Work Text:
God, my back is killing me. Sleeping on this couch for the last few days —cycles, whatever— has been doing me more harm than good, but that’s on me for being too chicken to tell Mallek that his lounge plank feels like a literal plank of wood. You’d think with him being higher up on the hemospectrum it’d feel like a fucking cloud, if not a reasonably comfortable mattress, but no. It’s pure boxspring.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I mean, I know it sounds like that, but I’m not. I’m grateful to have a place to go to avoid the skin-melting blast oven that is the Alternian sun, I just wish I didn’t have to test the durability of my little human muscles as a token. I sit up, slow and steady, and stretch my arms up as high as they’ll go, contorting my body in impossible ways to hopefully work out the knots I acquired over the day. My palmhusk buzzes almost perpetually beside me. I don’t even need to look to see it’s Gorgor; he’s been texting me not-stop about his upcoming “hate-date with Galekh”, or something, and is probably (most definitely) pissed that I’m not responding. I am 100% in for an ear-full later, but oh well, that’s an issue for future me to wrangle and now me to be completely ignorant to.
I can hear Mallek downstairs messing with some pots and pans, probably making a breakfast-like meal of some kind (for context: his food is always good, but almost habitually looks cursed af). I heave an unnecessarily dramatic sigh and swing my legs over the side of the couch, being careful not to slip on the bunched up rug as I stand. Weaving my way through the jungle of old technology, I start to descend the stairs, and there he is, behind the island stovetop, in all his rugged, gamer glory, making a monstrous mess of the kitchen. His hair is sticking up at all ends, his sleeves are pulled back lazily and slowly slipping, it’s honestly charming. I make my way over to him in a slow saunter, allowing him time to notice my presence and give one of his signature barely-there grins. Beneath the dim glow of the overhead lights, I can just make out the smudges of last night’s eyeliner clinging onto his lids, accentuating the heavy, cobalt bags under his eyes.
A twinge of pain and guilt swirls in my heart.
He hasn’t been sleeping, I know he hasn’t, especially with him being up and about before my begrudgingly early rising self. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, though. He never listens to me when I try to talk to him about it; he just brushes me off, and I really want to respect his boundaries, but I’m also really worried about him. The stress of going off-world soon has been hitting him harder and harder as the days pass, and he’s been desperately trying to ignore it, which leads to him to ignoring his basic needs. I’ve been staying with him more often to at least make sure that he eats and gets away from his computer every once and awhile, but I can only do so much, and yet, seeing how everything is affecting him, I never feel like I’m doing enough.
I give him a small smile back before he can see the growing worry in my eyes.
“What’cha makin” I lean over countertop to get a glimpse of the pan, swallowing back a grimace when I finally do. What is he making?
“clustered cluck-beast embryo;” He pushes at the viscous, clumpy, purple liquid with his spatula. “probably need to turn up the heat, though; this shit != cooking;” He mumbles some other instructions to himself under his breath as he turns the knob to the gas stove up, causing the blue flames to gently lick at the bottom of the pan. He continues to stir the thick material, the corners of his mouth perking up when it starts to lump together. A large cloud of steam slowly rises up from the eggs, reaching his face and sticking to his facial piercings. His nose scrunches at the sudden change in temperature the water brings, and he reaches down to wipe it the part of his hoodie that’s still hanging onto his upper arm.
I walk around the side of the island and reach up to open the cabinet on the farthest end past the sink. Figure I’ll save us both some time and get out the fine china a.k.a some paper plates and a few forks I’ll wash from the sink. I set down the plates and mentally prepare myself to delve into the warzone of dirty dishes. I roll my sleeves up, more carefully than Mallek, I am not risking getting who knows what on my clothes, spot my targets, and plunge my hands into the sink. I, unfortunately, have horrible aim, so I miss, one hand landing in something sticky, and the other on something squishy and oddly life-like. I pull my hands out faster than any recordable speed, quickly turning on the tap with my elbow to wash them. After scrubbing my fingers clean of sin and skin, I make a mental note to do the dishes as soon as possible, and, with the help of a nearby set of tongs, pull out the forks I was aiming for. And I scrub them, too. I basically strip back a layer of metal with the thoroughness I clean them with. Take that, mysterious sink gunk.
Turning to grab some paper towels, I narrowly avoid colliding with Mallek as he, with his long ass legs, speeds to the fridge to nab a few things. He doesn’t seem to notice as he stacks condiments in his arms, namely grubsauce, what I’m assuming to be the troll equivalent of Sriracha, and a bottle mysteriously labeled “embryo” in his handwriting. I rush to get the paper towels, deciding to just go ahead and take the entire roll, before I knock over the already teetering Jenga tower he’s cradling. That seems to be in vain as I hear the bottles crash onto the counter right as I turn my back to dry the utensils. One of them busts, painting the kitchen floor with condiment splatters which just miss my legs. Still, I recoil from the impact site and toss the paper towel roll to Mallek as he mumbles curses under his breath, sloppily wiping up the spots with a fistful of paper towels. I add mopping onto the ever growing list of chores I need to do at some point.
He stands, slightly disgruntled, and I motion him to hand me the soiled paper towels with what I hope is a sympathetic grin, which he does, freeing his hands to pick up the now nearly empty condiment bottle. I take that from him too because, knowing Mallek, he’ll still try to use it till the very last drop, cracks and all. I hear him release a small sigh as I pass him, moving to the trash can to crush down this new trash onto the old, now heavily cramped trash (need to remember to take that out, too).
When I turn back to him, he’s moving the plates to island, slowly transferring over chunks of cluckbeast embryos in mostly even proportions, slipping the smallest amount more onto one.
“how do you like yours?” he puts what’s left of the pan onto a third plate I hadn’t grabbed, setting it aside away from the other two.
“Just salt’s fine” I shrug, going to rewash my hands.
“have you ever had it with this?”
I look over my shoulder. He’s holding up the sriracha bottle.
I shake my head, turning off the tap with the butt of my hand and shaking them dry.
“it’s good, you’d like it; especially if you like all the other shit I make;”
He pushed the eggs to one side of the fuller plate with a fork before squirting the sauce. He must have remembered I don’t like my food touching my condiments.
A small smile pulls at my lips as I walk up behind him, wiping my damp hand on the back of his hoodie before gently swiping a stray strand of hair from his face. I gingerly trace the side of his shaved head before letting my hand fall to my side.
“dude, seriously?” he scoffs jokingly, pulling his shoulder blades together. The smallest flush of blue creeps onto his face as he elbows me softly. I laugh and push him back teasingly, causing him to stumble.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish”
He gapes, a grin once again beginning to grow onto his face.
“i didn’t start it;” he puts down the spatula in his hands before hitting me on the shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to catch me off guard, “but we both know i could finish it;”
I recoil slightly, giggling at his playfulness. I put my hands up.
“Okay, okay, I surrender”
“damn, that easy? i thought you’d have more bite after that wild accusation;” his smile falters the smallest bit, a tone of seriousness lacing his voice, “i didn’t hurt you, did i?”
I wave my hands, “No, no, no, I’m good”
He puts his hand up next to my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. I let out an inaudible gasp. At least, I hope it was inaudible.
“are you sure?”
Concern glints in his eyes. Those big, blue eyes.
I cover his wrist with my hand just barely. His skin is cold, but it’s not unpleasant.
I push myself to respond, my voice rising just above a whisper.
“I’m okay, I promise” I squeeze his wrist in reassurance before letting my arm drop.
His hand lingers on my face before it does the same.
I turn from him slightly, shaking off the growing warmth in my cheeks as I reach for the plate designated for me. Luckily I hadn't grabbed it, because, with my hands still outstretched, I jump at least a few feet in the air as something cold brushes my ankle, letting out a strangled squeak as it whips me in its passing.
Mallek snickers, crouching to the floor to place the third plate at the end of the island for his lusus.
"try not to make a mess, please;" he cranes his neck down, pleading in a lowered voice, indicating that the remark was not, as I initially thought, for me, and saving him from a rather crude clap-back.
The snake sticks his tongue out at him, hissing lightly in annoyed compliance.
"You're one to talk." I raise my eyebrows at him, trying not to grin as he purses his lips in mock offense, rising from the ground with a click from his knees.
"you're no saint, either;"
He blows a raspberry as he pushes my head, despite my swiping and protests, walking, plate in-hand, to the living room, or "loiterblock", or whatever the hell kind of name they decided to give it.
With a huff, I grab my plate, following his lead and sitting in the chair across from him, swiping over a stray wrapper to place my food on the coffee table. Just as my ass settles into the (surprisingly comfortable) seat, Mallek shoots up with a snap of his fingers and begins to head back to the kitchen. I groan, begrudgingly standing back up to follow him and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Crazy how you have to babysit a grown man, in his own house no less.
He opens the door to the thermal hull once again, reaching in and pulling out a Grub Juice.
“want one?” he gestures the can toward me.
I remember the first time I drank a Grub Juice. Worst mistake of my life.
Okay, well, maybe not the worst one, but you get the gist.
I had reached for it, hoping, by the look of the can, to have a slight reminiscence of home with a Coca-Cola type drink.
My first indication that this was not what I had hoped for should have been when I cracked open the can. Instead of the nice, quick hiss a canned drink usually makes, it let out a low, rumbling noise, almost like a burp, that lasted a second more than what would be deemed normal.
Oh well. I brushed it off as regular Alternian things I just wasn’t yet accustomed to.
I realized my error the moment the drink touched my tongue.
Rather than the smooth, sweet feeling of a freshly-opened soda cruising down the back of my throat, what I got was a salty, gelatinous substance trailing slowly down my esophagus, almost like a mildly carbonated vegemite.
I shiver, nearly gagging as the ghost of that fated Grub Juice comes back to haunt me.
I politely decline him, asking, pleading through my eyes, for literally anything else.
He nods, scanning the inside of the hull before grabbing a bottle of water, the pack he yanks it from being specifically bought for me after I practically begged Mallek for something other than energy drinks and milk. This was obviously before he stocked up on Grub Juice, subsequently deciding to drink one with every meal, the only time he does not being when he is deep in coding.
Now, some may say that I am taking advantage of his entranced state, but when the dryness of parch starts to creep up the back of his throat, and he, not being able to look away from the screen, let alone stop the motorized typing of his fingers, asks me for something to drink, can you really blame me for wanting to supply him with possibly the only non-toxic fluid he would willingly consume for that night? I know I wouldn’t blame me. Besides, he doesn’t even notice until the buzz of his last energy drink wears off, leaving him more susceptible to crawling into his coon at a relatively reasonable time, so really, it’s a win-win. And I am doubly innocent.
I take the bottle from him, trying to ignore the feeling of his fingers brushing mine in the exchange. Though, I’m not too sure why. I’ve held Mallek’s hand many times before - shit, we’ve even cuddled on the couch and watched Grubflix, him snuggling up next to my body in search for warmth, me falling asleep in a tangle of limbs and waking up in the middle of the day with two extra blankets stacked on top of me. Because, I mean, we’re friends, and that’s what friends do, right? Friends do that. And that’s what we are. Friends.
At least, I think we’re friends. We’ve technically never formally established what our relationship is, but I’ve always just assumed with him calling me his “robobuddy” that we were. A guy wouldn’t just let any random alien stay in his hive for extended periods of time without at least befriending them, right? But at the same time, I feel like there’s been a subliminal tonal shift within our camaraderie lately. Maybe a small elephant in the room that is noticeable, but not big enough to pay attention to. But what’s gonna happen when that elephant grows after being ignored for so long? The logical answer is that it’s going to become attention-hungry from being consistently starved. And that elephant’s stomach is a black hole, sucking up all within its path with no sense of remorse. So the question is, do we acknowledge the elephant when it’s stomach is only growling, or do we wait until it finally snaps, ravaging all that it can find, and discuss in the aftermath?
I don’t know why I’m getting so philosophical about this. I could just be picking up false leads. Maybe he doesn’t even notice anything at all, and it’s just me overthinking everything as usual. Or, maybe he’s doing exactly what I’m doing by avoiding his feelings, because, yeah. It could, hypothetically, be possible that I do have a teensy, tiny, itty bitty, little flush crush on Mallek Adalov. Not like it matters.
“are you okay?”
I must have been spacing out during my internal monologing. Dammit.
“Yeah” I say, sounding more like a breath than a response. “Just ready to eat, I guess”
Despite the stupid giggles that escape my mouth, I am mentally facepalming myself.
A grin perks on one side of his mouth, but I can tell there’s still traces of concern woven onto his face. He puts his arms up, leaving them floating around my body in a ring as if he was trying to decide if he wants to let them embrace me. He quickly decides against it, brushing the nearly endearing act off with a swipe through his hair and a tighter grip on the can in his hand.
“then let’s, uh-” his voice cracks, causing him to clear his throat with fist to his lips, “let’s go eat;”
Yeah, he totally sees the elephant.
It’s just a matter of who’s gonna bring it up, and when.
We walk back to the living room, the momentary awkwardness visibly leaving our bodies as we sit down and get ready to grub out, which is a disturbingly fitting phrase for this planet knowing their history of grub cuisine.
Mallek picks his plate off of the coffee table and places it on his singular cross-legged lap, opening the Grub Juice with one hand and taking a long swig of the drink. He balances the plate and the can on his legs, taking a lot of effort not spill either while still sitting in his “cool-guy” slouch.
“You know there’s a table right in front of you that you could use”
He gives me a look.
“hate to break it to you, but not everyone = as short as you are;”
I roll my eyes, yet he continues.
“i’d probably get a hunched torso pillar trying to sit like you;”
“Oh, please” I pull a crumpled paper towel from my hoodie pocket and throw it at him; it lands about a foot off target, sagging limply onto the table. Mallek lets out a hissing chuckle. “Like you don’t already have one from information specializing all night”
We both laugh before lapsing into a comfortable silence, each of us focusing on our food. This doesn’t last long, though, as he, quite loudly, might I add, finishes his Grub Juice and looks to me in search of more liquid refreshment to quench his thirst. I pretend not feel his expectant stare on me, now concentrating on my food with a new-found interest, only to glance up at the exact time he begins to make a grabby hand, tilting his head down for maximum puppy-dog eyes.
I groan, slumping down in my chair.
“Go get your own”
“but they = all the way over there;” he whines, throwing an arm pathetically to the side to gesture towards the fridge.
“You just went over there!”
“but now i don’t feel like it;” he mumbles, voice still whiney.
I sigh with an unnecessary volume, uncapping the bottle and extending my arm to him. He snatches the bottle from me, and the metaphorical curtains close. We may not seem like it, but we are both one for dramatics.
“Just don’t backwash”
His brows furrow slightly in honesty, “i won’t;”
He doesn’t waterfall it. He knows by now that I’ve basically tongue-kissed the grimiest places on Alternia, so a little saliva doesn’t deter me.
He places his lips tenderly on the mouth of the bottle, gently tilting it up to get an adequate amount of liquid before handing it back to me, wiping his puckered mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“thank you;” he gargles, trying (and failing) to avoid spraying the inventory of his puffed up cheeks; he wipes his mouth again.
“You’re welcome” I put the still open bottle up to my lips, attempting to hide my expanding smile, throwing my head back like I’m a bitch who just got dumped and is trying to smooth out her brain for a night to finish it off.
Because I’m not an animal, I recap the empty bottle and set it aside as we finish what is left of our eggs, silently sucking in air to counteract the spice of the sriracha (which I did actually end up liking, guess he just knows me). Not being too loud about it, of course, because if Mallek had even the smallest inkling that it was affecting me, I would never hear the end of it. It’s not my fault that I have an embarrassingly low spice tolerance and an equally (atrociously) substantial addiction to spicy food. ‘Tis a curse.
Mallek grabs my empty plate from me, stacking it with his and leaving them haphazardly on the coffee table, stating that “we’ll get it later;” under his breath when I begin to protest.
He takes my hand delicately, almost like he thinks it’ll shatter if he grips it too hard, eyes flitting to mine in a sort of nonverbal consent. I nod to him, knowing what he’s wanting, and he drags me upstairs to his respiteblock.
As we make it past the last step, I’m met with my makeshift bed for the second time tonight. I rub the back of my neck with my free hand; I didn’t realize I had left it in such disarray. Not like the rest of the hive isn’t a trainwreck, but I guess I still feel kinda weird about creating any type of mess since it’s not my house. The blanket isn’t even on the cushions anymore, and my charger cord is a blatant tripping hazard.
I let go of Mallek’s hand and pass in front of him, tidying up my little space to give us some room. He stays behind, playing with the cuffs of his hoodie, not wanting to intrude on something I assume he finds personal.
When I decide that my cleaning job is satisfactory, I plop down onto the cushion closest to his desk, exhaling at the feeling. I know I was complaining about it destroying my back earlier, (it does, I’m not taking that back, it is an absolute nightmare to sleep on) but it is actually really comfortable for lounging, which I guess was it’s intended purpose what with recuperacoons and the pan-crippling daymares they get when they’re not submerged in that sweet, goopy matter. Suppose I shouldn’t harp about my own personal misuse and give credit where credit is due.
Mallek takes this as an invitation to join me, dropping carelessly beside me, and at the same time, dropping his cool facade, allowing me to finally see the true extent of his exhaustion. It almost ages him, exposing every harsh line and ill-obtained mark on his face. Were the creases on his forehead always that pronounced? Was that scar on his jaw always that deep? I had just assumed that the acne on the sides of his face were from something hormonal, or him simply not taking care of his skin, but now I can’t help but wonder if it’s from the pressure he’s been subjecting himself to without a proper coping mechanism. He breathes heavily, readying himself for a conversation that he knows is going to be emotionally taxing on both of us.
I open my arms to him, hoping comfort, or at least my attempt at it, would ease some of the stress he’s battling. He freezes for a second, sizing up the situation, flustered at my sudden want of physical touch for him. That damn elephant.
Slowly, cautiously, he crawls into my arms, shifting to a position where cheek is on my chest and his horn rests in the crook of my neck, far enough that he won’t poke my eyes out, but close enough that he’s still comfortable. The two piercings on that horn collide, creating a tinkling noise next to my ear. He snakes an arm behind me, laying his other hand on my left thigh, stroking it gently with his thumb in silent gratitude. I envelop him, running the tips of my fingers up and down his back in my own form encouragement. He basks in the warmth of the moment (along with myself, I suspect), in no hurry to break the serenity and outpour all the negative energy he’s been bottling up. We lay like this for an indiscernible amount of time, me thinking only of the troll in my arms.
He breathes deep once more, and I perk up to listen, never minding my drooping eyelids.
“i != ready;” he gently shakes his head, voice muffled by my hoodie. “i != ready to leave; i’ve only got a few perigees left and then … and then … i = gone;”
He throws his hands up weakly.
“i = so fucking-” his voice catches. I can see the glisten of blue tears pooling up over his yellow sclera. I squeeze him a little tighter. “i = so fucking scared; i try not to show it, i hate making you guys worry about me, but i can’t take it anymore;”
His lip quivers with his confession. I delicately wipe away the steady stream of tears that flow from the already broken dam of his eyes.
“it makes me so fucking nervous, to not know what = gonna happen; my life is fucking ending and i don’t know what = gonna happen;” I almost want to interject, but, as much as I don’t want to admit it, what he’s saying is true. There is no guarantee that he’ll make it past his Ordeals, let alone training, and, of course, that stupid space war. It physically hurts me to know that bad things could— will happen to him, and I can’t do anything to stop it. It quite literally makes me want to vomit. “i don’t know what = gonna happen to dad, what = gonna happen to D, what = gonna happen to you ; what if something bad happens to you and i can’t– i can’t;” he ceases trying to finish his sentence, silently sobbing into my chest. My heart shatters.
I grip onto him, nails digging into the back of his sweatshirt as I rock him back and forth. I feel a warm wetness on my cheeks.
I’m crying.
Of course I’m crying.
The point of his horn lightly knicks my cheek, but I couldn’t give less of a shit. He could gore me right now and it wouldn’t pull me away from him.
“Mallek, you can’t always protect us” my voice shakes, “I know you want to, I know, but we’re gonna get into some shit on our own regardless. You can’t feel guilty for that”
He shakes his head more violently than before.
“it != fair; it != fucking fair; i don’t even know who i am yet; there’s so much i haven’t done, so much i don’t even know i would’ve wanted to have done, and i don’t even get the chance; and all for what? A power hungry bitch to put us into her imperial salad and shit us out once she’s decided she’s done with us; fucking pathetic;”
He sighs heavily; he looks exhausted.
“I = just so fucking done; i = done with worrying; i = done with laying awake at day stressing over this stupid shit; i = just done;”
He sniffles, letting his eyelids close. We sit again in silence, neither with anything to say nor any will to say it. I leave the whisper of a kiss on his forehead, barely enough to notice. His eyes flutter back open, a splash of blue dancing on his cheeks.
“i = sorry i laid this on you, i know it was a lot;”
“You have nothing to be sorry for” I know he had more to day about, well, everything, but I won’t push him today anymore. He’ll come around eventually. Or he won’t, this definitely chipped deeper into the core of Mallek Adalov than previously explored. Either way, I’ll be here for him.
The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and for right now, that is enough for me to be satisfied. I’ll get to his sleeping habits and godawful house upkeep-ing later.
I hold him snug in my arms, savoring every moment I have left with this beautiful cerulean boy.