Truth

It's Dewey who proposes Truth or Dare.

Both Malcolm and Reese say it's babyish, God, Dewey, you're almost twelve years old. But they go along with it so they can make each other do things that usually their few collective ounces of common sense dissuades them from doing. They intersperse 'Truths' for good measure; between Malcolm and Reese the questions are mostly about drinking and sex (they have a surprising amount of questions considering they're experienced in neither), for Dewey their questions are slightly more benign. It's kind of fun, even though neither Malcolm nor Reese will actually admit it, until Dewey gets his fist 'Truth' out of Malcolm.

What is your biggest secret?

"You can't tell Mom or Dad."

Dewey and Reese promise thoughtlessly.

"You know where I went when I cut class a couple weeks ago?"

"Arcade," Reese answers.

"No, I--well, yeah, for a little while, while I thought about it. Then I came home."

Reese gives him a half-smile. "Your big secret is Krelboynes don't know how to play hooky?"

"Yeah, Jackass, that's exactly it."

Then Malcolm starts chewing on his nails and they know it's a good one.

Then, now that they're paying attention to it, they see Malcolm's really mostly just chewing on the edge of his thumb, having already chewed his nails down as far as they can go. And they know it's a bad one.

He voice is stilted. He's choosing his words carefully, trying surprisingly hard to sound nonchalant. "So, I was thinking about it-- Kind of. Not really. I don't know. A lot of people think about it-- then I came home. And since no one else was going to be home for a while, I figured I might as well…"

"So you watched gay porn," Reese guesses. "Figured as much."

"I'm not gay," Malcolm answers automatically. He has to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from chewing on his nails, but they're back out again almost immediately. "Well, there's the knife Dewey cut his hand with, not the butcher knife, the other one, the one that's not totally dull--" Malcolm pauses. "You won't tell. No. I mean, there's no reason to, anyway. It's not like it's unusual; it's not like it's something you'd have to tell Mom and Dad about. " He suddenly speaks very quickly, "Suicidal inclinations, particularly in our age bracket, really aren't uncommon. And I mean I only tried once, technically; I only cut three, four times tops and it didn't even go in very deep and then I said 'Screw it', anyway, so it's not even like I really meant it. Okay. My turn. Reese, truth or dare?"

"I cut my sandwich with that knife!" Dewey screeches. It's kind of funny that that's the first thing he thinks of. He even thinks specifically that it was a bologna on rye. Then everything falls into place behind his eyes and he repeats "Suicidal." in this high-pitched voice that makes Malcolm a little sick.

Malcolm says, "Oh, come on, Dewey." in an exasperated way, like Dewey's overreacting.

Both his brothers are inclined to believe this is the case just so they wouldn't have to face the alternative. Dewey and Reese sit back down uncomfortably on Reese's bed. They share hesitant glances and watch as Malcolm moves onto his index finger, chewing on the slight, torn, almost-filmy edges of his nail. They both know they'd be willing to delude themselves if Malcolm would only give them a reason to.

"You write a note?" Reese asks, almost hopefully, as though it's the only way it could be serious.

Malcolm counters, strangely defensive, "That's cliché."

Reese freezes from the inside out; he can't breathe, much less move.

Malcolm keeps sighing over and over in an exaggerated way; he would be the epitome of annoyance if only he sounded annoyed. Instead he sounds like he's trying to be annoyed, an actor not quite nailing the part. He paces in an awkward way; he keeps trying to stop himself from doing so after taking only a step or two in either direction, resulting in him being caught in a cycle of jerking, abrupt turns.

"Let me see," Reese decides finally. He lunges forward, grabbing Malcolm by the hands and turning Malcolm's wrists skyward. "There's nothing," Reese says with relief.

"Let go of me, Buttwad. I didn't slit my wrists, that's stupid! It's not e-" Malcolm yanks his arms back. "Look, it's not like you guys have to look after me, 'Oh, gee, whoops, we left Malcolm his shoelaces, now he's hanging from the ceiling'. It was, it was--" his eyes sort of go blank for a second, looking through Reese as he sits back down beside Dewey. Dewey and Reese know he's thinking of how to outsmart them, and they both involuntarily resent him for it. "An idle thought that manifested itself as equally idle action. Clearly I didn't go through with it. More importantly, clearly I could have if I was inclined to. It was a curiosity--an abject curiosity, but a curiosity nonetheless-- that I was compelled to explore and…"

He falters, just a little and just long enough for Dewey to cut in with, "You meant it."

It's funny how much impact the words have--Malcolm collapses into himself like a demolished building. He gives Dewey a long look that's not so much depressed as it is absolutely nothing. It scares Dewey enough to make him grip at Reese's hand.

Malcolm reforms himself brick by brick. He starts again, and this time it sounds perfectly sincere and un-manufactured. "Okay, it was stupid. It was really, totally stupid and if either of you ever did anything even remotely similar, I'd beat the crap out of you." He's usually a pretty adept liar, but this time he seems desperate; where honesty ends and dishonesty begins is clear: "But that doesn't mean I meant it."

He looks at them pleadingly. The tables have turned somewhere along the line. Suddenly Reese and Dewey are the ones who seem convinced of what his motive was and he's the one who needs reassurance.

They have nothing.

"Dewey," Reese says. He's looking at Malcolm. "Truth or dare?"

"What?" Dewey asks, horrified. "What is wrong with you?"

Reese pulls down hard on Dewey's hand, yanking Dewey's arm just enough for it to be uncomfortable. "Truth. Or. Dare."

"Dare," Dewey answers miserably.

Reese relaxes visibly. "Good, me too. I dare us to tell Mom and Dad what Malcolm just told us."

It's probably stupid that this makes it easier. It makes it something to be caught up in; a goal to meet. Most importantly, in spite of Reese being the darer it makes it seem like an outside force is making them do it; they have to betray their brother's trust (and they know it still is a betrayal; maybe it's stupid to feel that way, too); they were dared to. Instead of the usual adrenaline rush that dares inspire, this draws away the fear.

Malcolm looks quickly back and forth between them. "You can't. You promised."

They shrug helplessly.

They have to.

They were dared to.

Reese and Dewey both stand fantastically in sync.

Malcolm's fingers lace behind his head. He sways a little like he's inclined to block the door, but he doesn't actually move. He breathes like his lungs have all at once been halved, taking in shallow and rapid breaths. He flings his arms out in an over-the-top gesticulation. "Okay, I meant it. You happy? I meant it. Everything got a little out of hand so, yeah, okay." His face contorts a bit and he looks away from them, but he doesn't cry; his eyes don't even get glassy. He's somewhere past sadness, somewhere closer to resignation. It's hard to tell what it is, exactly, that he's willing to accept. "Sometimes I want to. Fine. Sometimes it really--it gets-- You wouldn't get it. I can figure this all out by myself, okay? I know what's going on. I know what I can handle, I'm not a little kid or something." He runs a hand across the top of his right thigh, absently. He's thinking hard and fast, eyebrows furrowed, strained at a task that's usually effortless. "So would you just…"

They wait for him by the door.

His fingers roll against his inseam, imagining the whitening scars. He'd cut too low that first time, too far over, funnily scared that he'd hit his crotch and have to explain it. Maybe not scared, exactly. The next few cuts had been hesitant, but they'd bled readily for being so small, and he'd known that just a little bit deeper and longer would do it, so he'd breathed deep and relaxed. He'd thought it was a good thing no one was going to be home; how could people do this with others in the house? His hand had gathered a cold sweat, so he'd wiped it on his shirt. He hadn't yet pushed the blade back down, but he'd gripped the handle and his hand was steady and calm as it hadn't been before. He'd blinked slowly and it made sense in an absolute way, the way it seemed to half of the time, contrasted to the half of the time it was, he supposed, not nonsensical but maybe-probably a bit of an exaggeration.

That was, with what seemed a surprising amount of coincidence, when Reese and Dewey had come home.

He'd cursed himself for losing track of time. How had he? He never lost track of time.

He'd thought to himself he would have done it if his brothers hadn't come in just then. If they'd run late, he definitely would have.

He'd thought it vaguely, then, a thought he hadn't really even had to think. A fact he'd already known.

He knows it now.

With a slight breath, he finishes weakly:

"..get Mom and Dad."

Notes: I couldn't really make the end come out the way I wanted. If it doesn't make sense: it's based heavily on the idea that most suicidal individuals want to be stopped subconsciously (or even consciously), offering themselves ultimatums, and will nonetheless commit suicide if they aren't. That could be said of the entire story, though, so.

On a slight anatomical note, Malcolm's going after his femoral artery. It's a bleeder.

And I'm done torturing Malcolm now.

Even though I think it's the more appropriate placement in this case, I hate notes at the end of a story, so if people actually got what I was trying to get across, tell me so I can delete them.