But he shoves the feeling aside, remembering that he’d been meaning to ask Mal something about what he’d read earlier in the week.

“Have you always been a sub?”

If the shift in topic surprises him, Mal doesn’t let it show. “Pretty much. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Curious ’cause you wanna try it, or you wanna know why I like it?”

Maybe someday Mal’s perceptiveness will stop catching Rowan off guard.

“Why you like it. I mean, I know I like being in control and shit and that I get off on pleasing people, but I don’t think I’d like submitting as much.”

Mal hums softly. “Think I kinda scratched the surface before, but I like shutting my mind off for a bit. Not having to worry about normal day-to-day shit and just existing. Pass off the choices to someone else. Someone I know won’t fuck me over.”

It makes Rowan’s cheeks tingle that Mal can already tell that about him from a few sessions together, and he can’t help the smile it brings to his face.

Mal continues, “It’s more than physical for me. Obviously shit feels good, but being comfortable enough to admit that I like giving up control and to actually do it takes that pleasure to another level. ’S like… being free, y’know?” He takes a deep breath, making his nostrils flare out. “Used to have to hide a lot. You’re Southie, so you gotta know what that’s like.”

“Yeah,” Rowan replies. Even if he’d been pretty open about his sexuality, he still had his fair share of run-ins with local homophobes.

“So doin’ this feels more like my authentic self, if you wanna get all psychological about it. Makes the pleasure more intense knowing I’m safe and am gonna be cared for even if I fuck up or don’t meet the other person’s expectations or whatever.”

Rowan wonders what it is about Mal that makes him almost downplay his knowledge about this stuff. Wonders if it’s that lingering Southie mentality that it’s not worth shit to be emotionally aware or smart in ways other than what relates directly to life on the street.

He hopes he finds out one day.

They settle into a short silence, the clinking of dishes and the muffled coughs of the few late-night patrons and the sizzling of the grill filling the air between them. Rowan glances toward the counter and sees Sheila adjusting her name tag, reminding him of another thing he’d wanted to ask Mal.

“Oh hey, I meant to ask you the other day, but do you want me to call you Malcolm at the club? Like in front of Camilla and Jeremiah or whatever?”

Mal bites his lip, rubs at his eyebrow. “Don’t really give a shit, but…. Yeah, prob’ly.”