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Rowan wins the game, coolly sinking the eight ball into one of the middle pockets. Mal insists on best two out of three, and he wins the second game on a technicality—Rowan forgot to call the pocket for the eight ball because Mal was doing this thing on the cue with his hands that looked obscene and got Rowan all kinds of flustered. Mal laughed at him and reracked the balls. Fucker knew exactly what he was doing and the effect it would have on Rowan.

In the end, Mal wins the match but offers to buy Rowan another beer anyway. He’s already had one, but another couldn’t hurt. He’ll have to pace himself.

After the display of Mal practically humping the pool table and parading his ass around in those tight jeans of his, the sight of him bringing the beer bottle up to his lips and taking a long swig, eyes fluttering closed in contentment, is more than Rowan can handle. He forces himself to look away, taking a tentative sip of his own beer as he leans back in his chair.

“What happens if you drink too much?” Mal asks, noticing the tiny sips Rowan’s been taking.

Rowan picks at the label on the side of the bottle until it’s nearly completely off on one side.

“I get fucked up really easily. Get drunk really fast, or if I go too hard, end up puking my guts out and spending the rest of the next day with a killer hangover.”

“Too bad. I’d love to see you drunk.”

“ Pft . No you wouldn’t. I’m a nightmare.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm. Real clingy and shit. Sappy too. Basically a drunk girl in a bathroom.”

“Now that I gotta see someday.”

Mal’s smile is soft, so goddamn soft that it makes Rowan’s insides churn. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that if he gets drunk, his meds basically stop working. He’ll let Mal have his little fantasy. Part of him is glad for it. For not being able to drink anymore, especially around Mal. He knows that if he did manage to get drunk around him, he’d be hard pressed to stop himself from going and doing something stupid like admitting he’s in love with him.

Oh.

Oh fuck .

There’s a jolt in Rowan’s stomach that makes his arm fly out and knock over his beer bottle, then frantically pick it up before the entire thing spills out on the table.

“Jesus, you okay, Red? You have one too many already?” Mal asks, eyebrows screwed inward in concern and lips pursed in a questioning pout that Rowan wants to kiss. Mal takes a handful of napkins from the dispenser and starts wiping up the mess while Rowan has a panic attack.

That can’t be right. Can it? They’ve only known each other for a few months!

But even as he thinks it, Rowan knows deep down that it’s true. He’s fucking head over heels for Mal and his beautiful face and his razor-sharp humor and his tantalizing tattoos and his—

God fucking dammit.

Mal’s still looking at him with that same look etched onto his face, and Rowan wants to smooth over the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb.

“I’m good, just thought I forgot to pay a bill,” he lies.

Mal seems to accept the answer, shrugging and taking another pull of his beer as he pushes the wadded-up, soggy napkins to one side of the table. Even the simple motion has Rowan tracking his hands, thinking absently of how good they feel on his skin. How good Mal makes him feel all over, all the time .

“Should put that shit on auto pay,” Mal suggests after a minute.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

The time passes by in a blur of laughter and casual touches that make Rowan’s senses go haywire, and all of a sudden, it’s last call, and he and Mal are paying off their tab and heading out into the cool autumn air.

They part with a hug that leaves Rowan breathless despite not being nearly crushing enough to cut off his air supply.

By the time Rowan slogs home, he’s exhausted and riddled with confusion and anxiety and maybe a bit of acceptance.

When Rowan falls asleep that night, it’s with a full heart but heavy limbs and heavier eyelids.

ROWAN FEELS it in his bones before his mind can really process it. Like the slow creaking of overtrodden wooden floors, his joints ache and struggle to move with the fluidity that he’s used to. The days get longer and longer until they blur together completely, morning and night meaningless against the closed curtains in his bedroom.

He should have seen this coming. He barely manages to text work that he won’t be coming in for the next few days before it really hits. It’s been a while, but the sinking feeling is all too familiar.

The days come and go, and by the time Saturday rolls around, Rowan can’t even dredge up the energy to plug in his long-dead phone to send Mal a text. If only he could overcome the inertia of the heavy weight sitting on his chest, he’d be fine. If only he could get out of bed, walk across the room, grab his phone from his backpack, plug it in, wait, wait, wait—

He knows Mal will be pissed—might even be worried —but he can’t bring himself to care enough to do anything about it.

All he wants to do is lie in bed, curled under the covers.

AT SOME point, he thinks Jay or maybe Clara comes by, but he’s too wrapped up in thoughts of worthlessness to pay attention. Too glued to his bed to even lift his head or turn around at the worried “Rowan?”s that drift into his ears from across the room. It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore—what’s a solid, tangible thing and what’s a construct that his mind has fabricated to try to fuck him over.

It’s been a few days, and Rowan’s barely managed to overcome the heaviness in his bones long enough to get up, take a piss, and drink some water straight from the tap with cupped hands.

Hasn’t managed to eat anything more than a packet of peanut butter crackers, but the thought of cooking anything—even one of the microwavable meals he’s got in the freezer—seems an insurmountable task that makes his head hurt.

But despite his deep exhaustion and the weariness he feels from too much sleep and too little sustenance, all he can think about is Mal. Things have been going so well between them. They’ve grown undeniably closer over the past few months of scening, and especially after Mal’s birthday a couple of weeks ago, and it feels like they’re right on the cusp of something big. So of course it was only a matter of time until the shit hit the fan. Until Rowan’s illness reared its big ugly head and fucked everything up.

He doesn’t even deserve Mal, honestly. Someone like him should be with someone extraordinary, not someone deeply scarred like Rowan is. Someone who can love him the way he deserves and not with some half-baked semblance of love like Rowan must be feeling. How he ever thought that Mal could like—hell, love —him back must be the Ninth Wonder of the World.

Hot tears prick at his eyelids, shriveling up as they roll down his cheeks and stain his pillowcase.

NEARLY A week later, Rowan finally musters up the mental and physical strength to grab his phone and plug it in long enough to get it to turn on. He ignores the copious amounts of text and missed call notifications—though he does notice that over half of them are from Mal—and scrolls through his contacts to find Mal’s name. He hesitates, thumb hovering over the Call button.

Should he even bother him? What if his texts and calls are all telling him that he’s pissed that Rowan missed their session and that he wants to stop scening with him? Rowan’s anxiety flares behind his eyelids, and he quickly scrolls to the texts from Mal.

[MS] hey are you coming ?

[MS] it’s 830 man if you’re late it’s cool just lmk

[MS] wtf red it’s 9 i’m not gonna wait around here forever

[MS] did something come up last night?

[MS] mfer are you ghosting me?

[MS] quit being a bitch and text me back

[MS] is everything ok?

[MS] i don’t see your name in the obituaries so i assume you aren’t dead

[MS] are you there?

[MS] why is your phone going straight to voicemail

[MS] can you please let me know if you’re ok?

[MS] rowan???

[MS] what the fuck is going on? you’re sick??

[MS] call me

[MS] please

Rowan jabs the Call icon at the top of the text window.

Mal answers before the second ring.

“Hey!” Mal’s voice comes through the receiver, and Rowan can hear the worry lacing his tone.

“Hi, Mal.”

“Are you okay?” The words come out in a rush, each one hitting Rowan in the gut like a bullet.

“I’m okay. Sorry for going MIA,” Rowan tells him with a halfhearted laugh that Mal ignores.

“What the hell happened, man? Your coworker—Addison?—told me you were sick but wouldn’t give me any details.”

For a moment, Rowan’s stunned. “You went to my work?”

“Yeah, course I did. Thought you fuckin’ ghosted me or… died or something.”

“Not dead. Definitely didn’t intend to ghost you, either.”

“What happened?”

“I was sick. Didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I w—” Mal starts, and Rowan’s glad he doesn’t finish because it’s clear he was worried. Worried enough to text and call him a couple dozen times and even go to his work. “What had you so sick that you couldn’t even text me back, Rowan? The flu or something?”

“It’s….”

Rowan takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. One, two, three in, four, five, six out. He hadn’t wanted to tell Mal at all , but with everything that Mal’s shared with him, it seems wrong to hide it from him any longer. And to be honest, a big part of him is tired of hiding it. He’s wanted Mal to be more than a hookup to him for a while now, and trusting him with this is the first real step to getting there. Now instead of feeling backed into a corner like he thought he might feel, he wants Mal to know. To understand.

“It wasn’t a cold or anything. I’m….” He tries again. “I’ve got depression. Like my mom had. Major depressive disorder, it’s called. Got diagnosed when I was a teenager. Later got diagnosed with PTSD from all the shit I did when I was younger. Makes me go crazy sometimes. See things. Get angry. Feel like shit, you name it.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence on the other end.

And finally, when Rowan’s lip is bitten raw with worry, Mal replies, “Okay.”

“Okay.” No shock or disgust or any of the dozen other things Rowan had been expecting to color Mal’s voice.

“But you’re okay now? Just had… like, an episode or whatever?”

“I… yeah.” His head’s spinning with questions he wants to ask. “Couldn’t get out of bed or do much of anything. Sometimes it gets worse than the usual run-of-the-mill depression I’ve got.”

“You on meds for it? I remember you said your mom wasn’t.”

“I am. I’m good about taking ’em, mostly. But the past few weeks have been kinda rough. Y’know… emotional.”

There’s a sharp breath in on the other end of the line. “Was it cause’a….”

Steven.

“Partially, yeah. Didn’t really think it affected me all that much till I felt like garbage.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Red.”

“Not your fault. I shoulda… shoulda told you a while ago.”

Mal doesn’t tell him that Rowan doesn’t owe it to him to tell him about his life, but Rowan hears it anyway in the strangled sound he makes. But what Mal says is, “Why didn’t you?”

Rowan shrugs before he realizes that Mal can’t see him.

“Guess I didn’t want you to think I was batshit crazy or, like… not able to be a good Dom or something.”

“Well, I know you’re batshit crazy, knew that shit after the gangbang,” Mal jokes.

Rowan snorts out a soft laugh, the first time he’s done so in well over a week. It feels good to laugh again. To laugh with Mal again.

“And you’ve been… fuck, the best Dom I’ve ever had, so I dunno what you were worried about, man,” Mal adds.

The sincerity of the statement makes a puddle of warmth ripple in Rowan’s belly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just… tell me next time, yeah? If this happens again.”

“I will,” Rowan promises.

He remembers the promise he made to himself all those months ago: That if his disease ever compromised their arrangement, he’d tell Mal about it. And he did. Even if not as quickly as he would have liked, he did still manage to keep his word. Rowan takes his own promises very seriously, having grown up without a lot of that in his life—words meaning things.

“Can I…,” Mal starts, trailing off as if he’d bitten his lip.

“What?”

“Can I see you? Today? If you’re up for it.”

Rowan takes a shaky, surprised breath. “Maybe not today. I’m kinda… kinda gross. Haven’t really showered or anything in a few days,” he admits. Though by now it’s been at least a week. “Tomorrow, though?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” There’s no judgment in Mal’s voice, for which Rowan is eternally grateful. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay,” Rowan replies, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“See you, Red.”

“Bye, Mal.”

WHEN TOMORROW comes, Rowan wakes with a sense of peace that he hasn’t felt in weeks. A calm that he feels in his body as much as in his mind. Equilibrium restored. A large part of that, he thinks, is due to finally telling Mal about his depression. It feels like a ten-ton weight lifted off his chest, leaving him so light that he may float off into space.

He downs his newly adjusted pills with a glass of water from his nightstand that he doesn’t remember putting there. He’d called his doctor right after he called Mal yesterday—which really shows where his priorities lie—and she’d only been slightly worried. It wasn’t that bad of an episode, all things considered. He’s had much, much worse in the past—to the point where he’d been close to actually trying to off himself—and the fact that he was still kind of on top of his meds when the depression really started to set in had helped. It can never be completely avoided, something it had taken him a long, long time to come to terms with after he was diagnosed, but it can at least be mitigated.

The warm shower water feels glorious on his skin. As he lathers his body wash and scrubs himself clean, he rinses away the sweat and the grime and the shame of being bedridden for a week.

It’s always the first step to feeling better after a depressive bout. The first step to feeling human again. A nice long shower.

The second step is human interaction.

Mal.

It’ll be good to see him again. Rowan’s actually looking forward to it, the first thing he has looked forward to in a couple of weeks. Sometimes it seems like Mal’s the one thing he never gets tired of, even when his body is screaming at him that he’s exhausted. It’s a good feeling. Even if there are nervous butterflies jittering in his stomach, he’s missed being excited about things. Excited about life .

THEY AGREE to meet at Sheila’s diner, a comfort after the past week and change that he didn’t know he needed.

As soon as he walks inside the diner, he finds Mal sitting at their usual booth. When he hears the doorbell jingle at Rowan’s entrance, Mal looks up and immediately stands, then speed walks over to Rowan.

Before Rowan can even get his bearings, Mal’s wrapping him in a warm, tight hug.

“Hey,” Mal breathes into his neck. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Kinda look drained.”

Rowan laughs. “Well, we can’t all look perfect all the time, Mal,” he says, cupping Mal’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting his beautiful face up for closer inspection.

Perfect as always.

Mal smirks but shrugs away from the touch with a shiver that Rowan barely notices. “Fuck you, man.”

“Hey, that was a compliment.” Rowan drops his hand, the contact of his palm on Mal’s stubbly chin and the residual feeling of his arms around him warming him to his core.

They pull apart completely, as if realizing at the same time how close they’d been standing even after the hug had run its course. Rowan thinks he sees the faintest hint of a flush on the back of Mal’s neck as he turns and waves him over to the counter.

Sheila’s not here today, but they order from one of the waitresses, each getting an omelet—meat lovers for Mal, veggie for Rowan—coffee, and a blueberry muffin on the side.

They dive into the muffin as soon as they sit down, the sugary and tart treat melting on their tongues.

Conversation is light between them. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy or life-changing. It’s nice being face-to-face with another person again. Especially when said person has a face like Mal’s. A tone of voice like Mal’s. A sense of humor like Mal’s.

Their food comes out steaming hot and looking every bit as delicious as it always does. Rowan digs in, pan-seared veggies spilling from the cheesy center of his omelet.

“So depression, huh?” Mal says casually around a forkful of home fries.

“Yeah,” Rowan sighs.

“Have you always known you’ve had it?”

Rowan sets his silverware down, knowing this is going to be a story that takes him a few minutes to get out.

“I got diagnosed when I was sixteen. Didn’t know anything was really wrong at first. I ran away from home and joined a hard-core orthodox church group and had my first big episode while I was there….” Rowan stops, laughing a little incredulously at the memory. “Started seeing demons and shit and was convinced they were after me, then stole all the cash in the tithe box and went AWOL.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yup.”

“And you didn’t get arrested?”

“Not then. The police caught up to me eventually, though. Managed to avoid jail because my brother told them I was mentally ill and unable to take care of myself.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Had to spend a month in a psych ward, drugged outta my mind. Reminded me a lot of my mom, actually. How she said her meds made her feel.”

Telling Mal all of this feels good. Like an undue burden finally being released and freeing Rowan from the crushing weight of it. To his credit, Mal doesn’t judge or look pitying like Rowan had half been expecting.

“Was that before or after you worked at a club?”

Rowan’s surprised Mal remembered from when he’d shared snippets of his story at Mal’s birthday, but he sighs again and answers, “Before. After I got out of the hospital, I went pretty much straight to the clubs. Worked underage, front house, back house, you name it.”

A cold trickle of shame rushes through Rowan, still not quite dispelled even after over a decade.

“I’m sorry,” Mal says, and it sounds so sincere that the cold shame warms to a soft glow in Rowan’s belly.

Rowan shrugs. “Thanks. It wasn’t… a great time in my life. But I’m better now.”

“Good. You’re… stable? That the right word?”

“Stable, yeah. Take my meds regularly and adjust them when I need to.”

Rowan stuffs some home fries in his mouth, the butter and spices a shock to his taste buds after barely any food the past week.

“How often do you… get depressed or whatever?”

“Can’t tell ya,” Rowan says regretfully. “It’s sporadic. I’m always baseline depressed, but the meds help with that and mitigate the worst of the symptoms. But when something particularly emotional happens, there’s a chance of it getting much worse. Crashing, kind of. And sometimes my PTSD makes me go a little crazy if something sets me off. I get irritable and tend to go into an almost manic state, acting out and engaging in risky behaviors. It’s almost cyclical between the two of them. Highs and lows.”

“And it usually lasts a week or so?” Mal asks, eyebrows once again knitted together.

“Depends. This episode lasted about that long, but I’ve had better, and I’ve had worse.” Rowan shrugs apologetically. “Sorry I can’t give you any real answers here. It’s always different. A week is usually about right before I get my meds adjusted, and then things settle back down.”

“No, it’s okay. Just tryn’a understand.”