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Walking is usually one of his favorite activities. It clears his mind, reminds him to enjoy the charm and beauty of Bugswick. It’s harder to enjoy, however, when all he can focus on is just how badly he’s fucked up. Again.
He had his chance. He was so close to doing the right thing and revealing himself. Peter would have finally known who he really was—Malcolm and Clark, one and the same—for better or worse. The truth would’ve been out. But he couldn't even do it when the opportunity presented itself. It didn’t even just present itself, it was shouting in his face, “Hey, now’s the time, dickhead!”
Now would just be a sour time to do it. Right after he disappointed everyone like that? Leaving Peter in the dust? No, he can’t do it now.
He will tell him. Just...later.
“Wish there weren’t so many lights out here,” Peter says. Malcolm shakes himself out of his pity party and glances at Peter, who’s walking with his hands in his pockets, his eyes pointed at the sky. “All this light pollution washes out the stars.”
Malcolm hums in agreement, albeit distractedly. He’s never really paid much attention to the stars, but he tries to see the sky through Peter’s eyes. (It doesn’t really work. It just looks black to him.)
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Malcolm can’t help but ask. “It’s just us now. You can tell me if you’re not.”
Peter keeps his gaze to the sky. “I’m fine. Honest,” he says. “Disappointed, I guess, as anyone would be. I was...really excited to meet this person.”
Malcolm kicks at a pebble on the ground, and Peter kicks it after him.
“Maybe I was looking for something too good to be true,” Peter mumbles. “My fault for getting my hopes up.”
“Hey, no,” Malcolm says sharply. “That wasn’t your fault. It’s that dick’s fault for standing you up. He’s a fucking idiot and he doesn’t know what he’s missing.” The irony in his statement isn’t lost on him.
Peter laughs. “I think you’re more mad about this than I am.”
“You should be mad!” Malcolm near-shouts, but when Peter shushes him through a giggle, he can’t help but smile too. “That was so fucked up! You should be angry! How are you not angry?”
Peter shrugs. “Maybe part of me is—but, you know. I get it. This guy...he’s got some issues.”
Malcolm tries not to sound like he’s taken it personally. “Yikes.”
“We all have issues, I’m not trying to shit on him,” he says. “I just...I get it, you know? I understand why he may not have wanted to show up. So, no, I’m not mad. I guess I just wish he had told me he couldn’t do it instead of just...running away.” Peter throws a smirk in Malcolm’s direction. “Sounds kinda familiar, huh?”
“Oh, fuck off,” Malcolm laughs. Peter doesn’t know how close he is to the truth.
“I guess I just have a type,” Peter says.
Malcolm bites down on his smile. He shouldn’t be smiling. He shouldn’t be enjoying this moment, so soon after he’s fucked up so immensely. But that’s the effect of being around Peter Tollemache lately: Malcolm can’t help but be happy around him.
“Are we going to the park?” Malcolm asks once he recognizes the trail they’ve headed down.
“Yup. The fountain should be on, if I remember the hours right,” Peter says.
“I don’t remember a fountain being here...”
“It’s one of those ground fountains, the ones that shoot water up from the ground and get you soaked. See?” Peter points, and Malcolm hears the swshhh of the water being sprayed into the air before he sees it. It turns off, and the splattering of the water droplets falling to the earth hits his ears.
“Isn’t that for the kids to play in?” Malcolm asks.
“Mhm,” Peter says. “And tonight it’s for us.”
“Oh. Oh, no. Nuh uh.”
“Yuh huh,” Peter says, nodding his head with a devilish grin. “C’mon, dude, I just got stood up. You have to do this.”
Malcolm groans. Of course he was going to do it.
“That’s my boy,” Peter says, and Malcolm vehemently wishes for God to strike him dead.
Peter makes his way towards the fountain, and to Malcolm’s horror, he begins to strip off his shirt. Malcolm gets stuck staring at the muscles of Peter’s back for a solid five seconds before he wills himself to speak.
“Hey, yo, I didn’t agree to stripping!”
“I’m not stripping completely!” Peter argues. “I hate wearing wet clothes. Can’t exactly take my pants off in public, though, so this is the best I can do. Are you coming?”
Malcolm groans again, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Fine. Fine. God.” He wiggles out of his hoodie and t-shirt, throwing them onto the nearest bench in a messy heap next to Peter’s nicely folded shirt.
Malcolm belatedly realizes that he hadn’t hesitated to show his chest.
“C’mon!” Peter shouts, grabbing Malcolm’s hand and dragging him into the middle of the fountain. They lay flat on their backs, faces to the sky. They’re surrounded in a circle of water spouts, and Peter must have memorized the timing of the water, because he counts down from three, and the water goes soaring into the air.
“Wooooooo!” Peter yells, and the loud spraying of the fountain almost drains him out, but Malcolm can hear him well enough.
Malcolm laughs, and when Peter whoops again, Malcolm joins him with a loud holler. They shout and laugh and scream together, drowned out by the roar of the water before it stops and sends the droplets spraying onto their faces. It’s refreshing, feeling the water against his bare chest. His pants are soaked through already, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
And Peter’s still holding his hand.
Malcolm looks at their hands joined together. Peter’s hand is bigger than his, but Malcolm’s is rougher. That surprises him. He figured Peter would have calluses built up from all of the instruments he’s sure he plays. Malcolm always imagined him playing bass. Wait, does he play anything at all?
“Do you play any instruments?”
“What?”
“Instruments. Do you play any?”
“Uh, a little? I play the keyboard sometimes.”
“Oh. Cool. I used to play the trombone.”
Peter laughs. “Cool.”
He’s thinking too much. He needs to stop thinking so much, but speaking from experience, trying to stop his thoughts usually just makes it worse. If anything, they seem to go even faster just out of spite. But then Peter’s thumb rubs across Malcolm’s, and his thoughts halt entirely.
Malcolm drags his eyes away from their hands in a show of great strength, only to settle instead on Peter’s face.
“Hey,” Peter says. The fountain sprays again, and he laughs. It turns off, leaving behind fresh droplets of water on his nose.
“Hey,” Malcolm says. He swallows. “When you—earlier, when you said, ‘I guess I know now...’” Malcolm trails off for a moment, but Peter stays silent, waiting for him to continue. “Did you mean that? Did you really not know before?”
Peter’s face goes soft, his lips still quirked up in the smallest of smiles. “Know what?”
“Fuck off, you know what,” Malcolm says, and Peter’s smile grows.
“It’s hard to tell, sometimes,” Peter admits. “Not just with you, but with anyone. Sometimes I think I know how someone feels, but it’s...tricky, I guess. And you’re a bit of a wild card as it is, so, no. I didn’t know for sure.”
“But you do now?” Malcolm says. He gulps down what remaining saliva he has left in his mouth. He’s not quite sure what’s possessed him to ask this in the first place. “You know?”
“I think I do,” Peter says, his voice dropped to a whisper. “I hope I do.” The fountain goes off around them, but neither of them look away, even as the water falls against their bare chests and faces. The fountain cuts off. Peter’s eyes flicker across Malcolm’s face, from his forehead to his chin, until they finally settle, undoubtedly, on his lips.
“Peter,” Malcolm breathes.
“Malcolm,” Peter says.
“No, wait—Peter.”
Peter stops. He had started to lean in, and that’s when the alarms in Malcolm’s brain finally start to blare.
“Are you okay?” Peter asks. Fuck him for being hot and respectful.
“I shouldn’t do this,” Malcolm says. “I can’t—I can’t do this.”
“O...kay,” Peter says, understandably confused. “I guess I...didn’t get that right then?”
“No! You did! You got it right. I do feel that way, I do. I—I really like you, Peter.”
Peter blinks at him. “Alright, I’m lost.”
“I just can’t do this to you,” Malcolm says as he starts to sit up, dragging his hand away from Peter. “This isn’t—it’s not fair, god, I can’t believe I did this, I—I have to go. Fuck, I really have to go.”
“Wait, wait—Malcolm!” Peter shouts, but Malcolm’s already grabbed his clothes and started to run.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking shit fuck,” Malcolm chants to himself. He can hear Peter calling after him still, but he doesn’t let up. He stumbles as he tries to put his shirt and hoodie back on, gasping when his head finally fits through the hole at the neck, his wet hair plastered against his forehead. “Shit fuck shit fuck shit.”
“Malcolm!”
He runs faster. He runs and runs, and he’s almost crying by the time his apartment comes into view, but he refuses to break down before he’s in the safety of his room. He’s going to have to face the others and tell them what happened. He doesn’t want to see the disappointment on their faces too.
He climbs the stairs two at a time, chest heaving. That’s the fastest he’s run since high school P.E., and his body’s aware of it. He’s ready to make a beeline to his room and pass out on his bed as soon as he enters the apartment—but when he steps through the door, he’s greeted by someone’s back.
Goby, Jazz and Mona stand in front of a woman, each of their faces varying degrees of panic. Their eyes dart over to him at his entrance, and their panic only grows. Jazz has his name halfway out of her mouth, sounding almost like a warning, before the woman finally turns around to face him.
She grins at him, her lips a thin line, like an open wound. She spreads her arms wide, welcoming, suffocating. “Hello, sweetheart,” she says, and there’s a spot of lipstick on her professionally whitened teeth. Malcolm does his best to swallow the bile that rises in his throat.
“Hey, Mom.”