Work Text:
1.
(INHALE,)
(EXHALE.)
(INHALE,)
Malcolm releases his breath and heaves to sitting position. Back against the wall, he notes:
the cold, the damp, the dark, the pain, the fear. The flickering--
(WAIT—)
(The soft, urgent scratch of—)
Malcom sits against the wall. Watches a ghost make shapes in a scrap of moonlight. Hurts his face on a smile,
(THE PAIN, THE FEAR--)
won't do that again anytime soon. He can count teeth later. For now, he focuses on his lovely green ghost--long time no see, my endangered friend--and how it makes shadow puppets along the wall. One by one,
(he's shivering due to insufficient clothing, but AT LEAST HE's NOT NA--)
Malcolm slams another
(How much of this damp is the environment and how much is drying blood BECAUSE HE CAN SMELL--)
heavier
(Fascinating, how humans seem to be one of the few species not instinctively comforted by the shelter a cave provides, but instead can exhibit extreme fear responses WHEN FINDING THEMSELVES ALO--)
door in his mind
(THE GIRL IN THE BOX CAN NEVER EVEN OUT HER BREATHING EVEN WHEN SHE'S NOT ACTUALLY IN THE BOX HE CAN FEEL HER PANTING AGAINST THE BACK OF HIS NE--)
re-enforcing the re-enforced steel--
(IT'S THE LONELINESS AND DESPAIR THAT GETS YOU IN THE E--)
on all distractions and slips into a
(-flickering-)
(-fluttering-)
(-moonlit-)
(-glowing-)
(-green-)
trance. The scene that follows plays out so clearly.
2.
Malcolm's 10 and standing in the vee of Dad's legs as his father stands behind him, a guiding force. His dad's
(he was still DAD back then, hadn't yet become Dr. Whitley, or even MARTIN, when Malcolm is feeling generous; Malcolm hadn't yet become Bright, and Martin--the REAL Martin--had yet to be revealed like the world's most vicious surprise party for the birth of a doppelganger of someone you love; they weren't yet . . . whatever they are now)
strong legs cradle him with sturdy yet gentle pressure. It's not domineering or perverse. It's reassuring. Father literally having son's back.
They're making their way through the Lepidoptera book laid out on the desk in Dad's cellar.
(he always thinks of it as Dad's, even though it's definitely Mom's house; Malcolm can't quite think of it as partly his, even though he's somehow the only other person allowed down there--sometimes--besides Martin; something stops him from thinking about that too hard)
It's as big as an atlas--
(they look at plenty of those together, too, but Malcolm likes the biology and zoology books much better; Martin always smiles when he reaches for those which means he must prefer the same)
with full-color, full-plate, anatomically correct illustrations on thick cream-colored paper. It's the kind of stiff, heavy paper that is of such high quality that it will easily slice down to the second layer of your skin if you don't take extra care when you turn the pages.
(Earlier his father had patiently, painstakingly disinfected the wound -- "Sometimes a little cleansing burn is necessary, Malcolm" -- with soap and cool water. He'd dabbed on the prescription-grade ointment so lightly it tickled, and bandaged the stinging cut with a surgeon's precision with tiny scissors and a lightly chastising "Never fall prey to distraction when it's vital you pay attention, Malcolm."
He'd hung his head in shame at that, but two warm, broad fingertips prodded his chin up. "Some things that are dangerous don't appear so at first glance." His smile had been full of bottomless love and intelligence.
A smile Malcolm knows is just for him. Not even for Ainsley or Mother.)
"And some things that seem like a threat . . ." Martin continues with a spread of his hands. "Are just for show."
"Like the caterpillars that inflate their heads to fool predators into thinking they're a snake?"
Martin's whole face stretches wide with a proud smile. "Exactly like that, my boy! You were paying attention!" He claps his hands and rubs them together in delight.
"I always pay attention--"
Martin looks pointedly down at Malcolm's bandaged finger.
"--to what you say," he finishes, his mouth a stubborn little line.
"So you do," Martin says, somehow surprised. Like Malcolm's still the little alien being that came out of Mom's womb and they're meeting for the first time. Malcolm thinks that means that no matter how well you know someone they can still surprise you. Even if you share the same blood.
The hot glow building inside Malcolm's chest dims abruptly. "But I ruined it. It was so beautiful."
"How so?" Martin asks, but not like he doesn't have the answer. More like he's lighting the way down the twisting path of another mystery-filled lesson. Like a will-o'-the-wisp luring the unsuspecting towards the center of a dark wood. Malcolm holds his breath, heart galloping in his chest.
"I got blood on the page. And it's a rare edition, too." One of the many things Martin has taught him, are the joys of bibliophilia, and how to appreciate a well-made book.
Malcolm points to the perfectly symmetrical red circle drying on his favorite page: The strangely beautiful and beautifully strange Luna moth. It looks like a giant pale green ghost outlined in pink with yellow eyes on its wings and long tails that twist downwards like streamers. It was one of the few pages that had a background to emphasize the way it almost seemed to glow in the moonlight against the night sky. The second Malcolm had jerked his hand in pain, he'd tried to whip it away from the book, but the force of which had caused one single drop to land bull's-eye, right on top of one of the eyespots.
Several others had made a dotted trail on the cellar floor. The thick paper had felt like a blade when it bit into his flesh. It made him feel—he’s not sure. He’ll think about later in his room when it's quiet and he’s not so distracted.
"Mmm." Martin rubs his chin in mock seriousness. He knows that drives Malcolm crazy, which is why he does it as much as possible, probably. Whenever he succeeds in riling Malcolm up, he always throws his head back and laughs really loud, his mouth open wide to flash all of his bright white teeth. It's a great laugh and Malcolm resents the way it always makes him want to laugh, too, at his own expense. Malcolm's not giving him the satisfaction this time.
"And your favorite, too." Malcolm hadn't told him, but he wasn't surprised that he knew, anyway. "That's quite alright, son. A little sacrificial blood is necessary sometimes. To claim what is yours."
Malcolm gazed up at Martin, who had a strange look on his face, as if stuck in a dream. Catching him looking, Martin met his gaze like he sometimes did before Malcolm had the urge to peer around the walls that seemed to exist behind his eyes.
Martin deliberately blinked like he was resetting himself and his face switched to its normal good humor. "Besides, he bears your mark, now. He should be honored. It gives him character."
"But . . ." Malcolm couldn't let it go just yet.
"Buuuuut?" Martin's teasing him, but the smile on his face is soft, not really trying too hard to annoy him. It feels reassuring whenever he looks at him like that.
"Don't you think I can't be trusted . . . with, like, beautiful and precious things?" Malcolm stares hard at his father's face. He needs to know. For some reason it feels like the most important question he's ever asked his dad.
Martin meets his gaze and drops all attempts at teasing. His voice turns soft and serious. "I will always trust you, Malcolm. And as for beautiful and precious things, well, I'd say you can be trusted with them at least as much as I can. We're the same, beautiful boy. We're exactly the same."
--
They spend the whole rest of the afternoon like that, “Dr. Whitly” in full lecturing mode. Malcolm doesn't really mind. He likes it when Martin points out the differences--less than you'd think--between butterflies and moths, how their individual qualities sometimes overlap. They both agree that Ainsley and Mom are both more butterfly than moth.
They discuss odd facts like the real-life existence of bloodsucking vampire moths with barbed tongues; tear-drinking moths that sit on animals at night and use their long proboscis to pry open the eyelids of sleeping birds--and sometimes even humans!--to suck out the salts without the animal even waking up.
"Do you think they swallow some of their dreams when they do that?"
His father throws his head back and lets out a bark of a laugh. "What a fascinatingly strange idea, my boy. Whatever made you come up with that wild hypothesis?" He looks just as mystified as he is amused. Like Malcolm suddenly shapeshifted into a werewolf, or grew another appendage when he wasn't looking.
Malcolm shrugs, but an ember of defiance lodges hot in his chest. "Science can't explain everything," he mutters. It's true. There's no equation for how he feels right now. Or any of the other times when he's trying to win an argument with his father. But what he really means is, You can't explain everything. Martin hears it even though he doesn't say it out loud. Martin hears everything Malcolm tells him.
Martin looks down into his eyes and his lips twitch up at the fierce look Malcolm gives him. "My little Aristotle," he says, pulling Malcolm into a rough hug and giving Malcolm's hair an obnoxious tousle. "I think someone . . . is still hoping to find evidence of the Mothman's existence."
Malcolm yanks at his rumpled sweater and untucked buttondown. "I'm serious, Dad! And also, yes, because that would be awesome." Malcolm scowls and rakes his fingers through his hair in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to fix the mess his father made of him. Mom is gonna flip out. They have 30 guests arriving in three hours for a charity thing at the house. Which Dad knows.
"Oh, I know," Martin says, deliberately taunting him with his tone. Malcolm lets out a frustrated breath, but then calms down when he sees the approval lighting up Martin's eyes.
"Well, 10 is a significant age. I guess you don't need Dear old Dad as your teacher, anymore."
"No!" Malcolm bursts out, horrified at the loss of all those future sunlit afternoons spent with his father, learning about whatever he had in mind for next time. They haven’t even gotten to covering cicadas yet, and Martin promised him dragonflies at some point. Malcolm wanted to know more about how compound eyes worked. How it was possible to see so much at one time.
Martin chuckles. It’s not the kind of laugh where he throws his head back. It's the quieter kind that has something hungry about it. The kind of hungry that has nothing to do with looking forward to all the silver platters full of foie gras and caviar and mini quiche in the near future.
"Don't worry, Malcolm. I have no intention of ending our studies together. I have no doubt that we’ll always have something to teach one another."
Malcolm nods. He's being humored, but at least Martin gives him some credit. Malcolm’s relieved enough to ignore his smugness, and turns back to the book. He traces his fingertip over the complicated tails of the Luna's hindwings, still fascinated by the engineering of living creatures and all the intricate ways in which they're put together.
And so the lesson picks up again, this time about the strange DNA soup that a caterpillar becomes inside its chrysalis while its waiting to turn into a creature made of fur and color and wings.
"You see, Malcolm, it's a great big vulnerable MESS before it becomes the amazing creature that it's meant to be . . . "
3.
Decades later, Malcolm can't believe these are the moments his traitorous mind chooses as an escape route in dire times. He mocks himself with thoughts of the death's head moth and Silence of the Lambs.
But as much as his life models itself after a horror flick, that particular day remains precious as cut crystal in his heart. Even with the nightmare-inducing benefit of hindsight. It would break his heart to smash its prismatic clarity. It would break him. It would probably break him to even admit it out loud to anyone other than his friend softly beating his wings in the corner, licking the moisture from the stones.
Thirst and injuries make his mind jump the tracks from there. He tries to engage his imagination to keep himself from screaming and wasting what's left of his voice. He imagines Martin as a seven foot tall Mothman, peircing the darkness with his giant, glowing red eyes to hone in on Malcolm's location. He swoops down like a nightmare version of a guardian angel to carry Malcolm away from this dark, wet hell, wherever it is.
The moisture on the stones and his desperate thirst have him licking the walls, imagining himself as a tear-drinker, trying to sip just enough of his father's dreams to peer around those walls that block the thoughts behind his eyes.
(is that searing red glow proof of anything? a love that burns like lasers?) He can't help but expend precious energy, laughing weakly at the likely mirroring of each other others' situations. Father and son are both in solitary confinement now. He can't tell if that makes him feel better, or worse. He settles on both, probably, as he feels himself slip into unconsciousness--
(Are you thinking of me? Would you burn me with your gaze right now if you could?)
(Are you right? Are we the same?)