Rowan’s hands wander, and he finds himself idly tracing the thick lines of the tattooed heart emblazoned with LISA on Mal’s rib cage because it’s safer than running his fingers over the skin where his actual heart lies.

“Who is she?” he asks before he can think better of it.

To his surprise, for the second time tonight, Mal sighs deeply but answers, “My mom.”

“Are you close?”

Mal reaches his right arm across his stomach, hand coming to rest atop Rowan’s as he presses them both to cover his tattoo. The touch is electric and far more intimate than Rowan would have believed possible for such a tiny gesture. He pulls it away before he speaks but doesn’t move Rowan’s hand from the spot, letting him soak up the warmth of his body through his fingertips.

“We were when I was a kid, yeah. Lost touch when I got older ’cause of a buncha bullshit.” He pauses, and Rowan watches his nose wrinkle. “She died last year.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Mal.”

“’S fine. Been long enough now.”

“Still.”

They lie in silence for a few minutes, Rowan continuously stroking whatever soft piece of skin his hands happen to land on. At this point he’s not sure he can blame it on aftercare anymore, but Mal hasn’t said or done anything to stop him.

He thinks about his own mother. His own messed-up relationship with her. After what Mal shared, Rowan wants to give something of himself back, even if it isn’t the whole picture.

Before he knows it, he’s speaking.

“Mine was a mess. Bailed when we were little and left my older sister and brother to take care of us all. Then showed back up every once in a while like nothin’ happened. Tried to be a perfect mom for however long whatever pills she was taking that day let her.”

“Sucks, man. She still doin’ that?”

“She died a few years back.”

“That’s rough,” Mal says, as if his own hadn’t passed far more recently. “Sorry to hear.”

Rowan shrugs. “Brain finally gave out on her.”

“Drugs?”

“Sorta. She uh….” Don’t tell him. What if he figures it out? It’s been a rocky week, but tonight has completely turned things around… kind of. Don’t tell him don’t tell him don’t tell him—“She had pretty severe depression. Never really took her meds regularly ’cause they made her a zombie. Took just about everything else, though.”

He waits for Mal to say something. Some remark that will tell Rowan how he feels about the whole thing. A trial run that he hadn’t even planned on. A soft opening. The one good thing about his penchant for blurting shit out is that it’ll help to gauge Mal’s reaction and determine whether Rowan ever tells him that he’s just like her. Well. Not just, but close enough.

It’s like the air has all been sucked out of the room and shoved into Rowan’s lungs, filling him up and waiting to burst out.