Page 141 of The Menagerie

With static and sound driving their group closer together, they form one giant mass, goofily bouncing and swaying to whatever song comes on next. For each one, someone knows all the lyrics and belts them out, the rest of the group forming a sad semblance of a mosh pit around them and providing off-key backup vocals.

It’s the most fun Rowan’s had in a long time, limbs loose and head empty in a good way, feeling the music pulse through him and let him breathe for the first time in a long while despite the humidity on the dance floor.

BACK ATthe table, it’s only Mal and Rowan, and he has to admit it’s nice to get him alone for a bit, the rest of the group seemingly content with continuing to dance. It’s like a little sanctuary for the two of them.

“You a lightweight or somethin’, Red?” Mal asks, clearly having noticed that Rowan’s still sipping on the dregs of his first—and only—beer of the night.

It’s obvious that Mal’s a little tipsy. He’s not at the point where his words are slurred or his gaze is unfocused, but there’s a slight slowness and a looseness to his movements that tells Rowan he’s got a pleasant buzz going.

So maybe this is the perfect time to tell him about his mental issues. Maybe he’s inebriated enough that he won’t think too hard about it. What’s that saying? Drunk words are sober thoughts? Maybe it’s the best way to gauge how Mal will feel about Rowan’s depression with booze loosening his tongue. After all, he’d already seemed chill about it when he thought Rowan was talking about his mother having it.

But at the last second, words on the tip of his tongue, he chickens out. This isn’t some past trauma that he dealt with long ago and has had plenty of time to recover from. This is something he still deals with on a daily basis. And it’s something that could absolutely make Mal think differently about him. It wouldn’t be the first time Rowan’s lost someone over his diagnosis, and he can’t bear the thought of that happening with Mal.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“So uh—” Mal takes a piece of ice out of his empty drink and chomps on it loudly. Watching his mouth work on the cube is distracting, but Rowan manages to catch the tail end of him asking, “—all that shit true? During the game?”

Rowan sighs heavily, but for all Mal’s opened up to him the past few months, Rowan figures he owes it to him to give himsomethingback. “Yeah.”

“Can piece it together. You don’t gotta elaborate.”

“It’s fine, just… went a little crazy when I was younger. Working underage in clubs, bartending and dancing, and uh….” The words don’t come as easily as he thought. But somehow, in the darkness of the bar and the way Mal’s lit by the dim light of the lamp above them, the sincerity in his eyes… it feels easy. “Workin’ the back of the house. I wasn’t in a good place back then. Lost in a lotta ways and couldn’t really get out. It took my whole family staging an intervention to get me some help, and I finally got my shit together, got my GED, and managed to work up to getting my job. Straightened my shit out.”

“Glad ya did,” Mal tells him when he’s done his mini spiel. No judgment whatsoever in his eyes. “World’s a better place with you helpin’ people.”

“Thanks, Mal.”

“Fuckin’ Superman….”

Rowan lets out a weak laugh, but he’s truly touched by Mal’s words. It warms him more than any alcohol hecan’thave ever could.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe you met my sister before,” Mal mutters, thankfully changing the topic and not pressing Rowan for any more details of his past escapades.

Rowan follows his eyes where they’re trained on Amy and the rest of the crew dancing. Flashes of red and yellow and blue lights that illuminate each of them like a strobe light, one after another after another.

“Wasn’t exactly in the best circumstance, but….” He reaches over and scoops out an ice cube from Mal’s empty drink, thoughtfully chews on it, and tastes the bitter bite of whisky. “Y’know, I thought she might’a been related to you.”

“The fuck? How?”

Rowan shrugs. “You look a lot alike, for starters.”

“Pft. I take offense to that, Campbell.”

Even as a gay man, Rowan knows that Amy is gorgeous and that Mal’s joking despite his snorted reply.

“And you have the same tattoo. Kind of, anyway. The snakes.”

“I forget about that one sometimes,” Mal confesses, referring to his own double snake tattoo on the back of his ankle.

“Yeah, well… I see a lot more of you from behind than you do,” Rowan teases.

“Oh, fuck off.”

There’s an easy smile on his face, and Rowan doesn’t want to pop their pleasant bubble, but….

“Was uh….” He clears his throat, gets a fucking grip. “Was she the reason you were kinda spacey that week? When you wanted to do a praise-heavy session the first time?”

One deep breath and eightpopsof knuckle cracking later, Mal responds. “Yeah.” He wipes his fingers through the condensation ring left by his empty drink on the tabletop. “Always get kinda fucked up where she’s concerned.”

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