Note: Sorry for the double-post, folks who have me on author alert. The formatting got all kinds of messed up and I didn't think I would be able to fix it as quickly as I was.
Written for the community 15pairings on LiveJournal (prompt 'First Kiss'), which requires writing/drawing 15 pairings for a single fandom.
Were he not already up, basketball tucked under one armpit, Malcolm would have competed with his brothers to see which two would be exempt from answering the door and left to lounge on the couch, a competition to be decided by their mother yelling at one of them from some other room. As it was, he was contented with the fact he would be able to inflict the rest of his family onto the person at the door and then continue on his way.
"Oh. Hi, Dabney," Malcolm said, squeezing himself out of the house before Dabney could find his way inside. He rolled the ball between his hands, trying to make it obvious he was planning on something Krelboynes didn't find remotely interesting. "What're you doing here? How come you have a backpack? It's Saturday."
"I was hoping you'd be up for a riveting game of checkers."
"I don't think we have a board," Malcolm answered with an unrepressed smile. "Sorry."
"I suspected as much. Which is why I brought..." Dabney slid his backpack from his shoulders and pulled out a checkerboard, "This! Isn't she a beaut?" he crooned.
"It's okay, I guess."
"Did you have plans? My father cleared it with your mother…"
Malcolm dropped the ball onto the ground. "No," he said with a sigh. Apparently not content to keep it confined to his eyes, his entire head rolled in aggravation. He opened the door roughly. "Come in."
Dabney, seemingly unaware of any rudeness, gathered up his things and did just that.
"Don't bother us," Malcolm informed his brothers, knowing that this made them more inclined to annoy; a guaranteed way to spice up the day and cut Dabney's visit short.
He tromped to his room and plopped onto his bed, Dabney following like a quieter, politer shadow. "You go first," Malcolm said, yanking off his shoes and tossing them across the room.
Dabney noticeably kept his shoes on, but he set up the board and made the first hop forward.
"You ever play before?"
"No."
"Boy, you're in for a wild time!"
Malcolm moved his own piece, opting out of answering.
"I like your house," Dabney said.
"Really? I don't," Malcolm responded curtly.
Interestingly, this slight Dabney seemed to pick up on, and they continued to play in silence. Malcolm busied himself with thoughts- of possible escapes, of how it was just his lousy luck to be stuck with Krelboynes outside of school (although he had to admit he didn't hate Dabney, Lloyd, or Stevie, it just wouldn't hurt his feelings any if they were anything like regular human beings.) , he thought actively of throwing the game, but suspected this would just give Dabney the excuse to stick around and teach him how to do it correctly. He couldn't seem to venture outside of the topic of school and home, which limited interesting topics substantially.
When his thought process hit a snag, a problem he couldn't solve on his own, he was forced to consult Dabney, "How come all the Krelboynes are obsessed with me? They're always clapping when I do anything, always saying I'm so great, always wanting me to come over."
This was, objectively, mostly untrue; a hyperbole brought about by Malcolm's self-consciousness, paranoia, and hatred of the special class. If Dabney noticed this was a fallacy, however, he decided not to bring it up.
"You can hardly blame them: You're loud, reckless, athletic, attractive."
"Wait," said Malcolm.
Dabney floundered, "I mean--"
"You're saying that just because I'm smart and good enough at sports that I don't give myself a black eye pitching a baseball, I'm stuck being King of the Geeks the rest of my life? Great." Malcolm folded his legs Indian style, propped his elbow on his thigh, and put his cheek in his palm. "Your move."
Dabney's checker piece, held by trembling fingers, hopped nervously.
Malcolm looked to the door, hoping for his brothers to barge in. Of course, just this once, they stayed put in the living room. Malcolm lifted up a piece of his own, flipping it between his fingers, and ventured, "Afterwards, you wanna go out and shoot some hoops?"
"My mother doesn't approve of organized sports."
"It's not organized! All we'd be doing is 'Horse' or one-on-one!" Dabney's expression stayed apathetic. Malcolm conceded, "Yeah, I figured as much." and he skipped his piece over the remainder of Dabney's.
"You won," Dabney said incredulously. "You never played before?"
"No."
"I've been playing since I was three! You're incredible! You're amazing!"
Malcolm's face tightened. Uncomfortably aware that his family could be, at that moment, overhearing him becoming an even bigger nerd, he muttered, "It's just math. Probability."
"No, really, you're fantastic. I could just--" Then Dabney's words turned to actions; he leaned in and planted a kiss on Malcolm's lips. It was nothing, of course, but it didn't stop both of their eyes being wide when he pulled back. Dabney put his hand up, acting as a stop sign. "Excuse me, let me remove my glasses before you hit me." He took off his glasses. "Proceed."
"Dammit, Dabney, I'm not hitting you." Malcolm bowed his head, trying to create a shadow to hide the redness of his cheeks in.
He had never thought of kissing Dabney, and the only similar events he could compare it to were holding hands with girls and one peck on the cheek. He tried to default to what his brothers might think, but he was relatively certain that would involve punching Dabney, who had only just put his glasses back on, square in the nose. After a great deal of thought, counterbalancing pleasure to embarrassment and Dabney to girls in general, reviewing his own feelings, and quite a bit of rationalization that wouldn't have made sense were Malcolm to have tried saying it aloud, he announced:
"It's bad enough being a Krelboyne without being…" He didn't finish, instead starting anew. His cheeks having lost some of their heat, he lifted his head, "If you're gonna do that, it has to be conditional. Anyone catches us and I get to whale on you." Used to a family where injustice was accepted if it made sense, he said, "I get to be the whaler on account of you're the one who started it. Deal?" He shoved out his hand to make it as legal an agreement as eleven-year-olds could have.
Without hesitation, Dabney took it.
They shook.