Chapter 4
Malik
Malik balanced at the edge of a deserted couch, one foot planted on the tile, the other bracing a coffee cup between his knees. The lounge ceiling pressed low, pipes exposed and painted the same lifeless beige as every other campus interior. Conversation droned from tables clustered at the far end.
He worked his thumb in slow circles against the knot at his nape.
It hadn’t let up since the drive. The coffee in his hand steamed faintly, but the air above it smelled burnt, closer to melted plastic than beans.
He drank anyway. The bitterness spread across his tongue, sour and thin, doing nothing to thaw the fatigue welded into his shoulders.
He didn’t hear Lincoln enter. He never did.
Lincoln had a way of appearing in the corner of a room as if he’d been there all along.
He stood now just inside the door, taking in the lounge with a glance that swept past Malik, then doubled back.
The gaze locked. Malik straightened, the cup almost slipping from his grip.
Lincoln wore a blazer one shade lighter than his usual, which meant he’d left the house in a hurry. His collar stood open, no tie. The professor look, undone by intent. Lincoln’s jaw moved, like he was grinding down words before speaking.
Malik lifted his chin in greeting. Lincoln nodded back, lips pressed thin, then cut a path along the wall, skirting a table where two other attendees sat.
Malik stood, leaving the cup on the seat behind him.
He tracked Lincoln’s route past the snack counter, past the window with its brittle plastic plants, until Lincoln stopped in front of the vending machine.
Malik closed the distance. The floor vibrated under his step, or maybe that was just his heartbeat. Lincoln’s hands rested in his pockets, shoulders squared, but Malik saw the quick rise of Lincoln’s chest. A deep breath, trying to steady something inside.
They faced the vending machine, rows of snack bags stacked behind dull plexi. Lincoln studied the machine, not even pretending to choose. His left hand flexed at his side. Malik waited.
“We need to talk,” Lincoln said.
He kept his gaze fixed on the numbers above the keypad, but Malik caught the tremor behind the words.
Malik nodded. He jerked his head toward the corner of the lounge, where a battered two-seat couch stood under a bulletin board. Empty, out of the traffic lane. Lincoln moved first, quick and silent, and Malik followed.
They sat. The couch springs groaned under their weight, forcing them closer than either intended.
Lincoln angled his knees out, and Malik mirrored, the fabric of their pants brushing at the seams. Malik’s calf touched Lincoln’s for half a second before Lincoln shifted, but he didn’t pull away fully.
The air smelled of wet coats and instant soup.
Lincoln clasped his hands in his lap. “About this morning.” He paused. “About last night in the library, too.” The words dropped between them, heavy as a confession.
Malik leaned forward, elbows on thighs. “I know.”
Lincoln exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound. He flexed his hands again, then unclasped them. “We can’t—”
“Do this in a hallway,” Malik finished for him.
Lincoln looked at him, the edge of a smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, then disappearing. “Right.” He let his gaze drift to the empty table in front of them, eyes tracking the ring left by someone’s bottle of Sprite. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said, voice low. “I’m not asking for—”
“You’re not asking,” Malik said, keeping his own voice quiet, “but you’re doing it anyway.”
Lincoln’s jaw tightened. He fumbled for his glasses. Malik’s heartbeat jumped at the movement, an echo from years ago when Lincoln would push them up before an argument. But this time Lincoln only pinched the bridge of his nose and let his hands fall to his knees.
“You left early this morning,” Malik said, his voice low, vibrating with the frustration of the morning. “I ate breakfast with Mary and your mother. She was curious but I made excuses for you.”
“I couldn’t wait for you, Malik. Not after the library. Not in that house.” Lincoln’s left hand flexed inside his pocket. “I needed space to think before the day started.”
“And did you?” Malik stepped closer, forcing Lincoln to look away from the pretzels. “Did you think of anything besides how to avoid me?”
“I thought about the fact that I still feel like I’m standing in that library aisle,” Lincoln replied. He leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “We need to talk. Somewhere that isn’t this exposed.”
Malik nodded. He jerked his head toward the corner of the lounge, where a battered two-seat couch stood under a bulletin board. It was out of the primary traffic lane. Lincoln moved first, quick and silent, and Malik followed.
They sat. The couch springs groaned, forcing them closer than the professional distance they had maintained for years. Lincoln clasped his hands in his lap.
“I didn’t mean to leave you to deal with my mother alone this morning,” Lincoln began, the words dropping between them like heavy stones.
“But I knew if I stayed for breakfast, if I heard your voice in that kitchen, I wouldn’t have made it to this symposium.
I would have said whatever you wanted to hear just to stop the shaking. ”
“You’re shaking now,” Malik pointed out, noticing the slight tremor in Lincoln’s thigh.
“Now it’s inevitable,” Lincoln replied.
Before he could reply, the lounge began to fill as the mid-afternoon panels broke. The room became a sea of tweed and corduroy, a theater of performance where every handshake was a transaction.
Naomi had staked out a table under the bulletin board, her laptop open like a command center. She flagged Malik the moment he emerged from the corner.
“Dr. Okonkwo,” she called.
Malik studied her as she threaded his way between tables. Lincoln looked like he was bracing for an impact.
“I have a few questions for you if you aren’t too busy,” Naomi said.
“Sit, please,” he offered.
She wasted no time. She began to dissect Malik’s latest paper, her questions designed to test not just his logic, but his loyalty to the “Greco-Roman canon.”
“So how do you reconcile the argument for indigenous narratives without destabilizing your own credentials?” Naomi leaned forward.
Malik glanced at Lincoln. He saw the subtle tilt of Lincoln’s head, the silent encouragement. “Credentials don’t matter if the record isn’t honest,” Malik answered. “What’s the point of a canon if it can’t withstand challenge?”
Naomi smiled. Then Omar arrived, sliding into the gap beside Malik. Omar was the department’s kingmaker, a man who smelled of expensive cologne and secret budgets.
“You two have always been on the same page,” Omar said, his gaze flicking between Malik and Lincoln. “I read your joint paper from last year. You wrote like a married couple.”
The air left the room. Malik’s breath caught. Lincoln’s cup nearly tipped. It was a joke, but in this building, jokes were heat-seeking missiles.
“It’s hardly a crime to agree,” Lincoln said, his tone cool.
Omar snorted. “Not a crime. Just uncommon.” He turned to Malik. “You ever want to teach in Lagos, let me know. My cousin is department head at UNILAG. You’d be a star there, instead of fighting these battles for scraps.”
When they finally left, the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
“You okay?” Malik asked.
Lincoln turned, eyes raw. “No. But that’s not new.”
Realizing this was a good time to escape, Malik pushed his chair back.
“Come with me.”
Lincoln stood to follow him, only to stop when he realized they were heading away from the conference rooms.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quiet,” Malik replied as he kept walking toward a lessor used part of the building.
“If anyone comes in now...” Lincoln whispered.
“No one will.”
Malik nodded toward a partition at the back. A graveyard of extra chairs and tables. He tugged Lincoln up and around the divider into a pocket of near-privacy. The alcove was isolated, the window high and frosted with winter grime.
Malik stepped closer, bracketing Lincoln against the wall. The plaster was cold through Lincoln’s shirt, but the heat coming off him was a physical force. Lincoln didn’t resist. He leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall.
Malik claimed his mouth, gentler than before. Lincoln’s hands landed on Malik’s hips, gripping through the fabric of his pants. Malik pulled away just far enough to murmur, “I want you.”
Lincoln’s eyes closed. “Here?”
“Right now.”
Malik slid his hands up under Lincoln’s shirt.
He dragged his palms over Lincoln’s ribs, mapping the body he’d memorized from a distance for a decade.
Lincoln reached for Malik’s belt, his hands shaking, fumbling with the buckle and zipper.
He shoved the jeans down enough to free Malik, his fingers trembling as he wrapped a hand around him.
Malik shook his head. He wanted to see Lincoln break. He guided Lincoln to sit on the edge of a battered, low-slung table. Malik dropped to his knees between Lincoln’s legs. The floor was hard, the smell of industrial wax and old paper thick in the air.
He unbuttoned Lincoln’s trousers, pulling them down with his briefs. Lincoln was already hard, a sharp contrast to his usually controlled exterior. Malik took him into his mouth, the heat and taste of him filling his senses. Lincoln let out a choked sound, his fingers tangling in Malik’s hair.
Malik worked him with a desperate, rhythmic focus. He wanted to erase the symposium, erase Emmy, erase every distraction.” He wanted only this. Lincoln’s head fell back against the wall, his breathing turning into jagged gasps.
“Malik,” Lincoln whispered, a plea.
Malik increased the pressure, his tongue tracing the ridge of him.
He looked up, seeing Lincoln’s face. Flushed, eyes wet, the mask of the tenured professor completely gone.
Lincoln’s grip on Malik’s hair tightened as he reached the edge.
He came with a muffled cry, his body shuddering.
Malik stayed with him until the last of the tremors faded.
Malik stood up, wiping his mouth. Lincoln sat on the edge of a low table, chest heaving. Malik cleaned himself with a tissue as Lincoln tucked himself back into his clothes.
Malik reached for Lincoln’s face, cupping it. He stroked Lincoln’s cheekbones, mapping the heat that still burned there. Lincoln closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping.
“Thank you,” Lincoln whispered.
Outside the room, the world carried on. But here, the connecting door separating them had finally swung open, far from the prying eyes of Lincoln’s family or the faculty.