Chapter Nineteen What Mal Cares About #2
“But, like, everyone dresses up,” Emerson added. “We’d stick out more if we didn’t.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Parker. “I’m in.”
“Honestly, I’d be mad if you weren’t,” said Nylan, and then added, more shyly, “Maybe we could dress up as something together?”
It was hard to tell against her dark skin, but Mal was pretty sure Parker blushed. “That would be cool, actually. How do you feel about Sailor Scouts?”
“Um, really good?” Nylan grinned broadly. “I was thinking of doing cosplay hacks for hijabis for my mini zine, and this would be the perfect excuse to wear one.”
“Would it be cool if I went in a different direction for my mini zine?” James asked suddenly—and reluctantly, like he had to push the words out of his mouth.
Mal cocked their head to the side, considered, then shrugged. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“I’m thinking… really different.” James glanced around the back room like someone might be eavesdropping. “Maybe… some paranormal romance.”
Parker raised an eyebrow. “Like Twilight?”
“Okay, there has been so much growth in the genre since then,” James said, “so it would be much more like First Kill, but… yes, essentially, if Twilight was really gay.”
“I mean, everything’s better when it’s really gay, in my humble opinion,” Emerson said.
“It could be cool,” Mal said, trying (and failing spectacularly) to keep the shock from their voice. “Perfect for a Halloween festival.”
James huffed a sigh, then kept talking, like this was a confession.
“Okay, but it’s not just Halloween, though.
Vampire fiction is… kind of my thing. It started off with a Vampire Diaries fanfic—I got fifty-five thousand hits a fic on AO3!
—but when my following grew, I started exploring original characters, took it to Tumblr…
and now VampyreGays has like thirty thousand followers. ”
Nylan gasped, awed. “You’re VampyreGays?”
“Yes,” groaned James, like he was telling them a horrible secret. “But please don’t tell anyone. I’ll never live it down.”
“That’s not what Dorian would say,” Nylan said, making another stinky cheese cracker.
“I know, just—” James took a breath, rubbing his temples hard before going on. “I just feel like, as someone who is fat and gay, it’s so hard to be taken seriously sometimes. Like, people assume I’m just some silly little guy.”
Nylan frowned, but Mal nodded. They often felt the same.
“I feel like if I don’t write serious stuff, it makes it so much easier to write me off,” James went on.
“Like it won’t count. Like, I don’t know, like writing what I love, really—don’t laugh at me, Emerson—but like if I write that, it’ll be…
wrong somehow. I’ll be wrong. Like getting to write fun, horny vampire boys is something only skinny, straight people get to do, because it means they’re fun and quirky and not lazy and unprofessional and stupid. ”
“Anyone who tells you that is wrong,” Mal said, more firmly than they meant to. But the words were there, solid and sure. “No offense, but even if that person is you. Being fat doesn’t make you any of those things.”
“Yeah,” Parker echoed. “And as Doriel’s number one stan, there’s literally zero things lazy or unprofessional or stupid about your gay-ass vampires.”
“The Blood for the Roses arc literally changed my life,” Nylan said, her voice hushed. “I’m pretty sure Parker drew fanart of that.”
Parker nodded enthusiastically. “VampyreGays is fire.”
James smiled, but it was fleeting. “I just don’t know if I can let myself be that person in public, where everyone can see me being him.”
“I know being fat and queer is hard sometimes.” Mal knew this firsthand.
Sometimes they still felt strange in their body.
But talking about it helped, like they now did with Parker and Kodi.
And—Mal’s hand reached out under the table, found Emerson’s thigh, gave it a tender squeeze—so did having a crush on a beautiful, boisterous queer fat girl.
“And trust me, I get it if you need more time. But if you want to find a way where you can be James and also VampyreGays, we can help you, because I am super here for some gay vampires at Haint History Fest.”
“You could print it as Dorian Henswaithe,” Nylan said, her voice awed. “Like as a pen name!”
“I could never,” James said, mock offended, as his lips crept into a smirk. “I am so much more like Luriel St. Vincent.”
As the conversation progressed toward how it would work, cramming a Doriel short story into a pocket zine, Mal smiled.
They thought several things at once: that they would have to look up James’s vampires when they got home; that Parker would make a fantastic Sailor Moon; that they were probably wrong after all about the spelling of the word saccharine—or was it sacrine?
—on Alex’s essay. But above everything, loudest of all in the forefront of Mal’s mind, was another, more pressing thought: that this, all of this, was absolutely something Mal cared about.
And as good as it felt to show up for Maddie and her Things, it was a whole new kind of good to show up for themself and their Things.
And then another thought bloomed in their mind: Maybe they should make a mini zine after all.
If James—serious, literary fiction, metaphors-Mal-never-understood James—could push himself with his vampire boys, maybe Mal could push themself too.
There was only a week between now and the Haint History Fest, but maybe they could find a little time and something one-page-zine-size to say.
And maybe if they made a mini zine, Emerson would be so proud of them she would kiss them again (and again and again).
Mal’s lips tingled pleasantly at both thoughts: making Emerson proud and kissing her.
They hadn’t talked about it, Mal and Emerson—about what had happened the other night.
But not even the almost-fight with Maddie could dull the shine of the memory in Mal’s mind.
It sat at the center of their waking hours, glowing and golden and tasting good.
Anytime Mal drank coffee now, they thought of how it tasted mixed with Emerson’s peppermint lip balm.
“Hey,” Emerson said, leaning in close to Mal. (They were sure they could smell mint.) “I hate to harsh the spooky gay vibe, but we should probably take a look at that e-mail from Stella. I peeked earlier, and there were a lot of bolded, underlined statements. That never bodes well.”
With a flush in their cheeks, Mal nodded. “Yeah, I guess we should.”
Leaning back so they didn’t have to move away from Emerson’s touch, Mal slid their laptop off the editors’ desk. And with a great groan and a creak of its hinges, it glowed back to life.