Welcome caller, p.17
Welcome, Caller, page 17
Peter looks left to right before his eyes land on a half-empty water bottle on Malcolm’s floor. He picks it up, opens the lid, gives it a whiff, then once he’s deemed it to be actual water and not vodka in a water bottle, he pours some into the plant’s soil.
“Yeah, sure, go ahead,” Malcolm waves his hand. “Make yourself at home.”
“She’s thirsty,” Peter explains.
“You’re weird.”
“A corner of your wall is dedicated to paintings of memes. You’re one to judge.”
“I’m not judging, just observing,” Malcolm says. “‘Weird’ isn’t even an insult anymore—they started turning that shit into a compliment years ago. Get with the times, old man.”
“So, you’re complimenting me?” Peter asks.
“That’s to be determined.”
Peter tsks and shakes his head. “You are a strange, strange person, Malcolm.”
“I think I’m cute,” Malcolm says with a cheeky smile, just to be annoying.
Peter hums. “That too.”
Malcolm’s smile drops, his eyebrows raising, but Peter has already moved on before he can say another word.
“Which side of the bed do you prefer?” Peter asks.
“Oh, um, no preference.”
“Good, cause I was gonna take the right side anyway,” he says, burrowing into the blankets.
Malcolm shakes his head and turns away, making for the bathroom.
“Oh, shit, you got your own bathroom in here? Faaan-cy!” Peter says, eyeing Malcolm from the strip of light that the bathroom casts along the bed.
“Yeah, and an extra toothbrush, too, so get your ass in here. I’m not putting up with your morning breath,” Malcolm says.
Peter kicks his way out of the bedsheets. “Bossy.”
“Hygienic,” Malcolm argues.
Peter kicks out at Malcolm’s leg and Malcolm throws him the spare toothbrush, which hits Peter’s forehead before landing in his hands. Malcolm slaps a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting into noisy laughter. Everything is funnier at night, when you aren’t supposed to be making too much noise. Peter snorts and his mouth opens in a noiseless wheeze, eyes squeezed shut. Malcolm shushes him and swats at his arm.
“Shut up, shut up, brush your damn teeth,” Malcolm says.
“Yes, Mother,” Peter says.
Malcolm tries not to let that get to him. It’s just a phrase people use—he’s not actually being called a woman. Malcolm swallows down the itchy feeling underneath his skin and brushes his teeth.
He probably should’ve made them brush their teeth at different times. Catching Peter’s eyes in the mirror and looking away when he looks back, it all feels far too domestic for Malcolm’s suffering heart. The next time Malcolm catches Peter’s eye, Peter makes a face, the foam of the toothpaste spilling out of his mouth, and Malcolm is so startled that he splutters a laugh and toothpaste goes spraying all over the mirror. They can’t stop themselves from dissolving into a fit of giggles at that point.
By the time they’ve cleaned up the mirror (and themselves), Malcolm’s eyes are burning, which is when he promptly remembers the contacts he’s been wearing all day. He hisses a curse and takes the contact container out of the mirror cabinet, hidden behind his bottle of Concerta.
“Since when do you wear contacts?” Peter asks as Malcolm puts a careful finger to his eye.
“Since always,” Malcolm says, his mouth open in an ‘O’ shape like it always does when he’s messing with his face.
“I didn’t know you wore contacts.”
Malcolm blinks rapidly once the contacts are out, the world slightly more blurry than before. Peter’s just close enough to be somewhat in focus, but he still has to squint a bit. “I don’t like how I look in glasses.”
Malcolm turns for the bed, and Peter says, “I bet you look good.”
It’s stupid how easily Peter’s compliments get to Malcolm. He’s sure Peter says that kind of thing to everyone. He’s nice like that.
They shuffle into bed together, facing each other. At first Malcolm debated whether or not he should sleep on his back to make things as non-romantic as they can possibly be, but he never sleeps easily like that and he knows Peter would be able to tell he’s acting weird. The best thing to do is just act like it’s any other night. Nothing special at all about this. Not one bit.
It’s an awful plan. As soon as he lays down and sees Peter looking at him, he feels like his heart is gonna fall out of his ass. It’s dark, and the blanket is soft, and Peter is so close that Malcolm doesn’t even need his contacts to bring him into focus. It’s the same feeling from the kitchen increased tenfold: they’re alone, properly now, and everything is delicate. It feels like one of those nights where something magical happens. Where everything changes. Nothing about this night is normal.
“If I were to change my name, I think I’d pick ‘Luke,’” Peter says.
Malcolm blinks. “What?”
“You were just talking about how Goby almost picked a different name, and it got me thinking. What would my name be if it weren’t Peter?”
Malcolm feels his smile returning, and he bites his lip. “Luke. Of course you’d pick that.”
“I’d pick Han, but it seems a bit out of style.”
“Oh, and ‘Goby’ is in style?”
“I’m gonna tell them you said that.”
Malcolm grabs a free pillow from his side and whacks it against Peter’s face, who laughs brightly before holding the pillow against his chest, curling against it like a middle schooler telling stories at a sleepover.
“What would you pick? If you wanted to change your name?”
Malcolm doesn’t feel nearly as scared as he thought he would when he says, “I already have.”
“You’ve changed your name?” Peter says curiously. Malcolm nods. “Why?”
“Cause I’m trans, Peter,” Malcolm laughs.
“Ooooh, okay. Gotcha.”
“Mhm.”
“That doesn't answer my question, though. If you could change it again, what would you change it to?”
Malcolm looks at Peter, wishing he could just reach over and touch his hand. He thinks Peter would even let him. “Peter?”
“You can’t take my name.”
“No, I’m saying something to you, dumbass.”
“Oh. Yeah?”
Malcolm sighs, his fists curling up in the sheets and wishing it were Peter’s shirt instead. “I’m just really glad you came.”
Peter’s face softens, and he looks down. If it were lighter in the room, Malcolm's sure he would see a blush. “Me too, Malcolm,” he says quietly. He licks his bottom lip, and Malcolm can hear his fingers fidgeting against the sheets. Then Peter looks up and says, “Still haven’t answered the question, though. What name would you pick?”
Malcolm pretends to think for a moment. “Han.”
Peter takes the pillow out from where it was trapped under his arms and slams it against Malcolm’s face.
28
Work the next day is a nightmare. He relies on muscle memory alone to get him through orders while his head floats off into the clouds, running the interactions of that morning through his mind like a rock tumbler.
Just a few short hours ago, Malcolm woke up in bed next to Peter Tollemache.
He woke before his alarm, the gap in the blinds allowing a strip of sunlight to bleed through his closed eyes, dyeing the world a glowing red. He felt a weight on his chest, and for a split second before he opened his eyes, he had thought it was Peter. He thought about it a bit the night before, waking up to Peter cuddling him in his sleep, his soft snores in his ear. But no, a quick glimpse and he saw that it was just Lady purring happily on top of him, her eyes squinted closed. He wiggled a bit until she finally slunk down into the gap between him and Peter, curling up into a ball.
The clock told him he still had several minutes until his alarm. That’s the only reason he felt safe enough to look at Peter longer than he probably should’ve.
It was strange seeing him like this—calm without intention. He looked relaxed, and not just because he was trying to look relaxed. He wasn’t pretending for anyone, he wasn’t hiding. He was beautiful.
There was a spot of sunlight that fell along Peter’s cheek due to a broken spot in Malcolm’s blinds. His skin was glowing. He looked warm. Malcolm wanted to know if he felt as warm as he looked. In his sleep-addled state, he didn’t think it was such a bad idea to see for himself.
He raised his hand slowly and brushed his knuckles against his skin. It was soft, with the exception of a few acne scars near his jaw that Malcolm ran his thumb over, his fingers trailing along Peter’s neck. That’s when Peter opened his eyes.
Malcolm froze, eyes wide and hand stuck hovering above Peter’s face. Peter reached his own hand up and placed it on top of Malcolm’s. He pressed Malcolm’s palm against his jaw again, harder than Malcolm had been doing before. He blinked, and it had taken a moment for his eyes to open back up again.
“Light touches don’t always feel good for me. It’s like...” he blinks again, slowly. Not fully awake. “Like ants on my skin. You have to be firm.”
Malcolm swallowed, not daring to move an inch. “Got it.”
Peter closed his eyes again. He breathed in deep through his nose and let it out in a sleepy exhale. His hand was still holding Malcolm’s hand down. Malcolm thought he may have been dreaming.
The moment only ended when they smelt something burning, and Malcolm had to run into the kitchen to keep Goby from catching a piece of toast on fire. Mona was already yelling at them for making toast when she had already said she was making omelets. Mona had tried to catch Malcolm’s eye, but he kept his eyes to the ground.
She’s doing the same thing now at the bar, but this time he won’t be able to run to the bathroom to hide from her stare.
“You seem a bit lost in thought today, love,” she says. “Is this about last night? With Peter?”
“What?” Malcolm blinks, startled. “What do you mean? Nothing happened. What?”
“Well, he did come out of your room this morning,” she says with a sly smile.
“Because Goby is a couch hog and their room is uninhabitable. Would you have liked me to stick him with you and Jazz?”
“That would’ve been fun,” Mona says. “We could’ve painted his nails.”
Malcolm promptly swats away the image of Peter with painted nails and says, “He’s already enough of a pain in my ass without Jazz’s influence.”
“You wish he was a pain in your ass.”
“Mona!” Malcolm yelps, ears burning.
She chuckles, but thankfully doesn’t continue with the innuendo. “If nothing scandalous happened, then did you at least mention what we talked about in the kitchen?”
“Yeah,” Malcolm says with a shrug. “He knows now.”
She pauses, an expectant look on her face. “And? I need to know if I should bring out the party poppers or the battle axes.”
“Neither. He was cool about it, but there’s no need to celebrate,” Malcolm says. “Of course he was cool about it, Mona, we knew he would be.”
Mona smiles as she leans her hip against the bar, tapping a finger against its surface. “Still. I’m happy for you, hun. Coming out is a hard thing to do, no matter how many times you’ve done it before.” Malcolm shrugs, and Mona’s brows furrow. “Okay. Obviously there’s something else, then.”
Malcolm lowers his head, eyes fixed on his shoelaces.
“Malcolm, sweetheart, what’s going on?” Mona says, placing a hand on his elbow. He looks up and gnaws at his cheek, eyes stinging.
“Mona—” he cuts himself off, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Mona, I’m going to fuck up. Probably soon.”
“How are you going to fuck up?” Mona asks. Malcolm blinks a few times and sniffs, his mouth twisted to the side. “Can’t say yet?” she asks. Malcolm nods. “Okay. That’s okay. Are you absolutely sure you’re going to fuck up? Nothing we can do to keep that from happening?”
“It’s like—actively happening. I am actively fucking up.”
Mona nods slowly. “Okay. Well...I can’t say for sure that I won’t be pissed since I don’t know what it is. If you’re, like, poisoning Terrance or something I definitely won’t forgive you.”
Malcolm lets out a wet chuckle and says, “Don’t give me any ideas.”
Mona smiles. “How about this, then. Just...try to be better tomorrow. Or next week, or next month, or however long until you’re done with your current fuck up. Just try to be better next time, yeah?”
Malcolm nods, then ducks his head when he feels his lips beginning to wobble with force. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try, Mona.”
“That’s my boy,” she says, patting his head. “Now go grab us some fruit snacks from the back.”
He swipes his wrist across his nose and gives another sharp nod. Before he turns to leave, he feels a vibration in his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen is lit up with a single message from Peter, asking him if he’s free for lunch break.
He makes a decision. It’s not a good one.
Malcolm swipes at the message until it’s gone from the screen and tucks his phone away. When he looks up, Mona’s eyeing his phone curiously. Her mouth flattens into a line, and he can’t tell if it’s a look of sympathy or disappointment. He hurries to the back room before he can find out.
29
woke up this morning to my roommate giving his dog a mohawk
he’s kind of an ugly thing so the mohawk is a step up at least
the dog, not my roommate
hey are you getting these?
Malcolm scrolls through Peter’s texts, smiling at the remarks about his roommate’s dog, then cursing himself for finding happiness in Peter’s texts when he doesn’t even have the guts to respond to them.
He knows he’s being ridiculous. He’s already received a barrage of texts and voicemails from Jazz about how much of an idiot he’s being. It’s been days. Everyone knows he’s avoiding Peter. They just don’t know why.
He shoves his phone into his pocket with force, returning to the video game he’s playing with Goby. Goby’s kicking his ass more than usual, and they keep glancing over at him every time he falls off the edge of the floating stage where their characters are battling. Goby’s stylish princess sweeps the legs of Malcolm’s little gnome for the third time, and the gnome goes tumbling off the edge once again. Goby huffs and grabs Malcolm’s controller from him.
“Hey!” Malcolm starts to protest as Goby pauses the game.
“Shut up,” Goby says, and turns to face him. Malcolm refuses to move, pouting down at his hands where his controller would be. “What the hell are you doing, dude?” Malcolm opens his mouth, but Goby cuts him off before he can even try to lie. “Nope, nuh-uh, don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Why are you avoiding Peter?”
Malcolm sighs, more in annoyance than anything else. He slumps back against the pillows they had propped up on the floor against the couch. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Goob.”
“Don’t ‘Goob’ me right now, Malcolm, I’m peeved,” Goby says sternly, and Malcolm shrinks back. “If you’re avoiding Peter, it’s not just gonna affect you; we’re all friends with Peter now, so we all have to deal with it. But that’s not why I’m mad.”
“It’s not?” Malcolm asks.
“No, dude,” they say. “I’m mad because you very obviously want to talk to him. So why the hell aren’t you?”
Malcolm tries to bring the words to his mouth, but he can’t seem to find them. He has his reasons, but it’s not that simple. “You wouldn’t get it.”
Goby throws their head back and groans. “Fuck, I forgot how dramatic you can be.”
Malcolm pouts and grumbles, “I forgot how harsh you can be.”
“It’s what you need,” Goby says. “Mona’s the nice one, Jazz is the mean one, and I’m whatever the hell I gotta be to get through your thick skull.”
“Take it down a notch, I’m still a bit fragile right now.”
“Tough!” Goby shouts, then lowers their voice, gently plopping their hand on Malcolm’s head. “Sorry, I was on a roll. I’ll cool it. But seriously, man, you gotta talk to me. Maybe if you try explaining your reasons you’ll see how dumb they actually are.” Malcolm glares at them, and they wince. “Sorry. I’m chill now, promise.”
Malcolm brings a hand up to his chest, and he rubs his thumb along the soft fabric of his t-shirt. “Peter is...good.” He pauses, expecting a comment from Goby, but they’re just watching him curiously, waiting for him to continue. He takes a deep breath. “I think Peter might be the best man I know. Not just, like, kind. I mean, he is kind, he’s so fucking kind, but he’s also just. Good. He’s a good thing that’s happened to me, and usually when that happens, I fuck it up.”
“You don’t know that you’re gonna—”
“Yes, Goby, I do know I’m gonna fuck it up because I am literally already fucking it up. I’m keeping secrets, I’m avoiding him, I’m caressing his face one moment and then running away the next.”
“You’re doing what to his face?”
“My point is, I know I’m gonna fuck up with Peter because I am literally the epitome of fucked up. Either I can try to make something good happen between me and him and probably just end up losing it in the end, or I can stop anything from happening at all. Save us all a little heartache.”
There’s a moment of silence in which Malcolm just breathes, and Goby watches him. Goby scoots over until they’re shoulder to shoulder with Malcolm, their legs spread out in front of them, and they lean their head down to rest on top of Malcolm’s.
“I think I understand,” Goby says softly. “But, you’ve already started something with him, Malcolm. Something special. You see that, right?”
Malcolm picks at a loose thread on his ripped jeans and mumbles, “Says who?”
“Says anyone with two functioning eyes, dude,” Goby says with a light chuckle. “There’s obviously something going on between you and Peter. You can’t just decide it’s not going to happen—it has happened. It is happening. And all this work you’re doing to avoid heartache is just causing more heartache.”
