Dion
AlteredTundra
“Jay looked way worse off than you,” Mal noted as they approached the driveway, the ride having mostly been spent in silence with only one or two glances sent at King’s bruised – well, everything. It was mostly to see if King would be willing to talk about it, since he seemed closed off. He wasn’t allowed to do that; it was Mal’s job to be the stoic one.
He figured a ‘well done’ wasn’t appropriate, either, so he left it at that, sentence trailing into empty air as he shut off the engine. Realising that he was about to mother-hen his best friend but really didn’t want to risk King stumbling and breaking a bone on the Okadas’ stone patio, he left the vehicle and ran around to the other side to help him out. Again, it was by practically hauling him into the house. King seemed drained, both physically and emotionally, and he simply allowed Mal to drag him around. Luckily, Mal didn’t seem to be as panicked and emotional as he was this morning, leaving King to simply take in countless vibes of worry and affection.
Mal’s house hadn’t changed in over a decade. Everything was light, bright colours – a white, pristine rug in the living room; marbled counters in the kitchen; an art deco painting hung above the fake fireplace. The only room in the house that seemed to be vibrant in any way was Malcolm’s bedroom upstairs: the destination. It was clean, organised, with filing cabinets and a desk and a laptop and a saxophone, but there were posters plastered on every inch of the sloping ceiling. It was claustrophobic. Dark.
Mal dropped King unceremoniously on the bed and rolled his desk chair over, busying himself with fetching the depleted first aid kit he kept in his wardrobe. They’d done this before, except usually it wasn’t another student causing problems for King – it was an issue closer to home.
That Mal had taught himself to function in such close quarters with King was nothing short of a feat of strength. He was quite proud of himself for staying professional to look at his friend’s injuries and not his pretty face. King, on the other hand, was the opposite of professional-looking. Now completely devoid of any strength to fend off the alien emotions he was a sitting duck for being influenced, and being so close to Malcolm was enough to change his entire character. He blushed a vivid pink and refused to meet his friend’s eyes, instead he seemed to find the posters to his left extremely interesting. His palms were slick with sweat, and his lips were slightly parted as he let out small, soft sighs. Despite Mal’s considerably stoic face, he seemed to be bursting with a loving-kind of feeling. So weird, was Mal in love with him or something?
”M-my face, are there any bruises on my face? The folks won’t be very pleased if I’ve got some visible injuries.” King asked tightly, trying and failing to hide the expression of affection that was currently dominating his face.
Mal leaned in closer, reaching over to switch the desk light on to illuminate King’s face. There was some redness on his cheeks, the early stages of bruising and a nasty scrape on his chin and – from the way King had winced earlier – there were probably problems elsewhere, too. “There are,” Mal informed him, tearing open an alcohol wipe with his teeth (unhygienic, of course) and dabbing at the scrape. “Sorry. I can’t do anything about the bruises; I’m not magic. Will your parents be..?” There were several choice words Mal could think of to describe them, none of them positive.
Hesitantly, Mal tilted King’s chin up, fingers brushing against the already discoloured skin lightly. “I don’t think there’ll be any lasting–”
And then he froze as a sudden jolt of pain struck his own jawline, like a wild fist being flung out but worse. If he had to liken it to anything, it was as if his tissue was being torn apart and resewn, regrown. Mal clenched his jaw against the sensation because his pain tolerance wasn’t exactly wimpy and continued inspecting King’s wound. He wasn’t going to let a freakish event stop him from fixing up his best friend. Mal’s eyes widened.
Where his fingertips touched the bruise, it seemed to be… dissipating. Receding. That couldn’t be right, could it? “King?”
“Mal?” He responded instantly, feeling a sudden wave of confusion and worry come from his friend, “what’s wrong?” King glanced down at Malcolm’s hand, which was still slightly touching the stinging mark on his chin… But now there was no pain where their skin collided. The feeling that usually came with a bruise was one of muted pain, and King had quickly assumed a rather bad mark was forming where Mal was inspecting due to the harsh sting, but now that pain was nonexistent. Healed. King slowly rose a free hand, wrapping his fingers gently around Mal’s hand to move it away from his face before he leaned forward curiously,
“What did you just do?”
Mal’s hand trembled, but with one arm pushed away, he reached out with the other and touched it to the bruise on his temple, the next darkest. He expected the wave of pain, then the rush of a migraine all condensed within a second – a cluster headache? – and bit down on his lip through it. That bruise was gone now, too, leaving King’s face flawless. Pretty.
“Where else hurts?” Malcolm asked quickly, wanting to make himself useful. His heart was thudding in his chest, a million beats a minute, and he wondered if he wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack if he wasn’t so damn focused on fixing King. King seemed rather uncomfortable by the sudden shift in Mal’s general mood. Feelings that King could only assumed to be ‘pain’ shifted with every bruise Mal healed, and then the panicky emotions set in after, causing his own heart to thump painfully. With this general overflow of outsider’s influence King, sadly, was unable to speak his mind about Malcolm’s sudden interest in his injuries, and with nothing left to do but comply he carefully turned around and rolled up his shirt. His back, which was usually colored a pain blue from past injuries, was now more purple-black with new bruises. The initial pain had subsided on the drive to Malcolm’s home, but even as he attempted to bend his back slightly a new, painful feeling would pulsate from one of the many injuries.
“Aaaaalllll back here. Hurts like hell.” He grunted, his voice heavy with anxiety.
Mal, eager to help (and too desperate to doubt his actions) barely flinched at the extent of King’s injuries but simply accepted them with a solemn nod before touching them. He nearly doubled-over from the backlash of his apparent abilities this time but stayed standing, somehow, if leaning on King. His back burned. It ached. It protested against whatever non-physical pain was being inflicted upon him. It was too much, but he started this; he was willing to finish it.
Something wet trickled down his lip, metallic and coppery. Double side-effects, like it couldn’t get any worse. Acceptance dawned on him as he looked down at King’s back, now healed as if there had been nothing there in the first place. Pride swelled up.
He didn’t need teleporting or flying or earthquakes – not when he could help other people. “Fixed it,” he said quietly, and swayed slightly on his feet.
“Malcolm.” King said rather then asked, standing quickly and pulling the smaller boy into an embrace as a last ditch effort to steady him. Moving was easy, he found, as the injuries on his back seemed to have vanished all together. He felt good as new, maybe even better, but the shaking boy in his arms was obviously worse for the ware. King sucked in a few tight breaths, attempting to calm his pounding heart. “Malcolm, Mal, you okay?” He whispered quietly into his friend’s hair, breathing in whatever sweet shampoo Mal used faintly.
“I’m okay,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie. Maybe a small bit of him had been jealous that other people had powers and he (apparently) did not. Maybe it was just the exhilaration of it, of doing something abnormal with amazing effects. Maybe it was just adrenaline from the massive amounts of pain he’d just overdosed on. “Pretty… pretty damn good, all things considered. I can heal.” The last part was just to inform him, as if it wasn’t immediately obvious.
King was close. Too close. Mal felt his cheeks turning red, bright red, and tried to carefully extract himself from the embrace to slump in his desk chair before he did something stupid or regrettable. But, of course, because Malcolm felt that he may doing something foolish just made King feel the same way. And, unlike Mal, who was probably in more control than King, he was unable to stop himself. King was on an emotional high, with his head pounding from Mal’s apparent anxiety and his heart thumping with an overwhelming need to just never let the poor boy go. King tightened his hug on Mal, burying his head into his friend’s shoulder as he let out a frustrated sigh.
“This is so dumb.” King muttered, mostly to himself, and he continued to bury his face into the crook between Malcolm’s neck and shoulder.
“You’re nuzzling me,” Mal pointed out in a state of shock, trapped like a bird in a cage. “What are you doing.” The words were probably more of a defense mechanism than a real question, but he just really wanted to know the reasoning behind it. He stopped moving, and quite possibly stopped breathing too. And King, upon hearing Malcolm’s question, lifted his head up to reveal his positively burning face. He was literally red, as red as someone could get, and his eyebrows were upturned with longing, confusion, and the slightest bit of effort. No matter how hard King tried, however, he just couldn’t get a grip on himself, and when a sudden wave of endearment washed over him he simply leaned forward and locked lips with his best friend.
There was a pause where Mal couldn’t physically do anything, frozen in place. Was this happening? Did the eclipse do something to King? Did it do something to Mal, who was seriously considering just letting this happen rather than protecting their continued friendship. He decided to just roll with it, and kissed back. Enjoying the moment.
The two remained locked in the kiss for a few moments, completely silent. King seemed lost in the emotions surrounding him, but again, the nagging in the back of his head was crying out in embarrassment, willing the foreign (were they really foreign anymore?) emotions out of his head. “Wai-Wait,” King pulled away, face burning, “that's, uh. Sorry. Sorry…” He fell back onto the bed and crawled towards the pillows, shoving his head underneath them.
Mal’s head hurt, almost more than his heart, but he straightened up – pun not intended. Realisation struck him followed by a nasty helping of guilt. “I– I’m so sorry King. I never meant to, for you to...” He backed up as if scalded, all the way to the wall. “It won’t happen again. Swear. We can just write it off or, something.”
“Stop, please. That hurts…” King was referring to the harsh waves of dejection and worry and sadness pouring, though his way of complaining was vague and mostly muffled by the pillows over his head. He was confused, obviously, hot and bothered by the intimacy that the two friends had shared, but the fact that Malcolm wished to just ignore it hurt more than anything else. Silence filled the room, heavy and nervous, and King took the time to breath deeply and restore whatever mental strength he could. Soon, he sat up and stared blankly at Malcolm, hair tussled and face still faintly red, and then he smiled. It was a small, genuine grin, a grin that usually only appeared during late night drinking get togethers.
“Why do you wanna write it off?”
“Because you do?” Mal countered more than a little caustically, a statue over on his side of the bedroom with his arms crossed. Trust King to make him feel like an outsider in his own damn room, hogging the entire bed. King’s eyes effortlessly scanned Malcolm, taking in each detail he had seen oh so many times before. His best friend, Mal, was thin and fragile, handsome in a girlish way, and utterly one of the closest things King had to a home yet. Countless sleepovers had allowed King to take in the many faces of Mal, and the many years they spent together had only seemed to strengthen their friendship… But that friendship had always faltered slightly during those drunk nights. King couldn't deny his slight attraction to the smaller boy when they shared their quiet moments, and they often say in comfortable silence during those chatty session, appreciating each other’s company. King had assumed Mal wasn't interested in him long ago, and as usual when King assumed something like that he turned his interest to others. It was a way of coping, or hiding, and he had been doing it for so long that perhaps he had just forgotten about his initial attraction. And now King was able to feel what Malcolm felt, and right now he was almost positive that their feelings, whether past, present, or future, were mutual.
“I… Never said I wanted to do that.” He spoke quickly, tightly, though a flirt smirk was clear on his face. If not for the overbearing waves of anxiety and cynicism, King might have been even the slightest bit more flirtatious, but as he was right now such a feat may be a bit of a stretch
“You stopped,” Mal pointed out.
“Ah, uhm,” King practically stumbled over his words, and then as if to save face he shrugged, “I just wasn't sure if you were into it, y-ya know?” but it felt like you were King sighed half-heartedly, feeling waves of doubt and confusion simmer off Mal, and with tense movements King leaned forward and patted the bed in front of him in an effort to beckon his friend over.
“You can sense emotions, Richard,” Mal continued, dryly. He almost moved over, and he did take a step closer. It was like it was his job to point out any little inconsistency that could be a sign of insincerity. His heart wasn’t in it, but he was nothing if not dedicated to considering any possibility that would end up with him alone and friendless in the near future. King tilted his head slightly, blushing a deeper red at the fact that he had been caught in a very obvious lie, and then he fell back onto Mal’s bed. Staring up at the ceiling, King struggled to find his words. Among the sea of doubt and self-loathing Mal produced, King floated meekly. He was still not strong enough to control his own emotions, but at least now he was aware of Mal’s affects on him. And knowing that was enough to distinguish how own feelings of guilt and lust and embarrassment, those exact feelings that were choking his throat and making his heart thump painfully.
Eventually King sat up again, grunting as the few remaining bruises on his shoulder and arms pulsated slightly, and he once again tapped the bed, “Mal, come here, please. You’re freaking me out standing so still over there.” He managed to say, eyebrows upturned.
“I’m hoping that if I stand still enough, the ground will swallow me whole. Anything can happen these days, eh?” The corners of Mal’s lips turned down into a frown as he peered at King, however, and he acquiesced – if only because his friend was still in pain and maybe, just maybe, there was a glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel. Knowing that his feelings were affecting King’s feelings, were hurting him, he tried his best to shut them off – to stop his heart as well as his face from revealing anything ever again. “I didn’t finish healing you, I guess.”
Mal wondered if he was being deliberately obtuse for a reason, or if it was just because he didn’t want to know for sure whether King liked or didn’t like him. Even so, he reached out to put a hand on King’s shoulder, hoping to ease the pain by taking it on himself. King stiffened as Mal reached out to touch his wounded shoulder, instantly replaying the pained look and feelings that Malcolm had shown before while ‘healing’ him in his head. He reached up slowly, his fingers wrapping tightly around Malcolm’s reaching hand, and he shook his head slowly,
“Don’t,” he whispered, “it hurts you, doesn’t it? I don’t wanna hurt you, Mal.”
Mal was sure that an acerbic well it’s too late for that was mean-spirited, but his brow furrowed. “You’re not,” he reassured him quickly, completely serious. “And, if you want to – I mean, you could – uh, kiss it better afterwards?” He looked down at the ground almost immediately, because trying to copy his flirtatious humour wasn’t really suited for him. Couldn’t make eye-contact with King. King, in turn, felt his heart swell suddenly and his face heat up. Turning away quickly, King released Mal’s hand and leaned his injured shoulder towards his friend.
“Don’t over do it, Mal.” He muttered, feeling both dejected and slightly excited at the same time.
At receiving permission (though he was going to do it anyway), Mal encroached on King’s personal space – did they even have personal space anymore? – and gently pressed down on King’s arm. His nosebleed restarted, and he grimaced at the sudden pain, but it didn’t erase the tiny half-smile that appeared on his face. “Better?” King, as soon as the pain in his shoulder melted away, reached forward and rubbed the thin stream of blood from Mal’s lip with his thumb. And then, with a flirtatious smirk, he leaned in and kissed Malcolm again, grinning as many of his own emotions began to outshine Malcolm’s for once. Lust, joy, and blatant disregard for any other complications that stood outside of this small moment the two were sharing. This wasn't just an out of control, emotion-affected empath anymore, no, King was now almost in control of his actions once more and he seemed to be loving it. King’s aggressive nature even attempted to push Mal down, but he withheld his own wishes and instead pulled away, grinning sheepishly.
“All better?”
A little spooked and bright red, Mal coughed awkwardly, but smiled. “I dunno, I think it still hurts a bit,” he said slyly. And then, after the uncertainly melted away a tad in the face of sheer disbelief, Mal grabbed the collar of King’s shirt and dragged him in.
