Lincoln managed a nod.
Malik released Lincoln’s hand and turned back to the groceries, his movements returning to a semblance of normalcy as he folded the empty plastic bags.
He watched the way Malik’s large, steady hands handled the mundane groceries with the same dedication he used for ancient manuscripts. There was a warmth to Malik that Lincoln felt he could never quite replicate. A physical density and a vibrancy in the dark, intelligent depths of his eyes that made Lincoln feel suddenly, sharply aware of his own paleness, his own brittle edges.
Malik looked like a man made of earth and sun, a striking counterpoint to the sterile, academic world they both inhabited. In this small, quiet space between them, the contrast was more than just aesthetic; it was a reminder of every unspoken reason Lincoln remained so stubbornly, fearfully in his own shadow.
Lincoln pushed off the counter, his legs feeling a little unsteady. He walked to the sink and ran the cold water, the pipes rattling in the wall. He cupped his hands and splashed his face, the shock of the temperature snapping him back into the present. Cold drops ran down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
He dried his face with a rough linen towel, the fabric smelling of lavender and age. Malik closed the fridge, the magnetic seal snapping shut with a soft thud.
Lincoln turned to face him, leaning back against the sink. “The reception is in a few hours,” he said. His voice came out rough, a low rasp that he didn’t try to correct.
Malik nodded. He stepped close again, but this time there was no hesitation. His hand brushed against Lincoln’s lower back, a light, guiding pressure that felt like a claim. “I should go home and get changed. I’ll meet you back here.”
“I walk you to the door,” Lincoln offered.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He reached out and turned the knob. The door swung open, and cold air rushed in.
“I’ll see you back here in a bit,” Malik promised.
Lincoln nodded, then watched as Malik walked to his car before shutting the door, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
He lost track of how long he stood there. The tension coiled fresh in his gut. A want that was sharper and more focused than it should be. The pretense was still there, but for the next forty-eight hours, there was no turning away.
Chapter 2
February 12th | 8:00 PM
Malik
Malik trailed Lincoln up the marble steps, passing through the library’s double doors in the wake of an undergraduate who held them open with an absent swipe of his backpack. There had never been a moment where he felt every bit of his forty-five years of age.
The evening air inside bit sharp, colder than expected, the vents set low for winter but blasting regardless. Every footfall pressed static from the carpet, deadening their steps but setting the skin on Malik’s arms to prickling. It was a different kind of cold than the one on the streets, the kind engineered for books and discipline, not comfort.
Behind them, the reception’s drone faded. No more forced laughter or cluster conversations circling punch bowls. Here, in the anteroom just past the vestibule, space widened. Malik waited for Lincoln to set the pace. Lincoln did, as always. A brisk stride, hands pocketed deep, head down as if determined not to look back at the party they’d fled.
Malik’s attention snagged on the new brass plaque to their left. A rectangle, polished to catch every overhead beam, already developing the faintest patina from campus humidity and the oils of countless fingers.
Their names in equal font, no honorifics, the spacing clean and uncompromising. A single line of inscription beneath, something about “joint contributions to classical and diasporic scholarship,” but the effect was all about the names.
Lincoln’s gaze skipped over the plaque, then returned to it with a flick of annoyance. Malik stopped in front of it, blockingthe corridor. Lincoln halted, impatience telegraphed in a subtle flex of his jaw.
“You can’t even look at it?” Malik’s voice was pitched low, muffled by the stacks beyond. The air caught the words and held them between the two men.
Lincoln’s eyes flicked up, then sideways. “It’s not the font I would’ve chosen.”
Malik huffed, arms crossing before he realized the gesture was a cliché. He uncrossed them, let his fingers rest against his elbows. “I doubt you picked the wall, either.”
Lincoln exhaled a dry sound. “I didn’t pick any of this.”
Malik absorbed the words, aware of the hollow behind his ribs, the absence that had followed since the symposium started. The gap between what they performed and what had buzzed under every word exchanged since Lincoln had informed him that they needed to be in a fake relationship for the next two days.
Fake was starting to feel like something more. It wasn’t a secret that both he and Lincoln were gay, but in all the years that he’d been friends with Emmy, he’d never looked at Lincoln as anything other than his friends older brother.
He forced himself to look away from the plaque. Instead, he studied Lincoln’s profile in the museum-bright light. The deep lines cut along his mouth from decades of restraint, the pale skin over high cheekbones, the salt overtaking pepper in his beard, visible even in the blue cast of evening. Malik’s own reflection barely registered in the glass. He stood in Lincoln’s shadow, metaphorically and literally, and couldn’t decide if that was comfort or indictment.
The librarian had once described this annex as “hermetic,” and Malik saw now what she meant. The further in, the less outside world existed. Silence pressed, and so did the chill. Lincoln’s coat was wool, heavy and academic.
