"Something's bothering you."
He looks up at his mom, who's only sort of smiling at him. He recognizes the look. It's one he's seen for his entire life; cancer couldn't change it, no matter how it changed her appearance. He knows she can see right through him. She's always been able to.
"It's nothing," he says.
"Clearly it's not nothing if it's bothering you," she counters. "What's going on?"
"Nothing important," he tries to insist, but his mom only purses her lips and narrows her eyes. He sighs, then continues. "I don't think I was a very good friend the other night."
"What happened?" she asks. "I'm sure whatever it was, Heather and Blaise will forgive you. They don't seem to be the truly vindictive kind."
"Well," he says, drawing the word out, "what if I said it wasn't Heather or Blaise? And what if I was hoping to maybe be more than friends?"
"Oh. I see."
"And I didn't mean to be rude, I just didn't think," he says.
"Who was it?" his mom asks. "Was it Natara?" He's kind of impressed his mom remembers her name.
"Yeah. I think I hurt her feelings." He looks up as his mom holds her hand out to him and doesn't hesitate to take it. His knuckles brush against the rough fabric of the hospital bed and he cringes. He can't imagine it's comfortable to lie on.
"Well I raised you, so I know you know what you should do," she says warmly. "You made a mistake; everyone does from time to time. And if she's worth your time, she'll be understanding of the fact that you're only human."
"I know," he almost groans. "I just don't know how to make it up to her."
"What did you do? You've been very vague."
He bites his lip. "She came over to watch a movie. But then Blaise showed up and she was in a bad mood cause she'd been fighting with her mom, and she said there was a party. She wanted us to go with her, but Natara said she was just going to go home."
"And you went to the party with Blaise instead?" his mom asks. The fact that there's no judgement in her tone only makes him feel worse. He hangs his head and nods.
"And now I'm pretty sure she hates me," he says. "What do I do?"
"Oh, hon," she says, resting her hand against his cheek. "You apologize."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"But what if it's not enough?" he asks, his stomach churning a little.
"Well, I guess then it gets a little tricky," she says. "I don't know if she's the kind of person who would get annoyed if you keep apologizing."
"I don't really know either," he mumbles.
"Just do what you feel is right," she says, smiling softly at him again. "As long as you do that, you can't go wrong."
"Okay," he says, and his mom's smile grows even brighter. He can't help but smile back. "Thanks. You always give the best advice."
"It's what moms do," she replies.
There's a soft knock at the door, and they both look up. Cynthia stands there with a doctor, both of them wearing unreadable expressions. His stomach starts churning again as his mom straightens up in the bed.
"I'm glad you're all here," the doctor says, nodding to them. He steps in and gently closes the door behind him.
He feels kind of numb. He's pretty sure that's normal, given the circumstances, but he's not totally sure if it's from the alcohol or the news that drove him to the party.
His mom and sister think he's at home. He knows they won't know any better, at least for tonight. He thinks maybe he should feel guilty. But he doesn't. He just wants to wallow.
So he does. He puts on a good face, acts like he doesn't have a care in the world. People keep bringing him drinks, and he keeps accepting them. He doesn't even care what they are anymore. Some of them burn more than others- he likes those better. Another boy- he thinks his name is Matt?- challenges him to do shots, and he drinks him under the table. The result is that he can barely stand by the time midnight rolls around.
His vision seems disjointed. It's strange, really. It's like time is passing in flashes rather than its usual continuous stream. One minute he's in the kitchen getting a refill, the next he's dancing in the living room, and the next he's standing on the porch railing, raising his cup to a group of people who raise theirs in response. The churning in his gut from earlier never really goes away.
"Malachi Fallon, what do you think you're doing?" an angry voice asks from behind him during one of his flashes.
"Partying," is his response. He raises his cup to his lips.
In the next moment, his cup is on the ground and he's clutching his cheek. Blaise's furious face swims before his eyes as she shakes out her hand. He finally notices Heather standing behind her, shaking her head.
"What was that for?" he demands, but his words slur together until even he can barely understand himself.
"God, you're a mess," Blaise frowns at him. "Do you want to explain why I had about ten people texting me to come get you?"
"Don't know why you bothered." He turns away from her, intent on going back to the kitchen. A second later, Heather is in front of him, her hand on his chest as she gently pushes him back.
"What's going on?" she asks. Behind him, he feels Blaise's stare trained on him.
"Are you gonna hit me too, Heather?"
"Only if you're being stupid," she growls back. "Seriously, Mal. Why are you doing this?"
"Why are you?" He whirls on Blaise and glares at her. "And you, too. If I remember correctly, neither of you had a problem with drinking and partying two nights ago."
"That was different," Blaise says. Her hand grips his arm tightly. "I was just blowing off steam."
"So am I."
"No, you're drinking yourself half-blind for apparently no reason," she shoots back. "I wanted to drink because of the fight with my mom."
"Oh, poor little Blaise," he jeers at her. "How sad for her, she had a fight with her mom. Her life must be horrible."
"Mal," Heather warns in a low voice. "If you would just tell us-"
"No, really," he continues. "What a terrible life she's got. She didn't even tell us what the fight was about. Must have been something truly awful, like whether or not Blaise should eat her vegetables or wear a jacket outside."
"You better shut your mouth," Blaise hisses through grit teeth. Her hands are clenched at her sides, and her face is slowly turning an alarming shade of red.
"Some people have actual issues," he sneers.
His face erupts in pain once more. Tears spring to his eyes as he topples backwards to the ground. His face is suddenly slick and warm, and he realizes his nose is bleeding. Around him, people gasp and stare, but all he can see is Blaise glowering down at him.
"What, like you?" she spits at him, then turns to the onlookers. "Poor Mal, let's all feel bad for him with his jailbird dad and dying mom." Her words are worse than any punch she could have inflicted.
"Blaise," he hears Heather sigh tiredly.
"Stay out of it," he and Blaise tell her together. She throws up her hands and stalks off as Blaise turns back to him.
"What, you think that just because I don't have the same problems as you, they aren't as real?" she snarls. "At least you know your parents wanted you. At least your dad didn't leave because the idea of being a dad to you was repulsive, and at least your mom doesn't hold all of that against you."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"The hell I don't. This is just you feeling sorry for yourself. Well, life's a bitch, Fallon, might as well get used to it."
"Screw you, Corso." He attempts to brush past Blaise, but she reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm not done," she says.
"Yes, you are." He bats her hand away and stumbles in the direction of the front door. He can hear Blaise calling his name, and he imagines her storming after him, but he doesn't turn back. He doesn't fully know where he's going- all he knows is he has to get away.
