Malcolm - November short (Patreon)

A/N: Please be aware that this story does touch on abuse. Domestic mostly. Read at your own discretion.

Blood dripped from the broken glass bottle, splattering on the cobblestone floor. The three men that had surrounded Malcolm had run off already, either to go get more friends, or to drunkenly forget what they had tried to do in that back alley. Malcolm just stared at the bottle. It had been the only thing nearby, and he had grabbed it without thinking, shoving it at one man's throat. He didn’t know if he would live.

The glass clanged to the ground as Malcolm dropped it, quickly wiping his hands on the walls to try and get rid of most of the blood. He then walked out of the alleyway into the brightly lit lantern streets, shoving his hands deep within his pockets as he scurried away. He was supposed to meet his sister and Milo for a drink. The three of them had been trying to go out every few days in an effort to put the confusion of young adulthood into some semblance of order.. Drinking together felt like the most normal thing, even if most nights ended with Milo throwing up and the three of them getting kicked out of the bar while Hazel cried because she was a weepy drunk.

Malcolm hadn’t wanted to deal with it tonight. When he had spotted their agreed upon spot, he had ducked into another bar. He wasn’t dumb. He knew what he looked like. He knew how to stand. He knew how to get men's attention. So he did. And when they all went into the back alley for a little ‘fun’, he threw the first punch. Skin splitting open on his knuckles and the surprised shouts from the men had been the adrenaline rush he had needed.

And when that first punch connected with his cheek and he felt something crunch, he hadn’t even cared. The pain felt good.

It was always the after that was worse. When he was rushing away and the ‘what could have happened’ caught up with him. Hazel normally patched him up but she was most likely still at the bar with Milo, the two of them looking at the door, waiting for him to arrive.  Malcolm would keep low for the next few nights while his bruises healed. He’d send a pixie to Hazel, explaining he got sick or something.

He took the shortcut back to the small hovel he lived in. It was a broken down service room in the tunnels beneath the market. Malcolm had found it and moved out of his mother's house, and for the last year he’d been trying to make it his own. So far, only his living room was habitable. It was enough for him, however. There was something to be said for peace, and this may have been the only place he felt truly at rest.

Which is why he probably should have changed the locks.

Milo let out a low whistle as Malcolm entered through the front door. The gangly man was sitting at the edge of Malcolm’s bed, flipping through one of his sketch books. “You look like shit,” he told him.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Nah.” He snapped the book shut and rose. He had lit the room with various gas lanterns and candles, warming the small enclosure and brightening it with the best light they could. It gave Milo a perfect view of the injuries Malcolm had sustained. “How do the other ones look?” Milo asked.

Malcolm ignored him, practically ripping off his coat. He wore a tank beneath the leather jacket. The muscle he had started to pack on were coming in nicely. He still couldn’t look himself in the mirror, though. He was too soft in places. Too smooth.

Walking over to the ‘kitchen’, he began to wash up, scrubbing a discarded towel over his body to rid his hands and face of blood.

“You better not have left my sister alone.”

“Didn’t. She bailed early tonight. Something about your mom needing help. When you didn’t show, I figured you were doing one of your self-destructive things. Went to the club to see if you joined a fight but Rooke said they hadn’t seen you all night.” Malcolm could feel his eyes wandering across his wounds. “Looks like you found one, though.”

Malcolm tossed aside the rag before picking the bowl of dirty water up and dumping it. “You have a point to any of this?”

“Why’d you go pick a fight, Mal? It’s fuckin’ stupid. You want to punch someone, go to the club. Come find me.”

Malcolm snorted. “Why were your hands bloody last week, Milo? Punch a wall?” Milo had been in a brawl last week when they had gone out. It wasn’t a fight he had picked, but it was one he gladly joined. Milo, though, was a lying hypocrite and had that attitude of ‘do what I say and not what I do,’. Why Hazel kept him around was beyond him.

“Don’t use me as an example of a man, Mal,” Milo laughed. “I’m a pretty pathetic excuse for one.”

It was something about it. Maybe the fact that Milo though he might need an example. Or maybe it was just the fact that Milo was even there. Mal whirled though, striding across the room and picking Milo up by the front of the shirt. He slammed him hard into the wall, Milo’s head bouncing off the plaster.

“Go home, Milo,” he growled. “Before something happens that we both regret.

Milo quirked a brow at him, one hand coming out to rest on his hip. “What would that be then, sweetheart? ‘Cause I can’t tell if you want to beat the shit out of me or fuck me.”

“Your disgusting.”

“So I’ve been told.

When Milo’s hand fell away, and he lifted it to place on Malcolm’s shoulder, Malcolm lost it. Maybe the gesture was a precursor to something. Maybe it was just a friend trying to get another friend to calm down. Malcolm didn’t care. He slammed Milo against the wall again. And again. Gritting his teeth as Milo’s hands scrambled for purchase across Malcolm’s forearms. His nails scratched into Malcolm’s bare skin, the bite of it welcome. Pain meant that Malcolm was still alive. Still here. Pain meant he could feel.

When Malcolm’s fist collided with Milo’s stomach, Milo fell against him, wheezing.

Malcolm froze.

Milo hadn’t fought back. He had just taken it. Letting Malcolm transfer the pain he felt onto the other man. And for what? Why? Tears began to sting Malcolm’s eyes as he pushed his friend away. He walked across the room, trying to control his breathing and the way his hands shook. He could hear Milo behind him, straightening himself. Most likely wiping blood from his head.

“Mal?”

“You should go.”

Malcolm didn’t want him here. He wanted no one here. He wanted to be alone where the darkness could take him. He wanted the world to just leave him be. To stop fucking caring. Why did anyone keep trying to care?

A hand rested on his shoulder.

Milo.

Malcolm hated him.

“I’m going to go get some food,” he told Malcolm. “Want to come?”

For a moment, laughter threatened to bubble out of Malcolm’s throat. Noodles. It would most likely be noodles that Milo wanted to go get. Because of course he did. Milo had just had his ass handed to him by Malcolm. Malcolm had gotten shoved up against a wall and fondled by men he lured into an alley. Those same men might be dead.

And Milo was offering noodles.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “Food sounds good.”

Milo squeezed his shoulder. “Get your coat, man. It’s cold outside.”

Malcolm felt Milo’s hand slip away and felt his stomach roll with nausea.