Page 124 of The Menagerie

Like last week, he’s afraid of making things awkward or, worse, letting his actions veer too close to romantic. But as Mal leans into his touch, all doubt flies out the window, and Rowan knows that he can’t let his budding feelings for Mal get in the way of proper aftercare. Malneedssoftness after impact play. He told Rowan that during their initial talk, and unless that need changes, Rowan’s gotta do it. Even though this is the first scene they’ve done that has really required it, it’s not exactly a hardship.

In fact, it’s easy. So easy, even after the emotional sucker punch a couple of hours ago, that it should be concerning. But Mal’s sticky-warm skin has completely fucked Rowan up from the inside out, and each sweep of his hand over the planes of his chest and the curve of his hips and the swell of his biceps has a million tiny cracks forming and threatening to burst Rowan at the seams.

In hushed whispers that don’t even echo in the stark room, Rowan talks Mal down, by now a familiar process. Rowan’s heart swells, knowing that he’s done this enough times to even out Mal’s breathing in a matter of minutes.

Even then, with Mal lying still beside him, Rowan doesn’t stop the light touches. It feels good to be able to touch him like this—like he’s wanted to for the past few weeks but has never had an excuse to. He knows how intimate this is and how much more intimate itcould beif there was anything more to their relationship than sex. For now he lets himself have this as long as Mal will let him.

Rowan’s hands wander, and he finds himself idly tracing the thick lines of the tattooed heart emblazoned withLISAon Mal’s rib cage because it’s safer than running his fingers over the skin where his actual heart lies.

“Who is she?” he asks before he can think better of it.

To his surprise, for the second time tonight, Mal sighs deeply but answers, “My mom.”

“Are you close?”

Mal reaches his right arm across his stomach, hand coming to rest atop Rowan’s as he presses them both to cover his tattoo. The touch is electric and far more intimate than Rowan would have believed possible for such a tiny gesture. He pulls it away before he speaks but doesn’t move Rowan’s hand from the spot, letting him soak up the warmth of his body through his fingertips.

“We were when I was a kid, yeah. Lost touch when I got older ’cause of a buncha bullshit.” He pauses, and Rowan watches his nose wrinkle. “She died last year.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Mal.”

“’S fine. Been long enough now.”

“Still.”

They lie in silence for a few minutes, Rowan continuously stroking whatever soft piece of skin his hands happen to land on. At this point he’s not sure he can blame it on aftercare anymore, but Mal hasn’t said or done anything to stop him.

He thinks about his own mother. His own messed-up relationship with her. After what Mal shared, Rowan wants to givesomethingof himself back, even if it isn’t the whole picture.

Before he knows it, he’s speaking.

“Mine was a mess. Bailed when we were little and left my older sister and brother to take care of us all. Then showed back up every once in a while like nothin’ happened. Tried to be a perfect mom for however long whatever pills she was taking that day let her.”

“Sucks, man. She still doin’ that?”

“She died a few years back.”

“That’s rough,” Mal says, as if his own hadn’t passed far more recently. “Sorry to hear.”

Rowan shrugs. “Brain finally gave out on her.”

“Drugs?”

“Sorta. She uh….”Don’t tell him. What if he figures it out? It’s been a rocky week, but tonight has completely turned things around… kind of. Don’t tell him don’t tell him don’t tell him—“She had pretty severe depression. Never really took her meds regularly ’cause they made her a zombie. Took just about everything else, though.”

He waits for Mal to say something. Some remark that will tell Rowan how he feels about the whole thing. A trial run that he hadn’t even planned on. A soft opening. The one good thing about his penchant for blurting shit out is that it’ll help to gauge Mal’s reaction and determine whether Rowan ever tells him that he’s just like her. Well. Notjust, but close enough.

It’s like the air has all been sucked out of the room and shoved into Rowan’s lungs, filling him up and waiting to burst out.

But mercifully—

“Genetics fuckin’ blow, man.”

Rowan exhales for what feels like a full minute as relief washes over him. For now it’s enough. Enough to suggest thatmaybeRowan can tell him about his condition one day without fear of being outright rejected or looked at completely differently. A pleasant warmth settles into his belly where before there had been nothing but permafrost.

Mal climbs off the bed, and Rowan thinks he’s going to get ready to pack up, but he slips on his briefs, tosses Rowan his own, and climbs back on the bed.

He sits with his legs crossed, knees high and arms perched on top. Gold eyes train on Rowan as he sits up and shimmies into his own underwear. They don’t bother to put on anything else.

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