Chapter 5: In which Malcolm doesn't actually hate a party (Part 3/3)
No fancy formatting for part 3. No Greek conversations here either. Just one line that means "Invented in circa 1200 BCE."
Okay. Enjoy!
To read this chapter on AO3:
bit . ly/ao3strategist5
Amphitrite's directions led Malcolm to the palace gallery, where he dropped off his piece with Pherousa, one of her forty-nine sisters.
Pherousa, who looked nothing like Amphitrite, seemed no less kind, taking a full minute plus to take in his scenery. As she studied his work, Malcolm shifted on his feet and got to looking around.
There were paintings hung up on the walls, which Pherousa eventually said were to be relocated to the new art school. The collection, comprising an exhibit titled 'Memories', asked Atlantians: What was your favorite moment of the year? The question had been answered by a mix of pros and noobs (which deflated that boost of his ego from having had Amphitrite ask for his work—and yet also made him appreciate her more).
Partly to compare his skills, partly to get ideas from the pros, partly to find amusement in children's drawings, Malcolm's eyes flitted across the artworks. He spotted images of a cake, a group of friends, a kid's birthday party, a hug from Triton, a graduation, a seashell-decorated house, and more everyday snapshots. Because Zeke wasn't here for his 'Oh my gods, Malcolm, let's move to the next room already!' Malcolm decided he could take his time.
The first two paintings, if he'd been honest, were rather messy. The cake one had clearly been a beginner's attempt at three dimensionality. The painting of friends, however, seemed composed of lines of a practiced hand—yet the color combos had left much to be desired. They were still cute, though, Malcolm thought as he stepped up to read their descriptions.
And what had appeared as innocuity revealed itself as a gut-punching horror.
Acacia, age 87, who had a career in engineering, had felt like she'd finally mastered cake baking and was now trying painting. It was cute. But the second artist, Evander, age 241—indeed a professional painter—had lost some of his vision and had found hope in a support group for merfolk suffering from global-warming-induced hypoxia.
The other artworks were all different, yet no different at all.
'I wanted a magical conch shell for my 5th birthday!' wrote Vanna, age 5. Next to her sketch, a picture by Alyssa, age 16: ' His Royal Highness, the Lord Triton himself carried me in his arms while rescuing my city from a cruise ship's sewage dump.'
Karan, age 1,567, from a North Atlantic community, had earned her sixth PhD—this time in Creative Writing. Also hailing from the North Atlantic was Stefano, age 13, who had depicted his family's last outdoor barbecue at their sea-shelled cottage, two months before they were forced to take refuge in Atlantis.
In the past year, Sander, age 90, had managed to swim twenty laps across the global ocean. Around the same time, Penelope, age 632, and her baby had been successfully treated after doctors had detected a toxic amount of plastics in her uterus.
And while Eirene, age 2,572, had celebrated her 1,000th anniversary with her wife with a great big smooch, Felipe, age 8, had recorded a memory of his sister and himself playing with their pet sea lion, Xeno, who had later died from the noxious fumes they'd all suffered from after a past oil spill.
Malcolm's throat tightened as he blinked away a blur. The tightness crawled to his chest, fueling the same rage he'd felt witnessing monsters terrorizing demigods and dragging away dead mortals. It was the same fury born out of a vicious desire to help these people get even. Born out of a desperate wish it was simple—the way it was so easy to hack down a monster.
But as if sedated with an anesthetic, the ache within him subsided—and Malcolm tasted the sweetness of justification. These stories were exactly what Marcella's calculations were accounting for.
Party music continued to blare around the palace as Malcolm rejoined the festivities. Taking a cue from the traumatic memories of relatives pulling him to the dance floor, he dodged gregarious locals inviting him over, under the guise of hunger.
It was at the ice-cream stand that he'd reunited with Alicia, Sophie, and Conrad—completing the set of Cabin Sixers who'd take wrestling a manticore over moving their bodies to a beat in public.
As Malcolm treated himself to a watermelon popsicle, Alicia recapped her day's adventures, showing her siblings the temporary tattoo on her forearm, the beaded bracelet on her wrist, and the stringed bubble squid tied to the belt of her dress. ("A cephalopod, Mal!") Malcolm was happy to hear about the friendly acquaintances she'd made, amused to know they'd annihilated a piñata in merely four swings, and not so pleased to see the candy collection that resulted from that carnage. Luckily, he managed to negotiate a deal with her to exchange those sweets for chocolate.
Over dinner, the siblings put their demigodly hearing to work, eavesdropping on some sea gods trash-talking mortal theories on tectonic plates. Just as the gods began to broach the topic of floods, the Athenians suffocated in the hugs of none other than their favorite Cyclops, Tyson.
As much as Malcolm had wanted to hear the shade, it was always a delight to see Tyson's one big, brown eye light up when regaling them with recent happenings in the forges of Atlantis. It was even more fun to pester him yet again for being too much of a hotshot to want to visit boring, old Camp Half-Blood anymore. This time, Tyson masterfully sidestepped any promises and compensated for a future absence by inviting them to see "something special".
That something turned out to be located in an amphitheater. And special it was indeed, for Malcolm couldn't escape the shame of cutting the line with his siblings, past dozens of locals waiting for a shot to get in.
Once seated deep in the crowd, Malcolm watched as the royal family held a ceremony for the Changemakers of the Year. On the stage stood Amphitrite, Rhode, Triton, and Poseidon, with a partner beside each to help them hail awardees as Discoverers, Unifiers, Protectors, and Healers.
Amphitrite and a celebrated reporter began the affair to an eruption of cheers. Exchanging hugs and cheek presses and handing million-drachma checks, they expressed gratitude to the first honorees: the scientists, journalists, and historians who worked together to map the most intricate food webs to date.
Next was Rhode, who recognized a few citizens for leading ground-level efforts in bringing refugees to Atlantis. It took a few tearful tries for the teen sea god accompanying her to get his words out. But when Rhode slung an arm around his shoulders, he managed to finish his speech and hand out awards to two of his new compatriots: a merman who had led a jobs program for new arrivals, and a nereid who had ensured that new homes around Atlantis accommodated the environmental needs of refugees like him.
Then there was Triton, who appeared far less smug than earlier, yet as awkward as Malcolm figured he himself would feel beside this adorable little girl who looked about nine. Triton let her take the lead in naming leading conservationists, and only needed to help her a bit with the details of the honorees' cleanup of fishing gear, debris, waste, plastics, oil, mercury, and other toxic materials.
The audience's most rambunctious cheer, however, was dedicated to the old dude at Poseidon's side. (Malcolm even saw some of the protestors from earlier hooting along on the sidelines.) Though not an awardee, the man stole the show, haltingly, shakingly, patiently, persistently spitting wisecracks about his life post-methylmercury-poisoning. And together, he and Poseidon led the final two hurrahs: one for the key doctors, medical researchers, and selenium producers who made chelation therapy more accessible and less fatal; and one for a comic and a musician, who helped to cure Atlantians' souls when no good cure existed for their bodies.
Concluding the ceremony, Rhode took center stage again, thanking all for spending the day with her. Upon chants for cake, she laughed and called other Atlantians born on the same day to come join her. As her birthday buddies met her on stage, a few dozen cakes were rolled out with sparklers and bubble wands in place of candles, and thousands began to sing "Chrónia Pollá".
Two hours later, the art stations had closed and Malcolm busied himself pretending he was hungry. Conrad had taken Alicia and Sophie back to Camp Half-Blood, leaving him to figure out how to get back the damn notebook Rhode had stolen from him. Preferably, away from the dance floor.
The most he was able to do now was observe the scene before him. In the glimpses he took to figure out a plan, he caught yet more mesmerizing oddities of the folks of Atlantis. Like the way some sea gods danced above ground, buoyed in the water. Or how they moved not just side to side, but in vertical movements as well.
And in what was clearly not the time for Malcolm to retrieve his rightful possessions, Rhode danced and sang along with the crowd. Daring another glance, Malcolm saw her shimmy closer to a sea god offering her a hand. Once Rhode's hand laid on his, he spun her around. Her hair floated in the water as she threw her head back laughing, and they continued to sway their hips to the beat.
In an instant, a sensation bubbled in the pit of Malcolm's stomach, rising to the surface like a groundhog peeping out of its burrow. Though a rare appearance, it was easy enough to identify the prickle.
His jealousy—he could call it what it was; he wasn't stupid—felt not like a sting, but an achy poke.
*Poke.* Hey, remember she straight up offered you to offer her something and you acted like she was ridiculous, just to prove… what? What did you prove?
*Poke.* Hey, see her talking to Thaumas again?
Whatever. Malcolm let out a sigh. Whatever, right?
Joining in conversations with his remaining siblings, he poked himself back with reminders that Rhode could do whatever—whomever (ugh)—she wanted.
Though he tucked himself away into corners of the festivities, Rhode proved difficult to escape. Even while dancing, she managed to make her rounds, meeting with group after group. It really would've been easy had Malcolm been able to avoid her. But there she was, in that dress and glimmer, having the time of her life. There she was dancing with inches of space from some dudes. There she was laying her hands on them, laughing with one, whispering to another—all invoking ever more prods.
Several more pokes had Malcolm thinking about how Thaumas had called her Rhódē instead of Rhode. How they'd spoken in Greek. How she'd greeted him and easily handed him a plate of food (not that Malcolm particularly wanted that).
He wondered what would've happened if he'd just followed along that night on Annabeth's birthday. Rhode had handed him something on a platter, too.
And of course she'd take his eye roll to mean no. Maybe then she'd assumed his not-a-no was just a polite refusal. And that his gift—not even his personally—was a mere obligation, or more politesse. And maybe it was better she didn't know of his interest.
It was just… he hadn't been ready then. Not then or at any point. And how could he want something now but not then—and also not want it now on top of that?
Right now, it seemed that Rhode had decided to move past or move on from where they'd left off that night. That was how Rhode worked, wasn't it, with her packed schedule leaving no time to be covert? With her gazillion options leaving no need for patience?
But that was okay. C'est la vie and shit.
So, Malcolm didn't shove the groundhog back inside the hole, no. He poked it back so hard from within him that it flung right out. It made no logical sense after all. Besides, he didn't even want to be on the floor.
An admirable person, he told himself, deserved to be admired. It should have been—and perhaps was—comforting enough that all these Atlantians had far more wits about them than the ancient mortals had possessed. That was good. He'd even go as far as to agree it was a good thing Thaumas was into her. Because duh.
Though it was gutting, it honestly didn't even take Malcolm much extra effort to extend that same logic to Thaumas.
He also shoved away that whisper of a wish that he had dark hair instead of his blond. It'd feel hella weird if he actually did have brown or black hair anyway, so that was dumb, too.
In the perimeters of the festivities, Malcolm focused his attention on the jellyfish. Realizing he'd never have the opportunity to see them like this again, he fiddled with the smoothie in his grasp and took notes of the creatures' movements, shapes, and colors. Mental notes. Someone still hadn't returned his notebook. Surely the darkness indicated he deserved it back already.
Depositing his empty glass at an appropriate drop off, Malcolm assessed the food once more. But his stomach gave him a hard no, already filled with the excuses he'd made throughout the day. Following an unhurried pit stop and another lingering, leaden-footed walk around the premises, Malcolm couldn't think of anything else he wanted to do here. And go figure, when he actually wanted to find Rhode, she was nowhere to be seen.
He loitered in the courtyard for five more torturous minutes that felt like hours before finally finding a familiar face by one of the standing tables by the palace.
Malcolm made his way over, hoping for this torment to end. "Percy, do you know where Rhode is?"
The spoonful of chocolate cake on the way to Percy's open mouth stopped mid-flight as Percy side-eyed Malcolm with raised brows.
"She took my notebook," Malcolm said with more aggravation than necessary. "I need it for work and lesson planning. And I gotta head back."
Percy shut his mouth. "Oh." His spoon touched down on his plate and he sighed like Malcolm would in front of shit-starting kids at camp.
For now, Malcolm couldn't care if it irked Percy. He was playing nice after all, so Percy would just have to take up his issues with her.
For a few moments, Percy's eyes darted around, as if searching for pieces to slot together. "She was in her wing," Percy finally said. "She did say she was going to get more dessert, though, so she'll pass by her entrance hall."
Percy asked a nearby palace guard, Timaeus, to guide Malcolm there.
"You'll wait here," said Timaeus when they reached a long, dark blue hallway lined with artifacts—but no Rhode.
Naturally, Malcolm decided to study the relics; it made for the best use of his time. His feet led him to a picture of what appeared to be the early days of Rhódos (a beachy, wooded, hilly, rocky, and mountainous land, surrounded by crystalline waters). Then a map of a city in the form of a theater (with a grid system that suggested it had been designed or inspired by the father of European urban planning, the great Hippodamus himself). And a tapestry of a woodland (depicting trees fruiting figs, oranges, and pomegranates, and luscious grass beneath the hooves of chestnut-colored, white-spotted deer that he'd recently read was the dama dama).
It was that thought that made him halt. It was one thing to recognize a Hippodamian plan. He'd known how Piraeus had been designed and he'd had enough chats with Annabeth about the proper arrangement of cities. It was another thing, however, to now know about frickin' deer species native to a specific island.
Retreating a few steps, he exchanged an awkward look with Timaeus, who was staring at him unabashedly. Perhaps this, Malcolm realized, was what Calypso felt like when he'd do this to her. Malcolm took a cue out of her book and ignored the dude.
Under Timaeus's watch, he made his way over to another wall and glanced at a bronze vase that curiously could've depicted its own creation: a forge's production process featuring creatures that looked like Telchines. Next to the vase: a papyrus copy of Rhodian sea law, dating back to the fourth century BCE. And then an image of a quadriga adorned with hibiscuses—captioned "Εφευρέθηκε περίπου το 1200 π.Χ".
A sudden clatter jolted him out of his reverie. Emerging from another entrance, Rhode had walked in mid-bite with a plate of dessert.
"Malcolm? What are you doing here?" she said over a mouthful of cake.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to shock you," he said. "Percy let me in. He said you'd be here."
As Timaeus vouched for him with a nod, Rhode swallowed her bite. "Evidently I wasn't," she said.
"Sorry," Malcolm said, "I just got distracted by the pictures and stuff. I was waiting— I hope you still have my notebook. I do need it." Right as he finished speaking, a familiar weight entered his pocket.
Rhode lifted her plate an inch. "Do you want some cake or bougatsa?" she said.
"Oh, I'm… I'm all right, thank you." Malcolm regretted it immediately. And then he didn't. And then he did. Too late now. Thaumas probably would've straight up asked for it himself, he thought grumpily.
"Timaeus, why don't you grab some cake for yourself?" said Rhode.
After a look and another nod at Rhode, Timaeus exited the hallway.
Rhode's eyes returned to Malcolm. "Thank you for the tapestry. Again." She took another bite.
"It was a team effort," Malcolm said.
Her head-turn and faint scoff just as much acted as an eye roll. He hoped that that'd indicated amusement more than annoyance, but wasn't entirely convinced he could rule out the latter.
Realizing he might have indirectly insulted her, he added, "It seemed necessary."
Rhode looked at him. "Alicia thought so?"
"Alicia loves drawing," Malcolm said.
On the tip of his tongue was the clarification that Alicia had drawn something for her dad every week—usually animals, vehicles, landscapes…. But Malcolm held back the words. He didn't want to derail them from whatever route they were on.
"And it was Alicia, was it," Rhode said, "who decided to portray this moment?"
Yeah, didn't you know? She was right there with us all along when the three of us were looking for her. Sneaky little girl.
Malcolm tried not to blush under her unrelenting gaze. "I did say it was a team effort."
Rhode smiled. "I hope the team knows I think it's beautiful."
"Well, we wouldn't make it ugly."
As Rhode took her last bite of cake and vanished her plate, Malcolm swore at himself. Really? After being on a roll, or at least starting the roll… 'We wouldn't make it ugly?' The hell kind of comment is that?
Rhode's heels clacked closer and he caught a scent of ocean breeze and a subtle yet intoxicating flowery fragrance.
Once she stood beside him, the tapestry appeared in front of them. She took a moment to admire her woven form again—before her eyes found a new subject to study: him.
Now, there were no bystanders to exacerbate his discomfort. Still, it took Malcolm a Herculean effort to shut up and wait for her to speak.
"You're a brilliant artist," said Rhode.
Stunned by her bluntness, Malcolm squirmed. "That's kind of you to say." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Rhode's slower blink seemed like a nod. "Why this moment?" she asked again.
Malcolm observed the piece. It helped him take her eyes off him; Rhode followed his gaze.
"I—" he broke off.
He felt like a hypocrite. Wasn't he supposed to compliment without a care as to how he'd be perceived? He'd kind of promised her that, hadn't he? Yet the words simply wouldn't come out.
"I think the art can speak for itself," he said. "Also, I thought your horses were really cool."
Rhode turned her gaze upon him once more. "This is how you see me?"
And how would that—
I just—
We just obs—
I wasn't the only—
"Is there something wrong?" Malcolm said, despite his surety that there wasn't.
Rhode's eyes flitted to the tapestry and back to him. "Not at all. I do wonder, though... who was responsible for doing… this area?" Her hovering palm circled below her likeness's neck. And a sly, contained laugh glinted from her eyes.
"Annabeth," Malcolm replied easily. "With Claire's help, I think."
"Ah. And you did…?"
"The horses—"
"The horses."
"And some of the flowers," he said. "And your hair."
Malcolm began to ramble about how he'd wanted to make some things stand out and how he and his siblings tried to achieve that by using varying fabric textures to give a nice three-dimensional look. In a conscientious attempt to justify key decisions, he explained that he and his siblings hadn't known which eye color to choose, so they'd used Percy's and tinted it a bluer hue.
But when Rhode began to compliment the choices and the execution, it was like he couldn't process it, wouldn't be able to remember it. Like his brain blocked him from knowing, just like those other times he'd forgotten the praise and only remembered the squirming sensation of being superglued to his spot and forced to endure whatever was coming for him.
It wasn't that he didn't think he deserved it. It wasn't that he thought what she said wasn't true. He damn well knew it was. Spent all that time and effort. But it was the… the overload that destabilized him. And by the time he had decided he was being irrational, Rhode had stopped talking.
Silence fell upon them again, and Malcolm was about to excuse himself—until Rhode said, "Did you enjoy the party?"
"Actually, yeah." He grinned. "It was really well put together. And the food. And the activities. I even made a painting of the scenery, which I ended up giving to your mother, and I talked to her for a bit."
Rhode's eyes widened. "Oh. What did you get to talk about?"
"Mostly the politics of sea deities," Malcolm said. "She says you've been doing a great job."
Rhode didn't respond; she simply continued to smile. The silence really wasn't helping his ADHD with those damn glittering chains on her chest that reflected against the light. Or with any of her.
And his brain was trying to compute again that he knew and was speaking with a polyglot trade-deal-negotiating goddess princess. And she was witty and pretty. And she'd offered him cake and bougatsa. Such a small thing, but he realized now he'd forever regret turning her offer down.
More quickly than he'd ever be able to, Rhode schooled her face into an unreadable—or perhaps neutral—expression. After a moment's pause, she said, "Was I supposed to know you were watching me for much of today?"
Malcolm momentarily averted his gaze out of reflex as Rhode observed his every move.
Why must you insist on torturing me?
He thought about objecting, but he knew his efforts would be moot. It'd just make him look stupid. And maybe he didn't want to lie right now. He knew it was only partly because she'd had his notebook, and it felt ruder to tell her that half of the truth than to suggest part of the other half made the whole.
"It's your birthday," he said. "It wouldn't make sense not to be looking at you." That was logical.
"Mm. And maybe you like what I'm wearing," Rhode said. She looked down at her dress, encouraging him to do so as well.
That was his mistake. In a split second of weakness, he caught every little thing denying that voice in his head that said, It's really not the clothes at all. But how could he lie?
Having front-row seats was a dreamy nightmare. It was impossible not to notice that body-hugging dress—red of all colors—accentuating her curves, revealing her glowing skin... Or the gold links resting on her chest highlighting the swell of her bust, rising and falling as she breathed. Up close, his mind put forth the question: What would it feel like to touch her? (He blamed the thought on that hug from earlier.)
Malcolm's eyes darted up and fixed on hers. But his capillaries were as inflamed as her outfit. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for that again. As Rhode's lips stretched into an annoying smile, he blinked more rapidly, as if his eyelids could act as wipers to wash away the heat he felt in his face.
I think as long as you like it…
… offered a shield. Would've put up gates in the middle of their colosseum. For once, he willed them down.
"I mean, I'm pretty sure everyone agrees," Malcolm said. Right? This wasn't a controversial opinion.
If Rhode took his admission as a win, she didn't let it show.
"What does it matter what everyone else feels?" she said. "What do you feel?"
"I… think that… it's nice," said Malcolm lamely. Because how were you supposed to compliment a woman's pretty shapely, rather revealing dress without sounding like a leering douchebag? "It's like that, I suppose," he said, gesturing to the tapestry. "It seems like you think the style suits you. I think, as long as you like it, that should be all that matters. You can wear whatever you want, of course." With a quirk of the corners of his lips, he plastered a quick smile on his face.
"You showed far more concern for my clothing during capture the flag and the engagement party," said Rhode.
This is what he got for keeping those gates down, he supposed. Incessant prods from her spear.
Malcolm just stared. He locked his eyes on her face with no moves to play. He had no spears in hand to parry with.
"And I asked what you felt ," she said, "not what you thought."
Rhode hadn't even moved, but there was so little room to breathe. No, she didn't have a measly spear. She was holding a pitchfork to his throat. Or a trident perhaps.
How had he wanted this? Why had he sought this?
The answer came easily: As awful as this was, it felt better than anyone else being in the arena with her. This claustrophobia was a thrilling suffocation. One he wanted to claim.
But was that really a good idea? To be pinned under her gaze, with those changing shades of green flecks? His own eyes were practically obligated to roam her face, falling on her red lips….
Malcolm cursed himself again. He usually had better control over his impulses. How primitive and dumb that a mere color could overtake his mind. On a quick, desperate count of four—no, eight—he shoved all distractions aside, clearing his head.
"Feeling doesn't lead to good decision-making," he said. "Thinking does."
Rhode's dark, thick brows scrunched a little. "Do you not listen to your gut?"
"The gut's just a data point. I think trusting your gut alone will make you more likely to misread situations… and act… suboptimally."
"Okay," Rhode said. "What kind of data points do you look at, then?"
"Well," he said, "the seemingly obvious and not obvious. Like, when looking for keys, you'd look for them under the streetlight, as they say. But you wouldn't limit your search to that just because it's brighter there. The keys could be somewhere beyond the streetlight."
"Beyond the streetlight," she said. "That's tricky."
"But it more accurately reveals the truth."
"So," Rhode said, "it would help to ask for more information, wouldn't it? That's what I do. You don't have to wander around in the dark alone…" Her eyes, set on his, flitted from left to right, as if searching the way he was. "When you can just ask someone to switch on another streetlight."
"Well," Malcolm said, "what if the act of asking itself has potentially negative consequences?"
Rhode cocked her head a smidge. "Hmm. Are you talking about being wrong?" she said. "Are you afraid of being wrong?"
At that, Thaumas came to mind, and Malcolm realized that for the past several minutes, he'd forgotten him and all the guys Rhode had danced with. Atlantis had lit a streetlight alright.
It was difficult to think without prying his eyes from hers, but somehow he managed. "I think we can really easily be prone to making wrong assumptions," he said. "So, we need to challenge them. But it can be difficult to sort out truth from fiction because of our own biases. So I just try to be responsible and careful in what I do. If that's considered cowardly or boring or whatever, so be it." He knew full well he hadn't answered her question.
"Well, I don't mind being wrong," said Rhode. "I like to think that some things are worth that risk. And…" She smiled faintly. "It's just a question. A chance to illuminate a truth."
But Malcolm hadn't even thought that far ahead. His mind was coming up blank with what the damn question should even be.
"So, if I may ask one…" said Rhode. Her voice dipped in and out of a whisper. "What do your instincts tell you now? Where would you plot that data point?"
Malcolm took inventory once more. What he noticed right now was how they were alone. How surrounded he felt, even though she was right in front of him. How close she was, even though she'd remained a foot and half away. She had him cornered, even though she held no weapon. Her invisible trident had scraped his throat and was now aimed at his thudding heart. His throat began to constrict. His heartbeat picked up speed….
He knew exactly where he'd plot that.
"They're telling me to get the hell outta here," he said almost under his breath.
Rhode's eyes went searching in his again. "That's not what your eyes are saying," she said. "Conflicting data. Tsk tsk. Do we throw out the whole data set?"
Malcolm considered her suggestion and dismissed the momentary panic that had arisen.
Conflicting data. Conflicting data didn't have to mean bad data. They could simply indicate complexity. And one should appreciate the complexities of life to discover the truth... Conflicting data could also be an indication to evaluate the data quality. One should figure out what caused such messes. Or maybe the conflicts did mean a need to restart the data collect—
Rhode smiled her trademark amused smile again. "I think you think far too much."
"Thinking's kept me alive," Malcolm countered.
Rhode gave a little laugh. "You're not in danger here, Malcolm," she said, with an innocence at complete odds with the twin illustrated behind her. "So, you can stop thinking… and just feel."
For a long moment, they simply stood in each other's presence. And despite the muted protests in the far recesses of his mind, Malcolm took a small step forward. Reaching out a hand, he brushed the tips of his fingers against Rhode's.
He felt soft pads and smooth skin.
There was no goal. No reason. No explanation he could figure out to answer why. None of that mattered.
Rhode's fingers curled around his. "I want you to show me your tapestry; feel me," she said.
You already did it, he heard. Just do it again.
It was so jarring. It was so different. To always be asked, ' Malcolm, what do you think?' To be approached as though he were a holder of easy, objective answers. Or to be seen as merely an equation-writing robot. To have people assume he—because of his relation to Athena or because of the profession he'd chosen—didn't understand their wants and needs, or care about the way they could hurt…. And now to have Rhode stand in front of him, so clearly seeing what had always been there—invisible to some, but so obvious and normal and unshocking to her as the simple fact that he had a face.
It was obvious. As real as any other part of him. As real as the touch of Rhode's hand. How could it not be real, when Rhode's fingers, resting in his palm, felt lighter than the weight in his chest?
And the only way Malcolm knew how to lighten it was to let it pour out. Starting with a stroke of his thumb on the back of her palm, he mirrored his motions on his other side. Rhode's welcoming smile was unlike almost all the others she'd given him before.
Whether she wanted the art explained or translated into a different medium, Malcolm wanted to show it to her. To feel her in the way he'd felt.
Exactly as he'd begun thinking up that scene, he drew from that reservoir of sensations that helped him sketch and thread her spirited horses, flying hair, and determined gaze. Only now, he said it in the way his hands moved. His left laced its fingers through hers. His right brushed up her arm, over her shoulder, and into her hair, threading through dark waves. It was colder than he'd thought, but as silky as he'd imagined.
He liked what he felt.
And then she was touching him, too. Her eyes peered into his resolutely as she laid a hand on his sternum. Five fingers gently grazed up his chest, just under his heart.
It was a courtesy, he supposed, that she left him that bit of privacy. That she let him maintain that secret. Because now his brain was going into overdrive, thinking about how it had been a few years since he'd last done this. Thinking about what led the two of them here. About what in the hell they were both doing. About how delightful and unsettling it was to experience the pleasure of another's touch. And how she didn't know, but of course she did. And how that blatant lie of her ignorance was actually more comforting than if she truly were unaware. A courtesy indeed.
As Malcolm continued grazing his fingers in her hair, Rhode began busying herself brushing her fingertips over his dress shirt. Another lie. (As if she weren't waiting. But for what exactly?)
Malcolm tried to read her. To see what she was seeking. Rhode moved closer just a bit, and his body switched gears. He heeded her permission to simply do. To go by what felt right. And right now, he felt like kissing her.
But how was he to know? He couldn't tell. So, Malcolm swallowed, braced himself, and asked: "Would it be alright if I kissed you?"
Rhode's lips spread and she nodded.
Malcolm aimed to her right and landed his lips on her cheek. He felt Rhode's cheek pull back as she grinned. She reached for his face—and he didn't even mind, despite how much he hated it when anyone touched his face ever—and angled it to brush his lips with her own.
"Is this okay?" Rhode said against his mouth.
Beneath the tickle of her eyelashes, Malcolm nodded.
Rhode's lipstick tasted of strawberry and lemon, her breath like chocolate cake. It was an odd combination, but Malcolm didn't care.
The first one lingered, followed by softer, quicker exchanges. By the fourth, Rhode dove in, meeting Malcolm's eager desire to savor more of that bittersweet, rich chocolate.
Sometime after this, he thought, he'd remember how he'd stupidly turned down cake with her, but got the glory of tasting it anyway—on her.
He thanked the gods he hadn't eaten any fish and was grateful to his own prepared ass for being a diligent reapplier of chapstick. He hoped Rhode didn't mind coconut oil.
A delicious pressure on his bottom lip then dragged him back to the present and sparked a heat within him. Malcolm wanted her to do it again—before he'd attempt it himself.
As he followed Rhode's lead, her cues, her rhythm, his mind tried once again to fully comprehend the situation. But the palm on his cheek that made its way up to cradle his head eased his doubts, numbing and shrinking his anxieties. Rhode kept her hands where they were, as if telling him she was totally fine with him. There was no need to feel pressured. They were just doing what they were doing. Nothing more than sharing kisses and trading pecks.
One, two, three more—and then she bit harder. Malcolm involuntarily let out something more than a gasp. It wasn't exactly loud, but she was right fucking there.
But Rhode didn't seem to mind. She only tried to get more out of him, working her skillful lips and expert tongue against his. At first, he was adamant about hushing his reactions. But soon enough, it was his consciousness he muted. The sounds—whatever sounds—didn't matter.
And they kept at it, in movements of rush and force, not so much breaking through walls as much as running through open doors.
Overwhelmed by it all, Malcolm felt a discomfort of a sort—something other than measured, thought-out reactions—but a welcome kind of discomfort nonetheless.
It felt like bravery.
And the rewards were glorious.
His own unprompted exploration was met with hers. As he pulled his left hand from her soft grip to find her waistline, Rhode's touch wandered all over his chest. When she reached for his back, Malcolm discovered her hips.
Together, they pulled each other closer, taking what they both wanted as they raced— Raced not each other, but raced something. Time?
It was a game of two, somewhat like a fun version of their checkups during capture the flag. Rushing further, yet step by step, through cycles of looking back and following along, in a manner that was less give and take than ask and allow.
Thoroughly enjoying himself, Malcolm even found himself grinning, which completely broke off their kiss.
Rhode's lips traveled to his cheek and trailed down to his neck. It was that that got him feeling horny—or that that made him realize how horny he now was. Malcolm tried his best not to think about it and to just let her do what she was doing. Let her hands travel down his torso. Let her tug at his belt loops. Let her keep inciting those tingling tendrils beneath his skin.
And he was pretty sure Rhode could now feel his growing reaction to her efforts. But just as he thought he'd have to pull away, she only pressed herself further onto him, and the thought vanished.
Between them, Rhode's fingers snaked between the buttons of his dress shirt, reaching his skin. When she pulled her lips away, he met her striking eyes with the confirmation: We're really doing this.
With slow deliberation, Rhode pulled the fabric of his shirt, untucking it from the front. With her gaze still locked on his, she toyed with the bottom buttons of his shirt, waiting.
Instead of nodding, Malcolm fiddled with the bottom-most button himself, his fingers awkwardly bashing against hers as he undid it.
Rhode's hands slipped under his shirt and landed on his skin, managing to make his eyes flutter by merely stroking her thumbs at his sides.
And oh, good gods. He, too, wanted to feel more of her skin without the blasted fabric of the dress in the way. Rhode's arms were already bare, the middle of her chest was already exposed, but that wasn't the point. He wanted to get under her clothes.
But the red, red, red that had so excited him earlier was getting to be a bit of a nuisance. There was only so much he could reach.
He tried to be grateful for what he could get. He could still kiss her. He could still touch her, too. And wasn't that enough of a treat? So, he focused on acquainting himself with the slope of her back, on memorizing her mouth.
Sighing against his lips, Rhode moved her hands outside his shirt and ghosted her fingers over his belt buckle. "Can I?" she said in a breath.
Malcolm nodded, hardly understanding what it was she was asking. But he wanted more. So, hands on her hips became hands on her ass. Her ass, dear gods. Enjoying the moment too much to appreciate the possibility of it, Malcolm just pulled her in.
Rhode kissed him and dipped her fingers further. Over his own gasp, he heard her let out a whispery moan that did things to him. Her free hand snaked around, slithering into his back pocket. And again, she tugged his lip with her teeth.
Doing combos, huh?
Once she let go, Malcolm smiled. He was nearly laughing.
And then Rhode blanked his mind with another gratifying squeeze.
Moments later, he came to, with a mind as alert and assured as ever. He laid another kiss on her mouth—not long enough for Rhode, it seemed, who chased his lips and won one more.
Without a shred of hesitation, he brushed Rhode's hair aside, revealing a few millimeters of dark ink on her shoulder, peeking out of her dress. Rhode kept him close, filling her palms with his waist and ass, as she let him learn her through light touches. Taking in the sight of his own skin over hers, he familiarized himself with new revelations.
Why had he been so resistant before? he wondered. Why had he thought this would've been anything but right? It felt so good. She felt so good.
There was something extraordinary, he found, about touching one another—something nearly miraculous that something—someone—was physically there. This was something. This was real. And that somehow felt unreal.
Making an effort to make this treasured moment even more of a miracle, Malcolm buried his nose behind Rhode's ear. Thanks to the goddess herself that she liked heels, he barely had to dip his neck to catch more of that flowery scent from her hair and get his lips on her skin. She held his head there, and he nipped and sucked softly at the pulse point at her throat, tasting a saltiness on her skin that was more ocean than sweat.
At the press of their hips, Rhode curled her fingers around the short hairs at the base of his neck. Her scratching nails left behind the slightest of stings. Her heavy breaths were puffed out in pants, loud and warm next to his ear.
Rhode leaned into him again, earning her another of his gasps.
"Can we please continue this in my room?" she said.
Pulling away, they took a moment to drink each other in. Malcolm zeroed in on Rhode's full-blown blue-green irises, her smudged lipstick, and her heaving chest that he could feel pressing onto him. He took another moment for the pair alone and didn't even feel the slightest bit of remorse before dragging his eyes back up to Rhode's face.
Despite the heady fog, the demands from his gut could be plotted clear as day.
Malcolm followed her.
AN: Ahhhh. Finally….
I hope that the emotions were conveyed well and that the build up from previous (sub)chapters made this scene more impactful. Feedback (including constructive criticism) is always welcome and appreciated. I do not bite. If you have a minute, please let me know what you think.
This chapter is probably inundated (pun intended) with "ocean" stuff. But they're almost all different issues. Because, my oh my, we're really fucking up the ocean in so many ways. As always, you can check the bibliography on AO3 if you're interested in these topics. The issues are all real. I just applied them to the characters.
Chapter 6 will be posted all at once at some point, wholly on AO3 but partly redacted on due to site rules.
