Page 58 of The Menagerie

When he gets to the bar this time, exactly twenty minutes later, Mal’s already waiting for him.

THEY FINDthemselves at the same diner as before—Sheila’s, Rowan notes, the name making sense after meeting the woman herself last week. This time Mal declines his “usual” when Sheila asks him about it, instead ordering a burger and fries, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and a slice of apple pie. Rowan orders a turkey club with chips, and they claim the same back corner booth as last time.

Once again, Rowan ogles the large amount of food when it comes. He’s not one to judge how much or how little food someone eats—God knows he’s had his own issues with food throughout his life, not only from growing up poor and having to scrounge when he could, but also when he was actively fighting his mental illness and his meds. But it does make him worry that Mal is purposely starving himself. He’d said as much before the gangbang, and Rowan’s not his parent or guardian, but he doesn’t want it to be something that Mal thinks hehasto do before their scenes.

“Do you…,” Rowan starts, then trails off, unsure how to phrase his question without sounding patronizing. His eyes sweep Mal’s features, sharp but with full lips and cheeks, his body toned with muscle and a layer of fat, minimal as it is. He looks healthy, but Rowan knows far too well that health isn’t only skin-deep.

“What?”

“Do you always… fast all day before scenes?”

Mal looks taken aback by the question, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Fuck no, man. I love food.” As if to prove his point, he takes a hulking bite of his burger, chews quickly, and swallows. “Only did it for the gangbang ’cause you never know what you’re gonna get. How rough the people’re gonna be, how they might react. People don’t like to talk about it, obviously, but accidents happen, and that shit’s awkward enough with one person, never mind ten.”

Relief floods through Rowan.

“Okay. That’s good.”

That earns him another single raised eyebrow from Mal.

“Just had to make sure you didn’t think I expected it or anything. I don’t want you to pass out in the middle of a scene.”

“Been doin’ this long enough to know how to take care of myself, man.” Mal’s tone is clipped. Serious.

“Right, yeah,” Rowan says immediately. “Sorry, didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.”

He gets a grunt as the only response as Mal scoops up a large spoonful of soup and slurps it loudly.

They eat together in silence, same as last time. It’s not awkward, exactly, but Rowan feels like he’s one strike away from blowing this whole thing. He dives into his food, equally as delicious as his meal last time had been. The diner is definitely a hidden gem, and he’s thankful it hasn’t been driven out of business by a smoothie bar or yoga studio as places like this often are in the Back Bay.

When Mal has finished most of his food, he surprises Rowan by pushing the slice of apple pie toward him, the scent of cinnamon filling Rowan’s nostrils.

Still, he questions, “Uhh…?”

A quick eye roll from Mal has Rowan’s face heating up. “Try it,” he says. “Shit’s like crack, I swear.”

The scratch of the plate against the table as Mal nudges it closer to Rowan feels a bit like an olive branch after the awkwardly tense past few minutes, and Rowan’s all too happy to take it.

He plucks his unused fork from the table and scoops off the point of the slice, making sure to get some of the fresh whipped cream neatly piled on top. He can feel thesnapof the crust as his fork cuts through it and see the amber filling start to topple out onto the plate before bringing it quickly to his mouth and stuffing the bite in.

At once his tongue is bombarded with apple and cinnamon and allspice and butter and a dozen other things he can’t even begin to describe. Hands down, it’s the best pie he’s ever had, even beating Addison’s famous handmade desserts that all their coworkers rave about.

“Holy fuck,” Rowan says before he’s even swallowed.

“Told ya.”

There’s a small smile playing on Mal’s lips that reaches his eyes, and that tiny look alone is almost sweeter than the apple pie itself. He grabs his own fork, scoops up a large chunk, and shovels it into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed at the first taste like Rowan suspects his own had. Rowan puts his fork down on his plate, assuming Mal had only intended on having him try it.

“You don’t want more?”

“Oh, I didn’t think you wanted me, yanno, double dipping.”

Mal gives him a flat stare as he takes another bite. “Just had your tongue in my ass ’n your dick in my mouth, man. ’M not worried aboutcooties.”

Once again, Rowan feels his face burn but immediately digs in for another bite as if the act of eating will help the flush dissipate from his cheeks faster.

“’Anks,” he mumbles, mouth full. Then, when he finally swallows, “You were pretty adamant about the ‘no kissing’ thing last time. I didn’t wanna overstep.” Even though he’d had Rowan’s literal spit in his mouth during the gangbang, somehow sharing food seems more intimate than that.

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