Malchom and Tyler, 9 Years Old
Summary: This is how the notorious Tickler, mischievous magician and procurer of secrets, first found out what tickling was. Before Malchom, he was simply ‘Malcom’, and this particular story is just a small slice of he and Tyler’s time as children.
Don’t get your hopes up though, folks, it doesn’t exactly end on a warm and fuzzy note- It’s merely a puzzle piece of what caused Malchom to become the Tickler.
CW: implied ch*ld negl*ct, implied emotional ab*se, but nothing explicit
6:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and you’d have thought the world was coming to an end with how the two young boys were debating.
Out in the lush, green grass of the front lawn at the Middletons’ modest home, two 9 year olds were in a very heated debate over an incredibly important thing.
Toy airplanes.
One, a dirty blonde boy with a pale, almost sickly pallor, responded in his thick British accent. “You just can’t fly one like that, Malcom, it wouldn’t be practical! Not with all that glitter and those extra bits you’ve glued on there.”
The other, a boy with jet black hair and a fair yet healthily colored skin tone, laughed at his friend’s words. “You can’t be serious, Ty- Just look at how boring yours looks! You hardly even did anything to it!” He scoffed, holding up his own toy plane as if it were common sense. “How do you ever expect to take up the reins of your family business if you can’t even make a toy that looks cool enough to sell?”
“My plane looks fine, Mal,” Tyler responded, unbothered by the criticism headed toward his simplistically painted plane. “And what makes it better is that it’ll actually be able to fly, which is what the toy is made for. You know, playing with it?”
Little Malchom let out a scoff, rolling his eyes. “You’re being crazy, you know. Mine will still fly, and plus, mine has personality!” He exclaimed, holding up his own toward the sun with a victorious grin.
“Oh yeah? Prove it then, and let’s see it fly, hm?” Tyler responded with an unimpressed expression.
“Just watch and learn, eh?” Malchom stood to his feet with a victorious smirk even though he hadn’t yet proven anything. “The master of flying in style is about to knock your socks off, kid!”
Tyler didn’t reply as he watched with an unconvinced expression while Malchom turned, taking his airplane in his left hand and then chucked it- Within a fraction of a second, it hit the fence and fell into pieces with a comically abrupt crashing sound.
That very instant, Tyler was sent into a fit of hysteric laughter which only grew in strength at his friend’s overdramatic reaction.
“NO! My precious!” little Malchom gripped his chest and fell to his knees in exaggerated agony, feigning heartbreak of the highest degree. The little act didn’t last long, however, as he couldn’t hold back his own giggles; He always liked making his friend laugh when he could.
“Hey now, what’s all the commotion out here?” Mr. Middleton, Tyler’s dad, came out with one of his bushy grey eyebrows raised in curiosity.
Tyler pointed over to the broken pieces of what had once been Malchom’s ‘stylish’ plane, still doubled over in laughter from the stunt. “Mal’s plane went and crashed- Right into the fence!”
“Ah, now, Tyler..” Mr. Middleton put his hands to his hips in a soft display of disapproval. “It ain’t nice of you to laugh at a friend’s misfortune. I thought I’d taught you better.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Middleton,” Malchom giggled, holding his hands up in defense for his friend. “I did it on purpose. I knew it’d be funny.”
Mr. Middleton’s expression softened as he realized this, a soft smile pulling at his lips from under his bushy mustache. “Ah, is that right? Always tryin’ to make sure Ty has a sunny day, aren’t you Mal?” He walked over, ruffling the boy’s hair and causing him to laugh a bit more. “Still, ‘t ain’t right to show such mirth after your friend’s toy is broken, is it, Tyler?”
Malchom stiffened as Tyler’s father turned toward him with crossed arms, taking a few steps toward his friend. It didn’t look good, the way he looked like he was about to pounce on Tyler, who was only just now calming down from his fit of laughter. What made it scarier was the words that left Mr. Middleton’s mouth as he gave a scowl. “I’ll have to give you somethin’ to really laugh about, boy..”
Malchom panicked; Surely the kind old Mr. Middleton wasn’t about to hurt his best friend, right? But here he was, practically about to lunge on the small boy. Just as he called out in a startled attempt to stop the brutal attack, Malchom froze in his tracks when he heard a completely new wave of laughter from Tyler.
Mr. Middleton had kneeled down in a quick movement that belied his heavy stature, and appeared to be grabbing Tyler’s sides- But instead of crying or screaming for help, he was laughing.
Malchom couldn’t understand in the slightest.
“Pop- Cut it out!” Tyler pushed at his father’s arms, but was notably not using his full strength.
Mr. Middleton’s smile had returned, and he chuckled along with his son’s hysterics. “No- I told your Mum I’d raise you right, boy. If you’re gonna laugh, you’re gonna have a good reason to.”
Malchom watched with furrowed eyebrows, even more confused at whatever was happening; It was almost affectionate, it seemed.
After a few seconds, Mr. Middleton ruffled his son’s hair and stood back up with a soft grunt, still chuckling at Tyler who had curled in on himself in mirth.
Malchom didn’t bother trying to hide his confusion. “Uh.. Mr. Middleton..? I don’t.. Did you just hurt Tyler?”
The adult and Tyler both looked mildly shocked at Malchom’s question, looking over toward him suddenly with raised eyebrows.
“No, no- Never in a million years would I ever hurt my boy, Mal.” Mr. Middleton’s eyebrows furrowed in concern as he kneeled down to be eye level with Malchom.
Tyler, too, sat up on the grass and looked at Malchom with concern. “Why did you think he was hurting me, Mal? Didn’t you hear me laughing?”
“Yeah, but I-..” He trailed off, even more confused at their confusion, fidgeting with his hands as he wondered briefly if he’d asked a bad question.
“Malcom, I love my boy. I would never hurt him.” Mr. Middleton reassured him, his expression softening a bit.
“It was just a little tickle.” Tyler supplied, shrugging nonchalantly.
“.. What is a tickle?” Malchom asked, his eyebrows still knit together.
Tyler scoffed, as if he assumed Malchom was joking, but as his friend’s stern expression didn’t waver an inch, he grew serious again. Almost withdrawn, even. “Oh.. I.. Mean, it’s like.. A silly thing you do when you want to make someone laugh, I guess. Right Pop?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Mr. Middleton responded, appearing concerned still as he looked between the two boys. “Your parents never gave you even the tiniest tickle before, eh?”
“.. No. I don’t even know what it is!” Malchom gestured dramatically, clearly mildly frustrated at having been left out of the loop on something fun. He huffed, sitting down on the grass again with crossed arms as he tried not to pout. “But I mean, they don’t really do any of the nice stuff, like hugging me or patting me on the shoulder, you know? So I guess it makes sense that they wouldn’t care to help me laugh, either..”
Tyler and Mr. Middleton stared at Malchom with sympathy and worry, but before either of them could respond, the phone in Mr. Middleton’s pocket started ringing. “Oh..” He pulled it out and answered the call, standing upright again.
“‘Ello? .. Ah, yes, Mrs. Stanton... Yes, he... Ah. Alright, I’ll send him on his way. Mmhm. Right then. Cheers.”
After hanging up, neither Tyler nor Malchom had to guess what Malchom’s mother, Mrs. Stanton, had said; It was time for Malchom to go back home for the day.
The two boys, one looking disappointed but resigned and the other looking mildly bitter, glanced at each other.
“.. Right, I know the drill.” Malchom huffed dejectedly, standing up yet again and beginning to gather his things from school.
“There’s always tomorrow, yeah?” Tyler offered an attempt at an encouraging smile for his friend. “We can build and paint you a new plane tomorrow.”
Appreciative of the gesture at least, Malchom’s shoulders relaxed a bit as he slung his bookbag across his shoulder. “Right. Tomorrow I’ll just have to build the ultimate jetplane. It’ll blow yours right out of the sky, you’ll see.” He smirked haughtily at his friend, easing the tension a bit.
Mr. Middleton chuckled at their banter. “Alright, alright, Mal - I’ll be sure to have the workstation ready to go when you boys get out of school, then.”
“Thanks Mr. Middleton!” Malchom brightened a bit, waving happily at both of them.
“Bye Mal!” Tyler waved back, his father standing nearby to make sure Malchom made it to the end of the block safely.
As soon as Malchom stepped over the threshold of the property, though, his smile completely vanished.
Time to go home again..
--
As was expected of him, Malchom rang the doorbell of his own home to wait for one of his parents to answer, a completely bored expression on his face.
In a moment or two, the door opened and behind it stood his mother. “There you are, Malcom. You’re really going to worry us sick with how late you stay at that creepy old toy maker’s house.” She rolled her eyes in derision rather than showing any semblance of actual concern, walking away from the door without waiting for Malchom to enter.
Malchom’s eyelid twitched as he wordlessly entered the lavish home that he considered his own prison cell, letting his bookbag drop to the floor as he closed the door behind him.
It was the same routine every day.
Get up, go to school, go have fun with Tyler- then return to this huge, empty home and be ignored on a good day or constantly demeaned on a bad one.
Malchom couldn’t understand why either of them wanted him home so badly, because for all their fussing over him returning by a certain time, it was like he didn’t exist after he returned.
He let out a deep sigh, trudging into the home to see that his mother had situated herself on the couch with a glass of white wine, watching television while she absentmindedly flipped through a gossip magazine. This, also, was pretty much the same every day.
Walking into the kitchen, he saw his father sitting at the dinner table with a newspaper in front of him and a cell phone in his hand. He spoke casually, but Malchom couldn’t find an ounce of effort in him to try and pay attention to whatever nonsense his pretentious lawyer of a father was blabbering on about.
Just as he turned to leave, though, his father hung up the call.
“Malcom,” the boy stiffened and then turned, wordlessly looking up at Mr. Stanton.
“Yes sir?” he responded in the only way that the man considered acceptable.
“Are those grass stains on your good slacks?” He asked, not looking at the boy. Instead, his eyes were trained on the paper in front of him, but Malchom knew it’d only taken a glance for his father to notice that something was out of place.
“It isn’t that noticeable, Dad,” Malchom started, feeling that he himself had to strain his eyes to see any discoloration on the already dark fabric of his pants. “We were just-”
“I know, I know- Playing. Like always.” Mr. Stanton sneered slightly, glancing disapprovingly at him before returning his attention to the paper. God how he loathed that paper, how it was so boring with its grey and black color and yet was somehow infinitely more interesting to the man than his own son..
“Sooner or later, son, you’re going to have to really shape your behavior up.” His father continued, one of his polished shoes tapping on the hard floor beneath them.
“What do you mean? I’m- I am a kid, Dad!” Malchom insisted emphatically, his frustration bubbling over as it so often did. “Kids are supposed to have fun and play! Everyone else gets to!”
A stern expression filled Mr. Stanton’s face as he heavy handedly dropped the paper onto the table, his eyes narrowing at Malchom with scrutiny. “Everyone else isn’t queued to become the head of the Stanton Law Firm, Malcom. I’ve told you countless times how important it is to keep yourself rooted in reality and to reduce any and all foolishness from your pastimes. Now it’s playing around in the grass at other people’s homes, and in a few years it’ll be illicit substances and reckless public endangerment for the thrill; You think that’s the kind of young man that will grow up to be the city’s most sought after lawyer? Do you have any idea how much time and money would have to go into scrubbing your record clean so that you could even get that far?”
“I- What?” Malchom looked incredulously at his father, not understanding half the words he’d just used. “I’m not even sure I want to be a lawyer! From how you talk about it, it sounds like the most boring job ever!”
“You’ll change your mind in time, son.” His father waved off his words dismissively, which aggravated Malchom even further. “But until then, you need to take your own life seriously. You’re a bright young man. I won’t have that squandered over something as foolish as entertainment.”
Malchom was at his wits end, and he marched up at his father with purpose, causing the adult to raise an eyebrow in skepticism.
“What?”
“You never told me what tickling was.” Malchom responded in an accusatory tone, crossing his arms.
Mr. Stanton appeared beyond confused and annoyed at this. “.. What?”
“You don’t ever tell me about the good things in life, Dad!” he pressed, practically tearing up at this point. “Only the bad!”
Seeing the tears forming in his son’s eyes, Mr. Stanton narrowed his in even more disapproval. “Fix your face, son. Look around at all we have because of my company, and be appreciative. We are surrounded by good things. And the world, well; The world is a cruel, dark place. You don’t understand this yet because you haven’t seen it. But you will, and then you’ll be thanking me for every single lesson I’ve taught you.”
With those bitterly spoken words, Mr. Stanton lifted the paper back up again, as a silent signal that the conversation was now over and that Malchom was dismissed.
With a shaky breath, Malchom turned and stormed up the stairs to his bedroom, wiping the moisture away from his eyes with frustration and growing resentment.
As he shut the door closed behind him, he trudged over to his desk where his favorite pack of playing cards were. He wearily picked them up and began to shuffle them absentmindedly, part of him wishing he could just leave this family and somehow be adopted by Mr. Middleton.
Their house wasn’t nearly as big or as fancy, which were things his own father made clear were the ‘good things’ in life. Maybe what Malchom truly wanted wasn’t good after all; Maybe he wanted the bad things.
The terrible things like messy clothes...
The dangerous things like reckless adventure...
The pointless things like laughter...
All those awful, horrid things..
Malchom let out a deep sigh, holding onto this thought as he lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
“Yeah..” He murmured to himself, his ocean blue eyes swimming with contemplation. “Maybe good is just.. Overrated.”
