Page 169 of The Menagerie

In the end, Mal wins the match but offers to buy Rowan another beer anyway. He’s already had one, but another couldn’t hurt. He’ll have to pace himself.

After the display of Mal practically humping the pool table and parading his ass around in those tight jeans of his, the sight of him bringing the beer bottle up to his lips and taking a long swig, eyes fluttering closed in contentment, is more than Rowan can handle. He forces himself to look away, taking a tentative sip of his own beer as he leans back in his chair.

“What happens if you drink too much?” Mal asks, noticing the tiny sips Rowan’s been taking.

Rowan picks at the label on the side of the bottle until it’s nearly completely off on one side.

“I get fucked up really easily. Get drunk really fast, or if I go too hard, end up puking my guts out and spending the rest of the next day with a killer hangover.”

“Too bad. I’d love to see you drunk.”

“Pft. No you wouldn’t. I’m a nightmare.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm. Real clingy and shit. Sappy too. Basically a drunk girl in a bathroom.”

“Now that Igottasee someday.”

Mal’s smile is soft, so goddamn soft that it makes Rowan’s insides churn. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that if he gets drunk, his meds basically stop working. He’ll let Mal have his little fantasy. Part of him is glad for it. For not being able to drink anymore, especially around Mal. He knows that if he did manage to get drunk around him, he’d be hard pressed to stop himself from going and doing something stupid like admitting he’s in love with him.

Oh.

Ohfuck.

There’s a jolt in Rowan’s stomach that makes his arm fly out and knock over his beer bottle, then frantically pick it up before the entire thing spills out on the table.

“Jesus, you okay, Red? You have one too many already?” Mal asks, eyebrows screwed inward in concern and lips pursed in a questioning pout that Rowan wants to kiss. Mal takes a handful of napkins from the dispenser and starts wiping up the mess while Rowan has a panic attack.

That can’t be right. Can it? They’ve only known each other for a few months!

But even as he thinks it, Rowan knows deep down that it’s true. He’s fucking head over heels for Mal and his beautiful face and his razor-sharp humor and his tantalizing tattoos and his—

God fucking dammit.

Mal’s still looking at him with that same look etched onto his face, and Rowan wants to smooth over the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“I’m good, just thought I forgot to pay a bill,” he lies.

Mal seems to accept the answer, shrugging and taking another pull of his beer as he pushes the wadded-up, soggy napkins to one side of the table. Even the simple motion has Rowan tracking his hands, thinking absently of how good they feel on his skin. How good Mal makes him feelall over, all the time.

“Should put that shit on auto pay,” Mal suggests after a minute.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

The time passes by in a blur of laughter and casual touches that make Rowan’s senses go haywire, and all of a sudden, it’s last call, and he and Mal are paying off their tab and heading out into the cool autumn air.

They part with a hug that leaves Rowan breathless despite not being nearly crushing enough to cut off his air supply.

By the time Rowan slogs home, he’s exhausted and riddled with confusion and anxiety and maybe a bit of acceptance.

When Rowan falls asleep that night, it’s with a full heart but heavy limbs and heavier eyelids.

ROWAN FEELSit in his bones before his mind can really process it. Like the slow creaking of overtrodden wooden floors, his joints ache and struggle to move with the fluidity that he’s used to. The days get longer and longer until they blur together completely, morning and night meaningless against the closed curtains in his bedroom.

He should have seen this coming. He barely manages to text work that he won’t be coming in for the next few days before it really hits. It’s been a while, but the sinking feeling is all too familiar.

The days come and go, and by the time Saturday rolls around, Rowan can’t even dredge up the energy to plug in his long-dead phone to send Mal a text. If only he could overcome the inertia of the heavy weight sitting on his chest, he’d be fine. If only he could get out of bed, walk across the room, grab his phone from his backpack, plug it in, wait, wait, wait—

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