Welcome caller, p.3
Welcome, Caller, page 3
“How am I supposed to know? I’m not the owner,” Peter says.
“Who is the owner? Are they Irish?” Malcolm looks around at the empty store. “Are they even here? Is anyone here?”
“No, it’s just me right now. Travis works in the back usually, but he’s not in today.”
“Travis,” Malcolm says, testing the name out. “He sounds like a prick.”
Peter sighs, but it sounds more amused than Malcolm was expecting. “He’s nice enough, just a bit of a dip.”
They stand for a moment, both looking around at anything but the other. Malcolm isn’t entirely sure what to do. This is the most they’ve ever actually talked before, and he wasn’t prepared to find them sitting in this—what even is this? Would he call it a friendly atmosphere? It’s amiable, at the very least. He doesn’t know what to do with an amiable Peter Tollemache. The world might implode.
“So, are you in my store for a reason, or...?”
Malcolm presses his thumb to his temple, his irritation returning as quickly as it had vanished. “Well, obviously I’m here for music,” he says, gesturing at the rows of records and CDs.
“Right,” Peter says. “Very specific.”
“Oh, buzz off, Peter,” Malcolm finally says, storming off. Unfortunately, the store is very small, so he doesn’t get very far.
He looks back once just to see Peter roll his eyes, and his whole body moves with it as he walks back behind the counter. He starts flipping through a magazine, his chin propped up in his hand. Malcolm forces himself to look away.
He spends a long time browsing through the records, coming back to a few that seem like Jazz’s style. After a while, though, he realizes just how lost he is. He knows Jazz, he knows what she likes, but which one should he pick? He can’t remember if this album from The Who was one that she liked or if this was the album she refused to listen to because it didn’t have their lead drummer in it anymore...or maybe it was the guitarist. Or was that Pink Floyd?
He doesn’t know music like she does. There are so many options to choose from, far more than he was prepared for, and he can only afford one or two right now, and he sucks at making decisions. He doesn’t get paid until next week. Maybe he should have waited. Maybe he should have—
A record is suddenly shoved in front of his face, and he takes a surprised step back. He looks up, eyes wide. Peter is in front of him, holding the record. His face is the epitome of neutrality. When Malcolm continues to stare at him, his eyes wide and calculating, Peter gives him an annoyed frown.
“You kept coming back to the Modern Lovers,” he explains. “This is their best album. You should get this one.”
Malcolm looks down at it. It does look familiar. He thinks he’s seen Jazz pull up this exact album on her phone to play in the car once.
“And this, if you’re looking to buy a few,” Peter says, holding out another record. His slender fingers wrap delicately around the album.
“Buzzcocks,” Malcolm reads slowly, holding back a snort. Goby is definitely rubbing off on him; they’d be on the ground laughing right now.
“God, you’re one of those people,” Peter grumbles to himself. He sets the two records down next to Malcolm, then walks back towards the front counter. “Get them or don’t, I don’t care.”
Malcolm spends a few more minutes browsing just out of spite, but in the end chooses to buy the records Peter recommended. If Jazz doesn’t like them then at least he’ll have someone to blame.
“Good choice,” Peter mutters cheekily when Malcolm brings the records to the counter. Malcolm makes a disgruntled noise and looks away, fiddling with his hoodie sleeve as Peter rings him up.
“Are these for someone?” Peter asks.
“Yeah,” Malcolm says, handing over his card. “My friend, Jazz. She really likes music.”
“Ah. I figured you were a bit too clueless to be shopping for yourself.”
“Hey!” Malcolm starts, straightening up. “I’ll have you know, I own a record player.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Wh—” Malcolm falters. “Why? What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you own one? What do you like about record players? About records?” Peter says, sliding Malcolm’s records into a sleek yellow bag.
“I—” Malcolm shifts, shuffling his feet. He chews at his cheek for a second, wishing he paid more attention to any of Jazz’s rants about how record players preserved the authenticity of music or whatever. “They—they, y’know, preserve the authenticity of music.”
Peter purses his lips and squints at Malcolm. He holds the bag of records in one hand, not moving. Malcolm reaches for it and Peter pulls the bag away. Malcolm tries again, and Peter shifts the bag over to his other hand.
Malcolm groans, dragging a hand through his hair before snapping, “They look cool! They look really fucking cool, okay? I genuinely cannot tell a difference between listening to music on Spotify and listening to it on a record player but owning one makes me feel cool as fuck, so. Yeah. Fuck off.” (The last remark was made as more of an afterthought, but he needed to feel like he got the last word somehow.)
Malcolm takes a deep breath at the end of his rant and huffs it out, his cheeks slightly more flushed than they were before. The smallest of grins pulls at Peter’s lips, and Malcolm knows he’s mocking him. (There’s a thin scar along Peter’s top lip that Malcolm deliberately doesn’t focus on.)
Peter hands over Malcolm’s bag, his expression returning to its infuriatingly neutral state.
“Have a good day, Malcolm.”
Malcolm grunts, turning away quickly, but he stops when he gets to the doors. The blare of the music in the store had masked the sound of the pouring rain outside. Malcolm curses and turns back around.
“Do you have an extra umbrella I can borrow?” Malcolm asks.
There’s a folded umbrella sitting on the counter, and Peter slowly drags it off the counter and out of sight. “Nope,” he says, his face the picture of customer service.
Malcolm rolls his eyes harder than he thought was physically possible and turns to brace the storm.
4
Luck never seems to be on Malcolm’s side.
Not only did the storm leave Malcolm drenched and shivering, but it cut out the power in his apartment. He walks in to find Goby sitting on the couch in the dark, huddled under several blankets as the light of a single candle flickers against their pale skin.
“Hey, Goob,” Malcolm says, shoving his wet shoes off of his feet. “Give me just a minute, I’m gonna dry off.”
They hum without looking up. Malcolm pauses, taking a closer look at Goby. They’re staring into the candlelight, their expression blank. Malcolm forgoes drying off and shuffles carefully to the couch, picking up the blankets surrounding Goby and burrowing in next to them.
“Ugh, you’re sopping wet, dude,” Goby says, irritated, but they snuggle in closer to him anyway. “You’re getting water all over the couch.”
“It’s falling apart anyway, what’s a little water going to do?” Malcolm says.
“Grow mold?”
Malcolm shrugs, “It’s an old couch anyway, we can always replace it.”
Goby shifts back, staring at him with furrowed eyebrows. “You love this couch. What’s up with you?”
“What’s up with you?” Malcolm retorts.
Goby blinks, turning back to stare at the candle. Malcolm does the same. They remain silent for a few minutes before Goby speaks again.
“I dunno what’s going on with me tonight, Mal,” Goby says quietly, almost a whisper. “I dunno if it’s the power being out, or the fact that no one else was home, but I just...”
They trail off, but Malcolm knows what they mean well enough. This sort of thing happens with Goby, on particularly quiet days when they have nothing but their thoughts to occupy their time. They’ll shut down, and sometimes it takes a while to bring them back. Sometimes days. Luckily it doesn’t seem too bad this time around—Malcolm must have come home just in time.
“What can I do?” Malcolm says, keeping his voice low. Something about the darkness in the house makes him feel like he should stay quiet, but maybe Goby needs something else.
“Talk to me,” Goby says, leaning their cheek against Malcolm’s shoulder. “Please?”
It’s times like these that Malcolm remembers Goby’s age. He’s only a few years older than them, but he can’t help but think of them as the baby sibling he’s never had. He kisses their hair, smoothing down the stray pieces that stick to his mouth.
“I ran into Peter again today,” Malcolm says calmly.
Goby gasps softly. There’s not as much energy in it as there could be, but it’s something. “Peter ‘Cute Butt’ Tollemache?”
Malcolm laughs, willing to endure the teasing if it means Goby will feel a little lighter. “I have never said—”
“You don’t need to say anything, I can see it in your eyes,” Goby says, wiggling their fingers in the air for emphasis. “You wanna give him a big ‘ol smooch. A big juicy kiss on the lips.”
“Gross,” Malcolm snorts. He tucks his feet further under his thighs to warm up his freezing toes. He’s starting to dry, but the chill of the rain still seeps into his bones. “It’s really not like that, honest. But...”
“Buuut...?”
“Well,” Malcolm says. “I think maybe we could...do away with all this stupid archenemy shit. Possibly. I don’t know, maybe I’m being dumb, but—when I ran into him today, it was like I got a glimpse at what it would be like to be...not friends, that would be asking too much, but. Oh, I don’t know.”
Goby makes a noise of interest, reaching over to pet Lady Governor's head as she hops up in between them. She stretches and starts to make biscuits on their blanket, purring noisily.
“Why do you guys hate each other again?” Goby asks.
Malcolm swallows, joining Goby in petting Lady Governor’s soft fur.
“You know what, Goob,” Malcolm says softly, “I’m not really sure. It’s just...always been like that. He’s always hated me, and I guess I just wasn’t sure what to do except hate him back.”
“Maybe it’s a misunderstanding,” Goby says. They reach out and poke Malcolm in the cheek. “I can’t imagine anyone hating you once they get to know you, Mal.”
“That’s the thing, Goob, he doesn’t know me. He decided he hated me before even giving me a chance.”
Goby sits up so quickly that Lady Governor nearly goes toppling over the side of the couch.
“Well, that’s it, then!” Goby shouts, much louder than their previously peaceful atmosphere called for.
“What’s it?”
“You just need to talk to Peter more, and then he’ll see what a cool dude you are and you guys will be best friends forever.”
Malcolm barks out a loud laugh. “I doubt that. I might be able to swing a reluctant acquaintanceship. Best friends is stretching it. Besides,” he adds, ruffling Goby’s hair, “you’re my best friend.”
“Jazz is your best friend,” Goby corrects.
“I can have more than one.”
“You just said you couldn’t be best friends with Peter because you already had a best friend!”
“I mean, I have enough best friends. I don’t need another,” Malcolm says, throwing himself backward so he can stick his feet up on the coffee table. “I think three best friends is enough, don’t you? Three seems like enough.”
Goby laughs, pushing Malcolm’s face with their palm. When Malcolm retaliates with a yank at their ankle, the two dissolve into a wrestling match on the floor. He taps out when Goby traps his arm behind his head as they sit on his shoulders.
Once the sun has gone down far past the horizon, leaving the living room even darker than it was before, Malcolm invites Goby to sleep in his room with him. Malcolm sets up his phone to play music since neither of them can fall asleep easily to silence. (Goby requests the Muppet Movie soundtrack, and Malcolm complies with only a little complaint.)
“Hey Malcolm?” Goby whispers into the dark. Malcolm feels their breath against his cheek and scrunches his nose. They didn’t brush their teeth.
“You reek,” he says.
Goby chuckles, breathing more sour air into Malcolm’s face, but he doesn’t mind.
“Thank you,” they say.
He knows they’re not referring to the comment he made about their breath. He wraps his arm around their waist, tucking their head under his chin. “Of course.”
It’s silent for a moment, before Goby tacks on, “Loser.”
Malcolm smiles. “Nerd.”
With the rain pattering against his window and Kermit crooning into his ear about lovers and dreamers, Malcolm falls asleep quickly.
5
“Mal...Mal. Malcolm!”
Malcolm jolts awake, catching himself just before he can topple over the edge of the bed. He can already feel a bruise on his leg where Goby must have kicked him in their sleep.
“Malcolm, dude, I’m so sorry,” Goby’s saying frantically, and Malcolm finds himself waking quickly as he registers the panic in their voice. They’re standing at the edge of the bed, bouncing from foot to foot. “You’re not technically late, but I know you like to get there early and—well, you’re definitely not gonna be early, but if you hurry you might—”
Malcolm's arm shoots out like the strike of a viper in his hurry to grab his phone from the nightstand. Dead. It must have died sometime in the night. He usually charges it while he sleeps, but since the storm took out the power that wasn’t an option. Dammit.
He shouldn’t have fallen asleep playing music last night, it completely drained the battery. That means he missed his alarms.
“Shit,” Malcolm hisses. “What time is it?”
“Uh,” Goby scratches their cheek. “9:52.”
Malcolm spits out a creative string of obscenities, hurling himself out of bed. If he skips the shower, brushes his teeth quickly, maybe skips the hair product too...
Goby helps him, scrambling to get his clothes ready. They throw him his work shirt as he jumps into his slacks, and he haphazardly shoves his arms into the sleeves as Goby sprints to the toaster. He shoves his feet into his work shoes, cursing when the backs pinch his heels.
“Hold up,” Goby says as he’s darting out the door.
Malcolm turns around, still doing up the top buttons of his shirt, and Goby shoves an unevenly buttered piece of toast into his mouth.
“Okay, gogogo!” Goby says, waving their hands at him in a shoo-ing motion.
“Hm-hmph!” Malcolm says, crumbs flying out of his mouth.
“You’re welcome!” Goby shouts as he sprints off.
He bounds down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and crashes into the pub. His phone is still dead so he’s not sure what time it is, but the few regulars occupying the pub’s corner tables let him know that he’s properly late for the first time in his life. He swallows the bite of toast left in his mouth and tries to ignore the fact that he’s begun to shake.
“Oh, there you are! I was getting worried you might have decided to play hookie without me,” Mona smiles as Malcolm makes his way to her. She pauses to look him over, her brows furrowing. “You okay, love?”
Malcolm tries to catch his breath as he walks behind the bar. His heart is beating harder than it should, and his palms are definitely sweating. He wipes them down on his pants. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Mona says, reaching over to hold his arm. He pulls it away. “You seem a bit...all over the place.”
No, he’s not fine. He knows he’s not.
But he should be fine, because this isn’t a big deal, and it’s pissing him off even more that he’s reacting to such a small thing because it’s not a big deal and something’s touching his skin—
“Malcolm?”
—and there’s music playing over the speakers and people across the pub talking and one of the lights overhead keeps flickering and he needs to call someone to fix it and something keeps touching his fucking skin—
Malcolm’s arm darts up and behind his head, yanking vigorously at the shirt tag that’s been scratching at his neck.
“Stupid—fucking—” Malcolm tugs at it harshly, but it won’t budge.
“Settle, Malcolm, don’t rip it,” Mona says, bringing a hand up to his neck. “I’ll get it.”
Malcolm clenches his jaw, teeth grinding. Her feather-light touch is just as bad as the tag. She seems to sense the way his shoulders tense, and she takes her hand away from his neck so she’s only touching his shirt collar. A moment later he hears a snip! and the irritating tag is gone.
Malcolm sighs. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you’re alright, Mal?” Mona asks, her voice quieter than before.
“I’m fine,” he says, dragging a hand down his face. “Just woke up late. My phone died in the middle of the night, so none of my alarms worked.”
“Oh, hun, I’m sorry,” she says, and she brings a hand up to lightly touch his arm.
He flinches from the touch and snaps, “Well, if you were actually here this morning then I might have—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, but he can already see the hurt in Mona’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and he knows she genuinely means it. “I slept over at Jazz’s place. I should’ve—”
“No, no, don’t apologize,” Malcolm says. He taps the tips of his fingers to his thumb, from forefinger to pinky and then back again, trying to calm himself. “I’m sorry. That was unfair. She’s your girlfriend, there’s no reason for you to stay at the apartment just to make sure I wake up on time. You’re not my mom.”
Mona stays carefully silent for a moment, keeping her hands clasped in front of her. She glances over Malcolm, then says kindly, “Do you need to go back home? Take the day off? It’s definitely going to be a slow day, I can handle it myself.”
Malcolm’s already shaking his head before she’s finished. “No, I’m alright, really. Just need to...collect myself.”
