Malik pressed the neatly wrapped package into Altair's hands and withdrew.


Blinking, Altair looked at the item, unwrapping it to reveal a giant SpongeBob plushie.

Before he grinned.

"Because you felt like it."

Malik did not protest against the hand that curled around his.

"Because I felt like it."


"No one's looking."

Grunting, Malik applied pressure to the other's shoulders in warning as he was pressed back against the surface of the refrigerator, all too aware of Altair's lips molding themselves to the angle of his jaw. "For now." He pushed. "But it's not the condo."

"Doesn't matter."

"Altair—this is the teacher's lounge," he hissed, though the caress to the corner of his mouth had him clutching onto the cotton of his counterpart's polo. "They'll see—"

"—that Mr. A-Sayf, Professor Vidic's T.A., is kind enough to teach me C.P.R."

A growl. "That's on the floor, you moron."

Altair paused.

And quirked his lips.

"On the floor it is, then."


Malik narrowed his eyes.

The last Doritos piece.



"Don't even."




"Let's settle this."


Who wants to play Hungry Hippo?


"It's cold, isn't it?"

Malik shrugged.

And held onto Altair's hand even tighter.

"Doesn't bother me."


Malik widened his eyes when Altair suddenly pressed his lips against his own, the latter curling his fingers around the back of his neck, their lunch on the table forgotten. The other's tongue swept out and teased the corner of his mouth, and the former knit his brow at the impromptu exchange, but soon said nothing as his eyelids fluttered closed sans thought. He did not—could not—mind the irritated and amused expressions around them in the diner: Solely, he perceived the light touches to the underside of his jaw that contradicted the full depth of the kiss, a gesture that had him breathless by the time they broke apart.

Altair leaned back in his seat and sipped on his Coke.

"You had something on your lip."








And maybe he was just an outright idiot.

"What is it?"

He just had to be.

Or Malik A-Sayf would not be in Disneyland, drinking his lemonade, like his life depended on it.

"You fucking dick," he hissed, grinding the innocent straw with his teeth. "I told you to get the mild one!"

"They only had the habanera flavor."

A growl. "Now, I'm about piss in my damn pants, trying to make tongue happy." Furrowing his brow, he continued to curse out the other as he ignored the shocked cries of parents and children, slamming the plate of buffalo wings into Altair's management, the extra-large cup of lemonade nearly drained. "You could've just bought a damn hot dog!"

"I thought you didn't like hot dogs?" Altair now took on a slightly irked stance, looking at the food as if nothing was wrong with it—as if Malik fucking loved shittastically flaming chicken. "You made it clear before."

"No, I just don't like your hot dog!"

Someone in front of the line fainted.

" … that sounded really dirty; and I beg to differ."

Hot damn, he wondered why he skipped out on a class trip to Qatar for this shit.

"Then, you eat it, jackass."

Altair cocked his head to the side.

"Fine: Maybe, I will."

There was a pause.

"All right: That also sounded really dirty."

Oh, Lord.

Thank God Malik took anger management classes every Thursday …