’s arm. Malcolm purses his lips.
“Thanks guys,” he says. “If I puke, please don’t make fun of me.”
“No promises,” Jazz says.
“Jazmine,” Mona scolds.
“I’ll wait the appropriate amount of time before making fun of you,” Jazz corrects herself.
“I’ll take it,” Malcolm says. They all halt as the front of Roisin Records comes into view like the final boss in a video game. It’s packed.
“Where the fuck did all these people come from?” Goby asks, marveling at the decently sized crowd spilling out of the front doors and lingering along the sidewalk.
“They must be from Rebo’s show,” Malcolm says, eyes wide. “He mentioned the shop on the air. I guess he’s gained more of an audience than I thought.”
“Atta boy,” Goby says proudly.
“Are you gonna be alright with the crowd?” Jazz asks. “Not gonna, you know...” She mimes an explosion, and Malcolm rolls his eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” Malcolm assures her. “And if I’m not, I can always hightail it out of there.”
“Alright then, now that the escape plan’s in place,” Mona says, and squeezes Malcolm’s hand. “Are you ready?”
“Fuck no,” Malcolm says.
“Great. In you go,” she says, and tugs him toward the entrance.
Malcolm sputters and stumbles forward. “You guys aren’t coming with me?”
“Don’t worry, dude,” Goby says, hiking up their voice as Malcolm walks further away. “We’ll be close by just in case you need us, but we think this is something you need to do on your own. You know?”
Malcolm frowns. He turns back towards the shop. “I know.”
***
The inside of the shop is uncomfortably tight, with two or three people filtering in and out of the doorway every few seconds. The music playing overhead just barely drowns out the white noise of the crowd. Malcolm clocks it as something from the Bee Gees, but can’t focus enough to determine the exact song.
He spots Peter at the desk, manning the station with ease. No one is actually buying anything. Malcolm realizes, quite suddenly, that they may not be here for the shop at all. They might just be here for Rebo.
Maybe they’re here for Clark, too, he thinks.
Malcolm dismisses the thought as quickly as it came and makes his way to the desk. He smooths down his hair and brushes some nonexistent dust from his pants, then stops in front of Peter.
“Busy tonight, huh?” Malcolm says.
Peter startles, like he hadn’t even noticed Malcolm’s steady approach. “Oh, hey man. Yeah, shit, it’s packed as hell.”
Malcolm glances around the store at the sea of customers. Many of them are treating the shop like a lounge, standing around the rows of records to chat with their friends. There’s a lot more teenagers than he expected there to be.
“Are you alright with how packed it is?” Malcolm asks. “It’s a bit, well—crowded.”
“I’m fine,” Peter says, then points to his ear. Malcolm finally notices the small plug inside of it. “These bad boys filter out excess noise so I don’t get overstimulated.”
“Oh, sick,” Malcolm says with genuine interest. “Maybe I should get a pair.”
Peter laughs, despite it not being that funny, and the sound of it is emptier than usual. Malcolm can’t help but feel like Peter’s pushing himself more than he should. He hasn’t looked at Malcolm once since he came in, and the few sentences he’s said seem to have drained him more than they should.
“Are you sure you’re alright, man?” Malcolm asks, leaning in a bit closer. His nerves have mostly escaped him now, replaced instead with cautious concern. “You seem kind of...spooked.”
“I’m alright, really,” Peter says, looking at Malcolm for the first time since he came into the store, but he looks away just as quickly. “I’m kind of expecting someone to show up tonight. But we haven’t met before and my dumbass didn’t ask for an identifier of some sort, so...”
“So it’s up to them to make themselves known,” Malcolm says. The nerves have returned with vengeance. He hopes Peter doesn’t notice him wiping his palms on his jeans.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Peter says. He sighs, then shakes his head. “Sorry, I haven’t even asked—how are you doing? How did your thing go, the one you were so stressed about last night?”
And now is his chance. It’s the perfect opportunity, a smooth segue into his big reveal. It’s happening right now, he could say. It’s me. It’s me, it’s me, it’s been me all this time. Are you happy? Are you pissed? Am I anything like who you’d hoped I would be?
“I’m—” Malcolm’s voice cuts out, stuck in his throat like a chunk of ice. He clenches his teeth together.
Three deep breaths, and I’ll say it, he tells himself.
He breathes in once, and he imagines himself grabbing his nerves by the throat and hurling them out of a window.
He breathes twice, and he feels the smallest ounce of confidence he can muster begin to grow and expand inside him. He can do this. He knows he can. Peter deserves the truth, and Malcolm deserves to tell it.
He breathes one more time.
“Malcolm?” Peter asks. His eyes are so kind, and he looks so concerned, and Malcolm hears Rebo’s voice for once.
“I’m...still working on it,” Malcolm says. His confidence deflates like a balloon.
Peter just smiles at him, and Malcolm hates himself all the more. “Don’t worry, man, it’ll work itself out.”
“You have more faith in me than I do,” Malcolm says.
“Good thing you have me around then, huh?” Peter says.
Malcolm looks down at his shoes. “I don’t think I tell you that enough, actually,” he says. When he looks back up he finds Peter staring at him curiously. “I’m really grateful you’re my friend, Peter. Like—insanely so. I wish I could be as good of a friend to you as you are to me.”
Peter’s eyebrows crease together. “What? Dude, you’re an amazing friend. Don’t say that.”
“I’m really not.”
“You really are. You’re an asshole sometimes and you’re confusing as hell, but you’re a good friend.”
Malcolm scoffs. “You have helped me so much in the short time that we’ve been friends. What have I done to help you?”
“I think you need to refresh your knowledge on what exactly a friendship is, moron,” Peter says. Malcolm forgot how easily Peter seems to make insults sound like pet names. “I’m not your friend just because I might get something out of you. I know you’d help me if I needed you, but that’s not why I’m your friend, or why I even consider you a good one. You’re a good friend because you make me happy.”
Malcolm blinks at him. “I make you happy?”
“Obviously,” Peter says. “I think all that self-deprecating bullshit in your head is clouding your perception. Like, what did you do when you found out how much I mask myself in public, huh? You didn’t make me feel bad for it or even push me to stop masking completely, because you knew that was too much. You didn’t just give me empty words of sympathy. You just...gave me the space to be myself, if I ever needed it.” Peter stops a beat, as if waiting for Malcolm to process his words. “Do you even know how much that meant to me? I didn’t even realize how badly I needed a place to be myself until you gave me that, Malcolm. You’re like...”
Peter trails off, trying to find the words. Malcolm waits.
“You’re like home,” Peter finally says. He nods to himself, happy with his word choice. “Yeah. That’s what you are, Malcolm. You’re like my home.”
Malcolm hopes that his heart doesn’t fail on him, but it feels dangerously close to giving out. Peter’s still looking at him, and after all this time it still feels like staring into the sun, so he says the first thing that comes to mind that’ll break him out of this trance.
He clears his throat, and says in a slightly wobbly voice, “That’s kinda gay, man.”
Peter barks out a surprised laugh. “You’re shit at this.”
“You just called me your home, dude! My brain is malfunctioning!”
“I didn’t know I had such an effect on you,” Peter says, leaning his arms against the desk, and fuck, great, he’s back to being the flirty friend. Malcolm can’t survive flirty Peter, not tonight of all nights. He’s too weak to pretend it doesn’t do something to him.
So he doesn’t pretend. Malcolm bites at his cheek, scratches the scruff on his jaw that he forgot to shave, then says just loud enough for Peter to hear, “Yeah, you did.”
Peter seems startled, for the brief second Malcolm can get himself to actually look at him. His surprise melts away into something closer to wonder, his mouth still open just slightly from the aftermath of his smirk. His voice is warm and subdued when he says, “Well, I guess I know now.”
Malcolm wishes for all the world that he had something smooth to say in response, but luckily his phone saves him from having to think of one. Unluckily, it makes him jump when it starts ringing violently in his pocket, which is embarrassing to do in front of the guy you kinda sorta maybe just confessed your feelings to in a super vague roundabout way. He apologizes and fishes the phone out of his pocket.
The briefest shock races down his back when he sees that it’s his mother calling. But, as he looks back at Peter, he finds for the first time that he isn’t tempted to answer. Not even a little. He mutes the call and tucks his phone away.
Peter’s looking out into the crowd again when Malcolm turns his attention back to him. Peter purses his lips, and seems to come to a decision.
“Okay, I’m calling it,” Peter says. “He’s not coming.”
The panic from before races back into Malcolm’s body in one quick motion, fast enough to make him dizzy. “W-wait,” he says, “maybe you just have to wait a little longer?”
Peter shakes his head with a frown. “Nah. It’s late. If he was going to show up, he’d be here by now.”
Malcolm frowns. “Was this like...a date?” He’s not sure if he really wants to know the answer.
Peter gives him a considering look, then shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. It might’ve been. But it didn’t have to be.” He pauses, seeming to think to himself. “Maybe I should’ve let him know that. Maybe that’s what scared him off.”
Peter starts to raise himself up onto the desk, and Malcolm yelps, rushing forward to make sure he doesn’t fall and break his neck. Peter straightens up once he has his footing, giving Malcolm an appreciative nod before turning towards the crowd.
“Alright, folks!” Peter shouts, his palms cupped around his mouth. “We’re closing up! Everybody buy whatever you’re gonna buy and then make your way out!”
There’s a chorus of disappointed grumbles, and Malcolm feels each one like a personal punch to the gut. They were waiting for him, he can see that now. They were waiting for the big reunion of Rebo and Clark. He let them all down too.
The shop empties slowly but surely. Peter watches them filter out, and Malcolm wonders if he’s still looking for any sign of Clark.
“Hey,” Malcolm says, and nudges Peter’s arm. “You wanna go on a walk or something?”
Peter takes a moment, still watching the store slowly empty out. The music overhead has been turned off. Malcolm realizes that he’s never been in the store this late at night. Now that it’s lost all the commotion from the crowd, it feels kind of like when he would come back to school after a field trip. The buildings would be drenched in shadows cast from the orange street lamps, not a teacher in sight aside from those still leaving the buses. Back then, he always felt like he wasn’t supposed to be there. He tries not to feel the same way now.
“Yeah,” Peter says. “I could go for a walk.”