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[abrightboy]

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[ployboy]

He wants to lose it. Just absolutely abandon all he's worked for and agree. Tim forces in a breath, shaky and reminding himself that he's promised so many graves that he won't give up, can't give up.

He really wants to give up.

Another cry, muffled and hoarse and Tim is reeling from how alien it is to feel so much from a soothing touch. "I h've to be something," he argues unconvincingly. Calling himself selfish because this shouldn't be about him.

They were happy.

Malcolm is supposed to be happy.

Tim ruined it. He ruins things. It's what he does.

[abrightboy]

“You are something,” Malcolm tells him. “You’re a computer whiz and a smart kid and - most importantly - you’re my brother.”

Malcolm is happy, Tim. Listen to his voice. Look at his stupid happy face.

[ployboy]

He's had brothers. He has brothers, and once again Tim is drowning in homesickness. The veil is also lifting, and Tim feels the ache in the apple of his cheeks at the idea of being perched on a kitchen counter and holding on to Malcolm for dear life.

Family.

"But you're going to get married," he mews.

[abrightboy]

"Yeah. Unless Neal comes to his senses. So then you'll have two brothers," Malcolm points out. "Is that okay?"

[ployboy]

Tim gives himself permission to breathe. His chest hurts with that phantom weight, and his shoulders are teasing at an uncomfortable burn from the ridiculous position he has twisted himself into. The tears have dried- Tim notes that with some disappointment in himself.

It had felt good to cry, not just to cry out. He hadn't run dry of tears entirely as he had previously believed, they're just. Well. Hard to come by. There's another hard hitch of his breath at the fact.

His head hurts like a female dog.

And he's still holding to Malcolm. He wonders how long he can get away with it, sensitive to the rise and fall of Malcolm's chest. Tim nods against it again. Weakly he admits, "Okay."

It's as stupid as anything else he's done today but it's nice. This is nice.

Speaking of stupid, he laughs. A rough, tight sound.

See, since he's already... like, here, Tim says, "Jeff's back."

As if they hadn't already settled that matter.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm rubs circles on his back.

“It’s okay if he stays over. You don’t have to be self conscious about that or anything.”

[ployboy]

That is actually a fantastic way to get that Tim-esque creature off of him. If Malcolm did so on purpose: job well done. But Tim, even wailing something un-understandable in his embarrassment, can't be sure if it was on purpose.

But yeah, he's pulled back, using the small distance to wipe unceremoniously at his face with his sleeves. His face is pale-ish from the exertion. His eyes are red. The embarrassment is totally unwarranted because it's no secret that he and Jeff are

and that they have

and Tim wants to run his mouth and ask if Malcolm knows the whole story. That Jeff looks different. Better. And not. That Jeff is still a bold, charming, sweet guy. And that makes everything about him more dangerous. That Jeff has stopped drugs, the hard ones, because there weren't any new points of his sticks on his arms. But there were scars. New scars. Old scars.

Scars don't belong on Jeff.

But they do.

Scars belong on that body because self-defense is legitimate. It's always legitimate.

Tim had been staring at the floor. His eyes dart to the cups off to the side of him. Finally they meet Malcolm's and Tim feels warm and good again. It's weird. "I don't know," he admits, tired.

Having sex in someone's. house. is weird.

[abrightboy]

It’s Tim’s house, too. He has his very own robot sheets in his very own room and everything.

Malcolm’s mouth twitches an almost smile and he takes Tim’s cup and sets it back in his hands.

“Just an option, so you don’t feel like you have to ask us if he shows up.”

He’s noticed he looks better. He said he got off drugs. That and the California sun would make anyone look well.

“Is he staying at Bonnie’s?”