It’ll be good to see him again. Rowan’s actually looking forward to it, the first thing he has looked forward to in a couple of weeks. Sometimes it seems like Mal’s the one thing he never gets tired of, even when his body is screaming at him that he’s exhausted. It’s a good feeling. Even if there are nervous butterflies jittering in his stomach, he’s missed being excited about things. Excited about life.

THEY AGREE to meet at Sheila’s diner, a comfort after the past week and change that he didn’t know he needed.

As soon as he walks inside the diner, he finds Mal sitting at their usual booth. When he hears the doorbell jingle at Rowan’s entrance, Mal looks up and immediately stands, then speed walks over to Rowan.

Before Rowan can even get his bearings, Mal’s wrapping him in a warm, tight hug.

“Hey,” Mal breathes into his neck. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

“Kinda look drained.”

Rowan laughs. “Well, we can’t all look perfect all the time, Mal,” he says, cupping Mal’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting his beautiful face up for closer inspection.

Perfect as always.

Mal smirks but shrugs away from the touch with a shiver that Rowan barely notices. “Fuck you, man.”

“Hey, that was a compliment.” Rowan drops his hand, the contact of his palm on Mal’s stubbly chin and the residual feeling of his arms around him warming him to his core.

They pull apart completely, as if realizing at the same time how close they’d been standing even after the hug had run its course. Rowan thinks he sees the faintest hint of a flush on the back of Mal’s neck as he turns and waves him over to the counter.

Sheila’s not here today, but they order from one of the waitresses, each getting an omelet—meat lovers for Mal, veggie for Rowan—coffee, and a blueberry muffin on the side.

They dive into the muffin as soon as they sit down, the sugary and tart treat melting on their tongues.

Conversation is light between them. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy or life-changing. It’s nice being face-to-face with another person again. Especially when said person has a face like Mal’s. A tone of voice like Mal’s. A sense of humor like Mal’s.

Their food comes out steaming hot and looking every bit as delicious as it always does. Rowan digs in, pan-seared veggies spilling from the cheesy center of his omelet.

“So depression, huh?” Mal says casually around a forkful of home fries.

“Yeah,” Rowan sighs.

“Have you always known you’ve had it?”

Rowan sets his silverware down, knowing this is going to be a story that takes him a few minutes to get out.

“I got diagnosed when I was sixteen. Didn’t know anything was really wrong at first. I ran away from home and joined a hard-core orthodox church group and had my first big episode while I was there….” Rowan stops, laughing a little incredulously at the memory. “Started seeing demons and shit and was convinced they were after me, then stole all the cash in the tithe box and went AWOL.”