Welcome caller, p.23
Welcome, Caller, page 23
“Only the best for my boyfriend.”
“Your what—”
“Oh, look, we’re here!” Peter shouts too loudly, and he yanks Malcolm towards the building before he can get another word in.
We’re talking about that later.
38
Malcolm thought he had been done with crying for the night; but then he returns to the apartment to find that his friends have turned the whole living room into a giant blanket fortress, and they’ve pulled up one of his favorite movies on the TV.
“Oh, what the fuck,” Malcolm says through the incoming water works.
Goby looks up from where they had been stabilizing the fort, using heavy books to keep the sheets weighed down. “Remember when we did this in my dorm my freshman year? Made a fort so big it made it all the way into Janet Marley’s room.”
“I don’t think we’ll get that big this time,” Mona says, “but this’ll have to do. Jazz is out getting the ice cream. Pistachio, right?”
“Yeah,” Malcolm says, his lips wobbling. “God. I love you guys.”
Mona and Goby rush over to him with their arms spread wide, and he falls into their embrace easily. After a moment he feels a third weight collapse into his side, and he realizes that Goby must have dragged Peter into the group hug. He’s definitely getting snot on someone, but no one seems to care.
The door opens behind them. “Oi, the fuck?” Jazz says. “You couldn’t have waited on the group hug until I was back?”
“You hate group hugs,” Malcolm says with watery laughter.
“It’s a special occasion,” Jazz says, and shoves her way into the group until she has her arms wrapped tightly around Malcolm’s middle. “Sorry for slapping your mom,” she says, her voice muffled.
“No, you’re not,” Malcolm says.
“No, I’m not.”
“I wish I’d done it first,” Goby admits.
“Don’t we all,” Peter says.
“I know I’m usually the one who chastises the use of violence,” Mona says, “but in this case, I’m afraid I must agree.”
Malcolm laughs, burrowing further into the embrace. It’s probably the longest group hug they’ve ever had, but he can’t find it in himself to let go. “I should have stood up to her a long time ago,” he admits softly. “I couldn’t have done that without you guys. Thank you.”
They all coo and say he has nothing to thank them for, although he’ll always disagree. Mona smacks a wet kiss to the side of his head, and Goby ruffles his hair. It’s strange being on the receiving end of that one, and Goby laughs at his disgruntled face.
Malcolm insists that they start the movie over. He can’t just watch The Holy Grail from the middle—it’s blasphemy, basically. The others don’t seem to mind.
“You know, I’ve never seen this,” Peter says when he and Malcolm are sitting on the couch. Malcolm desperately wants to collapse into Peter’s side and stuff his face into Peter’s hoodie until he’s all he can smell, but he keeps himself still, sitting upright on the couch. Lady Governor meows next to him, and he feels her judgment.
“You’ve never seen Monty Python and the Holy Grail?” Goby asks indignantly. They turn to Malcolm, eyes wide. “Are you sure about this one, Mal?”
Malcolm snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure. He’ll be watching enough Holy Grail to last a lifetime if he plans on sticking around.”
“And he is sticking around, right?” Jazz asks, her eyes fixed on the TV so she can pretend she’s not interested in the answer. Malcolm turns to Peter. He can’t answer this for him.
“Yeah,” Peter says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Mona has set herself up horizontally in the chair next to the couch, and she tips her head against the arm of it until she’s looking at Peter upside down, a warm grin spread across her face. “Welcome to our sad little gang, Peter. Happy to have you.”
“Thank you, Mona,” Peter says with a pleased smile.
“Yeah, just wait until Jazz gets comfortable enough with you to fart on your hand when you steal her seat on the couch,” Goby says with an ounce of bitterness that implies they’re speaking from experience.
“I’d do that now, I don’t care who you are,” Jazz corrects. “My spot is my spot.”
“I love when you get all protective,” Mona says dreamily. “Very sexy.”
Malcolm glances at Peter, who’s watching the group with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Goby makes a disgruntled noise before taking Jazz’s hand and plopping it on their head, and Jazz allows it without a blink, her conversation with Mona never breaking. Malcolm knows Goby does that as a pressure stim, but he wonders what Peter thinks about it. He tries to imagine seeing their odd little family from a stranger’s point of view—but Peter isn’t a stranger anymore. He’s one of them.
“Having regrets yet?” Malcolm asks.
Peter smiles. “Not a single one.”
Peter suddenly grabs the sleeve of Malcolm’s shirt and pulls, and Malcolm topples out of his stiff position on the couch with an ungraceful squawk. He finds himself messily pressed against Peter’s side, with Peter’s hand already wrapped along his torso. Malcolm’s ears burn, and Peter laughs.
“You had your tongue in my mouth and this is what gets you flustered?”
Malcolm gapes, his own words thrown back at him, before Goby’s suddenly pressed into their space with wide eyes.
“Y’all kissed?” Goby shouts, unnecessarily. They’re literally inches away. “And that wasn’t the first thing you said when you came back?”
“Sounds like it was more than just a kiss,” Jazz says.
“It’s been a busy day, alright?” Malcolm tries to defend himself. It’s unsuccessful.
“Leave them be, Goob, you’re embarrassing them,” Mona says.
They don’t leave them be. Both Goby and Jazz fight to get the full story out of Peter and Malcolm, poking and prodding until Malcolm has to shove his shirt collar over his face to hide his embarrassed flush. Mona, bless her beautiful soul, manages to wean them off with the promise of enchiladas the next time she goes grocery shopping.
Malcolm peaks up at Peter, worried that Goby and Jazz were perhaps being too overwhelming. He knows they can all be a lot sometimes. But Peter seems to be perfectly content, an affectionate look in his eyes as he laughs at the group’s antics. It doesn’t feel strange, Malcolm realizes, to have Peter here. It feels like he’s always been here—like this is where he belongs.
“Peter,” Jazz says, flinging an almost accusatory finger towards him. “I have a question for you, and it is of the utmost importance.”
“Yes?” Peter asks. Malcolm expected him to be nervous about Jazz’s sudden seriousness, but it’s like Peter knows, somehow, that this is nothing to be afraid of.
“Peter Tollemache,” Jazz says, then snaps her fingers together like the starting horn of a race. “Favorite ice cream. Go.”
“Shit,” Peter says, “that’s actually kind of hard. I have a few—”
“You have to pick!” Jazz says. “Go, go, go!”
“Um, chocolate—fuck, wait, too basic—”
“Three! Two! One!”
“Neapolitan,” Peter calls out quickly.
“Final answer?”
“Final answer.” He nods his head with an air of finality.
“Mister Tollemache,” Jazz announces, “you have gained my respect. Neapolitan is the correct answer.”
“I didn’t have your respect before?”
“Bring the man his cream of choice!” Jazz hollers, ignoring the comment. “Gooberson! The cream!”
“Quit calling it cream,” Malcolm says.
“The cream!” Jazz says again, pointing her finger to the sky.
Goby fetches the ice cream dutifully, presenting the tub to Jazz like a precious treasure.
Malcolm glances back at the kitchen, where a couple other tubs of ice cream remain. He can’t quite make out the flavors. “Did you get—”
“Yes, I got pistachio, stupid,” Jazz says quickly. “I’m your best friend, you think I’d forget your favorite?”
“I was just checking!”
“Never doubt me, Clark!”
Malcolm feels Peter’s quiet laughter against his neck, the low vibration of it humming against his back where it’s comfortably settled into Peter’s side.
“Is this amusing to you?” Malcolm asks.
“Yes, very much so,” Peter says. “But I also just keep forgetting that the whole Clark thing is real. God, that really was you this whole time.”
“Crazy, right?” Goby chimes in. “And this asshole didn’t tell us for months!”
“Actually, I found out before he did,” Jazz says, picking at her nails absentmindedly. “I’m just smarter than you all.” Mona flicks her on the forehead, and Jazz winces.
“Wait, how did you find out before Malcolm?” Peter asks.
Jazz smirks. “You remember when Clark brought a friend onto the show?”
Something clicks in Peter’s brain, and his mouth falls open in disbelief. “You’re Ludo?”
Jazz dips her head in a mock bow. “At your service.”
“Holy shit!”
Goby pouts. “How come you got to go on the show and we didn’t?”
“I’m a bit disappointed, too,” Mona admits.
“I’m sorry guys, but I had to force my way in,” Jazz says. “It was great though, I wish you had heard it. It was so obvious who Rebo was, and he totally had a crush on Malcolm back then too.”
“Oh my god,” Peter mutters, bringing a hand up to cover his face. “I don’t remember what I said. Oh, god, please don’t tell me it was that embarrassing.”
“You were all, oh, I wanna be this guy’s friend so bad, but he’s so mean and so, so hot,” Jazz reenacts, throwing her arm over her forehead dramatically. Goby cackles loudly, toppling over onto the rug.
“I would never say that on the air!” Peter argues.
“Ah, but you were thinking it,” Goby interjects from the floor.
Peter grumbles. “Well, yeah.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows jump to his hairline. He shoves himself upward so he can fully turn towards Peter. “You thought I was hot back then?”
“I thought you were hot, like, always,” Peter admits with the faintest blush. “Didn’t we establish this?”
“Keep establishing it,” Jazz laughs, “it’s fun to see him go red.”
“Scoundrels,” Malcolm says, flopping back into his place beside Peter. He cozies up a little closer than he was before, hoping the others don’t notice. (He thinks Peter does, because he squeezes Malcolm’s hip.) “Menaces. Fiends. Every single one of you.”
“Hey, I didn’t do anything!” Mona pipes up.
“Don’t act like this isn’t entertaining to you!” Malcolm says.
“Oh, now, that’s a different story.”
39
It’s near morning when the gang finally winds down, falling asleep in odd spots around the living room. Malcolm’s used to their living room slumber parties; what he isn’t used to is Peter holding him close on the couch, his soft snores ruffling the edges of Malcolm’s hair. Lady Governor is settled near Goby, facing away from their face so that her tail flicks over their open mouth. Malcolm bets she’s doing it on purpose. Mona and Jazz aren’t cuddling each other to death for once, but their hands stay clasped in their sleep.
The movie has stopped playing, and Netflix asks if they’re still watching. Malcolm slowly detaches himself from Peter’s hold. Peter makes a soft noise of complaint, and Malcolm has to fight the urge to fall right back into his arms. He turns off the TV instead and heads to the kitchen.
Nothing quite feels real, still. A miserable day turned into an even worse evening, which then turned into one of the best nights of his life. And now it’s quiet.
It’s been a long time since the quiet nights have felt as peaceful and content as this.
There’s movement by the couch, and Malcolm grins at Peter when he stretches and makes his way over to the kitchen.
“Hey,” Malcolm says, leaning against the fridge.
“Hey, yourself,” Peter says, his voice still rough with sleep. He stands opposite Malcolm, his hip resting against the kitchen island. “Hm. I.”
“Our places were swapped the last time we were here.”
Peter smiles. “How poetic.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Nah, not on purpose. I think I just missed you.”
Malcolm snorts. He looks away so he doesn’t have to see Peter’s cheeky grin. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“It’s only gonna get worse from here, sweetheart.”
“Sweet—” Malcolm chokes on his words, his stomach doing some crazy flips that make him feel simultaneously nauseous and giddy. He slaps his hands over his face. “Jesus, Peter.”
Peter laughs, though he tries his best to keep it quiet, checking to make sure the others aren’t disturbed. He settles down after a moment, and Malcolm watches him, knowing there’s something he’s waiting to say.
“Spit it out, Peter,” Malcolm says when it becomes obvious he needs a push.
Peter chuckles, more nervous than before. His eyes have fallen to the floor, and his fingers tap against the counter at an irregular rhythm. “What I said...right before we got to the apartment. That didn’t freak you out, did it? I wasn’t really thinking at the time.”
Oh. The boyfriend thing.
Malcolm thinks for a moment. “Well. Did you mean it?”
“I didn’t mean to say it.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” Malcolm says. He holds his arms against his chest, trying to hide that he’s starting to shake with nerves. “Did you mean it then? Do you still mean it now? Is that...is that what you want?” With me, of all people? He catches his tongue before he says it.
Peter’s eyes soften, his head tilting. He shrugs, as if the answer is obvious. “Of course I mean it, Malcolm. I want that more than anything. I have for...longer than I realized, honestly.”
He kind of wants to shout, or maybe cry from how amazing it feels to hear Peter say it. But he holds himself back; still cautious, still disbelieving. “Are you sure?” Malcolm asks. “I mean. You know me, Peter. You’ve seen me at my absolute worst. You know probably better than anyone else at this point just how difficult I am to deal with.”
“It’s not difficult,” Peter says immediately, standing up straight. “It’s not, Malcolm. You’re not.”
“That’s a lie,” Malcolm snorts. “You can admit it’s a pain to have to pick me up from my mess all the time.”
“The only thing that’s a pain,” Peter says, “is having to watch you tear yourself down like this. You’re more than a chore I have to check off, stupid.”
“I’m just making sure you know what you’re signing up for.”
“Do you know what you’re signing up for?” Peter asks in return, spreading his arms wide in a challenge. “You haven’t even experienced all the ways I’m fucked up.”
“You’re not fucked up,” Malcolm says sternly.
“Uh huh, you say that now,” Peter says, stepping closer. He quirks his head to the side playfully. “I get the sensory overload thing too, dude. You think it’s always easy to deal with?”
Malcolm squints. “I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Sometimes I scream, you know,” Peter says. “Total bloody murder. You’re lucky if you get a warning.”
“Good thing you’ve introduced me to those noise reducing earbuds,” Malcolm says. “Easy peasy. What else have you got?”
“I can’t do dishes,” Peter says, shuffling even closer, tapping Malcolm’s leg with his foot. “The wet food makes me gag.”
Malcolm grins. “Sometimes I’ll space out during an entire conversation and you have to repeat it all over again, and sometimes I forget to pay attention the second time around.”
“My gran had dementia, I’ve got the patience of a saint,” Peter counters.
“I’m definitely attracted to Megamind and I’m not sure what that says about me.”
“The blue dude with the big head?”
“Uh-huh.”
“We can get you a doctor,” Peter says, and Malcolm giggles. “Sometimes I sing the same single phrase in a song over and over again, for days. Drove my mom nuts.”
“Once again, noise reducing earbuds,” Malcolm retorts. “Come on, man, give me something difficult.”
“Fine,” Peter says with a defiant nod. He takes a breath. “Sometimes I don’t leave my bed for days.” Malcolm’s smile falters with the change in tone. Peter isn’t looking at him anymore. “I don’t shower, I barely eat—it’s a miracle if I even talk. You’ll need a notepad to communicate.” Malcolm lowers his arms, his heart feeling dreadfully heavy. Peter’s still smiling, but Malcolm can sense his anxiety. Peter clears his throat. His voice is more cautious than before, struggling to keep its playful tone. “You’re not the only one with problems, sweetheart. I think it’s important you know what you’re getting into.”
And Malcolm realizes, as Peter’s eyes flick nervously around the kitchen, that Peter isn’t the better of the two of them. Neither of them are. They’re both fucked up in their own incredibly human ways. Peter has issues that Malcolm doesn’t even know about. But he wants to know. He wants to know everything.
“I know what I’m getting into,” Malcolm says. He takes Peter’s hands, and places them along his waist. “And you know what you’re getting into. I see that now.”
Peter’s breath leaves him in a stutter. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. No more self-deprecating shit,” Malcolm says. He scrunches his nose. “Well, I’ll try my best. You might have to help me get out of that mindset.”
“I can do that,” he says with a nod. “You’ll get sick of hearing me talk about how wonderful you are all the time.”
“I might not always believe it.”
“That’s okay,” he assures him. “I’ll just keep saying it until you do.”
“That might take a while,” Malcolm sighs. “Like. A long, long while.”
Peter hums thoughtfully, and brings his hand up to cradle Malcolm’s face. He leans down and places his lips against Malcolm’s hairline, and Malcolm’s surprised to find himself suddenly blinking away tears. He doesn’t remember the last time he was handled so gently. Like he’s something to be protected—something to be cherished. Something worth holding onto.
