along the middle path they tread

The first thing Mal thought upon seeing Donnie smile was that it outshone the sun. It was immediately followed by what the fuck was that. And rounded off with a strict reminder to stick to the plan.

The plan. The keep-Donnie-at-the-emotional-equivalent-of-arm’s-length plan. The you-can-care-about-Donnie-but-not-that-much plan. That plan. If he could do it with everyone else he can certainly do so with Donnie. Soulmate nonsense be damned. 

Helping Donnie with whatever addiction problem he had wasn’t deviating from the plan. It was something friends did: friends helped each other. Not that Mal was expecting any reciprocal help from Donnie and in the unlikely event that it was offered he would turn it down immediately. He couldn’t have Donnie prying any more than he already unwittingly had. Granted, that had been entirely Mal’s fault; he’d take the blame for that one. 

Smoking. Smoking! That’s what it was, Mal thought as he watched Donnie procure one of those rechargeable ARC lighters from his jacket pocket. “You kept that?” 

Donnie grinned, looking maybe a bit abashed. “Well, love, I’m a sentimental lad,” he answered with a flourish of a shrug. Then flicked open the lighter, producing a tiny flame - not an ARC lighter, just a heavy-duty kerosene lighter, then - before quickly extinguishing it. “Might need it for a concert. Or candles.” 

“Candles?” Mal raised a brow. The light - heh - emphasis Donnie had put on the word, plus the sudden quirk in his grin, had him feeling he knew what meaning he was supposed to take from it. However, he wasn’t going to make it easy on him. That wasn’t as fun. “That far behind on your rent?” 

Last night had felt so much like a fever dream that upon waking the third time Mal still had to take stock of his surroundings just to be certain it had been real. He was in his own room. He was in his own pjs. He was in his own bed. His phone, wallet, keys, laptop were on his desk. His jeans and jacket were hanging off the back of his hamper.

The vanity mirror directly across from him showed two people in his bed: himself and Donnie, the latter facing away from him, one arm thrown above his head and the other draped along the covers that were tucked up close to his face yet exposed the slope of his back. Mal looked away from the mirror and cautiously inched his way over to him. He stopped before he reached the pillow yet was close enough he could, slowly, carefully, reach out and... 

Donnie didn’t stir. Mal exhaled through his nose as quietly as humanly possible, his heart thundering in his chest, and let his hand rest atop Donnie’s. It was warm and solid. Three of his fingers had a solid metal ring on each of them, the textured design on one of them so strongly reminiscent of tire treads that Mal had to swallow a laugh. The longer Donnie remained asleep and still, the more Mal’s heart slowed to a reasonable rate and he could soon breathe easily again. 

He couldn’t explain the current compulsion and he was torn between wishing he hadn’t followed through and wishing certain acts of intimacy, even the goddamn tiniest things, didn’t bother him so much. It all felt performative. Ironic, considering most of his life was performative, but it was different. The smaller the gesture, the more it meant. The more it meant, the more it’d inevitably be torn away and used against him as a weapon. 

His chest felt tight. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, Mal wrenched his hand away from Donnie and held it against his chest as if that’d somehow ease the terrible ache that’d settled there. He shut his eyes and forced himself to take silently counted breaths. 

Said a groggy, English voice, “Bad dreams, love?” 

Mal opened his eyes and turned his head to the left just enough to see Donnie facing him now, propped up on one arm and rubbing sleep from his face with the other. His dark hair was a spiky mess which he consciously tried to comb into submission with his fingers. There was something oddly calming about watching him do that. 

After making a noncommittal noise, Mal yawned, stretched, and started finger-combing his own hair. Once he was satisfied with how it looked in the mirror he pulled himself out of bed and shuffled over to his desk for his phone. A text from Dani letting him know she’d left for work and reminding him to deal with the damn dishes before he went anywhere ended with a smiley and a heart. So she’d remembered not to clean up after him. Meant she was in a good mood. Good for her.

“Here.” Mal tossed Donnie his clothes from where they’d been gathered on his chair. “Bathroom’s ‘round the corner if you wanna shower or whatever, make yourself at home, I’m gonna get food.” Donnie blinked at him over the bundle of clothes he’d caught in his arms. “What?” 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” 

Mal choked on a laugh; he turned his head and tried to disguise it as a cough. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear, much less from Donnie. He’d expected something more like “Am I not good enough for you?” since he had, after all, been dancing with someone else in his absence. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, something like “Do you believe in ghosts?” because for a moment there he sure looked like he’d seen one. Or, even more far-fetched (hopefully) than that: “Are you the Zander Grey, the SWM escort?” Yet it’d been none of those things. 

He couldn’t help it: he giggled as relief bubbled up and spilled over into laughter. “I’m not laughing at you,” Mal said as soon as he could, patting Donnie’s arm and smiling apologetically at him. Admittedly, he was, a little bit. “Jus’ hadn’t expected that.” 

Donnie had looked like he’d been caught between being scandalized and relieved and then decided the latter was the better option. “So I’ll take that as a no, then.” 

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, you’re right.” Smiling still, Mal sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus ain’t got shit t’do with that, or God, or whoever. Load’a bullshit t’me, all of that stuff.” 

Donnie visibly brightened. “Same!” Then frowned. “Then why?” 

“Why what?” 

“Why do you think you’re not soulmate material?” 

What the fuck had that been? 

After having shaken off the enthusiastic audience - the fuck had been in that brandy? - Mal ordered a beer, thought about it, and changed it to a screwdriver. The adrenaline rush was wearing off and he had enough sense to go for something with some sort of sustenance if he was going to make it through the rest of the night. 

Donnie sat beside him, leaning against him again, looking all the world like he’d just had the best sex of his life. It would’ve hot as hell if Mal wasn’t too busy trying to look like he wasn’t about to lose his shit. 

“Feels like I need me a smoke,” Donnie said with a laugh and a sigh. 

Mal latched onto the idea with relief.  “Dude, go ahead.” 

“You sure?” 

He nodded and nudged Donnie in lieu of being affectionate and reassuring while actually trying to get him away from him, even for a few minutes. He needed to think. He needed to breathe. And sip on his drink while he did both. 

It was entirely possible that it hadn’t been the brandy. Actually, he knew it hadn’t been the brandy. Alcohol of any kind didn’t work like that. And if it’d been spiked with something, he wouldn’t be sitting where he was at the bar thinking about what had happened in the first place. Instead, he’d either still be on the floor or in really bad shape. So... 

Maybe... 

There might be something true about the soulmate thing after all? 

Mal ought to be more upset at the thought, yet that was hardly the case: he felt... surprisingly calm about it. He took a steep drink, grimacing around the pulp. The afterglow of the... thing. Dance thing. The exquisite euphoria. That’s what was doing it. That made sense. Never mind what had caused it. 

Satisfied with himself, Mal hummed a bit and then checked his phone. One missed text from Dani asking him if he still wanted the emergency call. He started typing a response but then frowned. The club’s atmosphere started filtering into his consciousness: throbbing music, laughter, dancing; the fact he was sitting all by himself currently enjoying none of it. 

Well, that was just unacceptable. Mal knocked back the rest of his drink, pulp and all, and texted Dani a succinct “nah” before hopping off his stool and heading back to the dance floor. He was there to enjoy himself, soulmate nonsense be damned.

Sipping brandy, neat, out of snifters, at a gay nightclub of his own choosing was extra even for Mal. But since it wasn’t coming out of his pocket, he’d drink whatever the hell Donnie ordered, no questions asked. Except daiquiris. If he ordered one from here, they were gonna have a problem. 

He hoped they weren’t gonna have a problem. Sure, Donnie looked like he’d dropped the greaser-punk look Mal had originally recognized him for - except the hair, that looked identical to when he’d last seen him. Yet he talked like a gentleman. Nothing at all like the high-velocity singer/screamer Mal had first observed at a distance and with slight interest some time ago. 

That had been before he’d dropped into his life and announced they were soulmates. 

As long as Donnie didn’t bring it up, Mal wouldn’t hold it against him. He was there to drink and dance. And he was just about finished his drink. The night was still young, meaning the dancefloor was littered with stragglers yet barren of dancers. Time for him to fix that. 

He downed the rest of his brandy, wiped his mouth with a flourish of his shirtsleeve, slid his phone back into his pocket, and flashed Donnie a grin. “Finish your drink. Let’s go.” 

“Okay! Um, where?” 

“Dancefloor.” Mal had been reaching for Donnie’s arm when Donnie hopped off the stool; he misjudged and narrowly avoided grabbing his face, turning the movement into a dramatic follow-me gesture instead. If Donnie had noticed anything, he didn’t mention it, falling into step just shy of beside him. 

“Make way!” Mal called out, spreading his arms wide to move the halfhearted crowd aside. “Here to dance. Help a dude out?” he added when he made eye contact with the DJ. They nodded. The music changed to some remixed Lady GaGa. ‘Applause’, was it? Fitting. 

Mal turned and grinned at Donnie. Time to see what he could handle.

Half the reason Mal thought that was because he struggled to make sense of what the guy was saying. It was his accent and the fact he spoke so quickly at points: made it difficult to parse his speech even though they were both speaking the same damn language. The other half, which didn’t help, either, was because he was tired. Even though it felt like his mind was racing a million miles a minute, he had to put forth a distinct effort to keep himself upright and his eyes open. 

He was tired. He was sore. He wanted to go the fuck to sleep. 

But no. This attractive bastard was keeping him up and not in a fun way. He was saying something that sounded like he was defending himself, claiming he wasn’t crazy or desperate. That he could prove it to him that they were meant to be. 

Mal shook his head. “Dude, I am so outta your league.” 

“Maybe. Bet I could change that.” 

That damned smile. “Bet you couldn’t.” 

That only made him smile more. “You’re on. We go out a few times, whatever you like, and if you’re convinced you’re too good for me then, and that we’re not soulmates, I’ll leave you alone.” 

“Deal.” It’d also get him to go away in the meantime so Mal could get some fucking sleep. He stuck out his hand. His alleged soulmate took it and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Mal yanked his hand away. “Fuck off wi’that.” 

They exchanged numbers and Mal learned the man’s name: Donnie. Mal didn’t offer his own, instead telling him he could call him Zander. The same name he used with his clients. The thought of Donnie finding out that he was “an escort for those who find their supposed soulmate lacking” amused him. 

That’d get him to fuck off.

The original plan had been to straight-up deck the guy. 

Turned out actually doing so proved difficult. As tired and annoyed as he was, Mal couldn’t help but watch him for a moment. He looked like he’d walked right out of that movie, the one with singing about racing and summer hookups. Grease or something. Which looked hilariously odd compared to his spinning and leaping around like a clumsy ballerina. 

Then he got close, extending a hand to him while still singing. His voice was, for want of a better word, perfect. 

However, when he finally paused, Mal felt the reality of the situation slam into him. And so he took advantage of the moment to smack him. The guy recoiled, stared at him as though seeing him for the first time, and lifted his hand to touch his own face. 

Then, for some godforsaken reason, he smiled. 

“Dude, th’fuck you smlin’ ‘bout?” 

“I finally found you,” he answered dreamily, his spoken voice indicating he was probably from somewhere in England. “My soulmate.” 

Mal’s heart sank. He snorted derisively and took a step back with a shake of his head. She’d been right. Yet another poor bastard who believed in the whole soulmate bullshit. “I dunno what the hell you’re on, man, but you’re barkin’ up th’wrong fuckin’ tree. Get outta here.”

So the singing bastard had finally made it to this floor. Mal had been given a heads-up by a friend on another floor, who’d called him while he was in the middle of servicing tonight’s client, much to his irritation. Something about someone going up and down the halls singing terribly at the top of his lungs, guessing they were trying to find their soulmate. Why she thought it was something she needed to know was beyond him. His client was surprisingly good about it, though. Even let him shower, made him food, and offered him a place to sleep for the rest of the night. 

He’d taken him up on the offer but insisted on sleeping on the couch. It was closer to the door so he could make a quick getaway if need be. Also, he wasn’t in the mood to humour a cuddler, as pleasant as his client was about everything. Too pleasant. Made him uneasy. 

However, being woken up by the sound of some guy’s obnoxious singing outside the apartment had him second guessing his sleeping arrangements. Were he not so grumpy, Mal might’ve noted the singer wasn’t half-bad; actually, he was pretty good. Better than good. (Okay, so he had noticed, but dismissed it: his sleep was being interrupted, after all.) 

Was... was that the song from Titanic? 

Fuck that guy. He kicked off the blanket, rose from the couch, and stormed to the door. He was going to give that bastard a piece of his mind.

“Is it fixed yet?” 

Naked and coated in a thin sheen of sweat, Mal forced his head to turn toward Donnie, who was in exactly the same state of misery. “No,” he grumbled with effort, “it is not.” 

It was one of the hottest days of the year in a string of hottest days of the year and, of fucking course, the air conditioner broke. To make matters worse, so had almost everyone else’s in the apartment block, among other people around the city, so they were on a waitlist to get theirs fixed. And they couldn’t afford to just go out and get a new one, like other lucky bastards that did so and flaunted it. 

The small fan at the foot of their bed provided little comfort. It didn’t make the bed any less sticky whenever he had to move; peeling himself off of the pillow and blanket made him feel like he had velcro all down his back. But no, it was just sweat from the heat. So he didn’t move unless he had to. Same with Donnie. 

Although, Donnie seemed too relaxed about the whole situation - to the point Mal felt at times he could deck him for it. But that took more energy than he was willing to exert, cranky though he was. And Donnie knew it, the fucker. 

“Is it fixed yet?” 

“Shut. Th’fuck up.” 

A quiet sigh. A stifled giggle. Then: “Mal, love of my life... is... it fixed yet?” 

Irritation surged. Mal turned with his whole body and shoved Donnie bodily off the bed, taking some of the blanket with him. “I want a divorce.” 

Donnie started laughing.