The afternoon at Malik's place had settled into a comfortable, lazy rhythm. His apartment was modest but immaculate—a stark contrast to the organized chaos of the Rivera household. The furniture was modern and minimal, the kind of clean lines that suggested someone who liked order. A large TV dominated one wall, currently displaying the paused menu screen of a fighting game they'd abandoned twenty minutes ago in favor of snacks and conversation.
Alex was curled up on one end of the plush gray couch, her legs tucked beneath her, a forgotten textbook open on her lap. She'd long since given up pretending to study. Watching Marco and Malik interact was its own kind of education—a masterclass in a language of friendship she was still learning to parse.
Marco was sprawled on the other end, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his body a study in relaxed angles. He was mid-sip of a cold Pepsi, the can sweating condensation onto his fingers, when Malik's voice cut through the comfortable silence.
"Yo, bro."
Marco lowered the can, his eyebrow quirking. "Yeah?"
Malik was sitting in the armchair across from them, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his expression one of deadly seriousness. The kind of seriousness that, Alex had learned, usually preceded something deeply stupid.
"We both established that if I was a girl, I'd have the yams," Malik said, his tone utterly matter-of-fact. "Are you cracking? Yes or no. Be straight up."
Alex blinked. She looked at Marco. Marco looked at Malik. The Pepsi can hovered halfway to his mouth.
A beat of silence.
"How would you know you'd have the yams?" Marco asked, his voice flat, the question delivered with the precise energy of a man who had decided to engage with nonsense on its own terms.
Malik didn't miss a beat. "Because if I wasn't naturally gifted with them, I'm gonna work hard for them. I'm a hard worker." He said it with the conviction of a man declaring his life's philosophy. "You've seen me at the gym. You've seen the dedication. That translates."
Marco slowly set the Pepsi down on the side table. He rubbed his chin, his brow furrowing in exaggerated contemplation. "You know... this is a little complicated of a question."
"It's really not that complicated at all," Malik shot back, leaning back in his chair, spreading his hands wide. "I mean, if you're my boy, you should crack. Simple as that. Bros support bros."
"Why am I getting pressed right now?" Marco's voice rose slightly, his hands coming up in a gesture of bewildered self-defense.
"You're not getting pressed, bro. You're—" Malik paused, searching for the right words, then delivered them with silky precision: "I'm asking my boy a question. Simple sugar."
Marco shook his head, picking his Pepsi back up and bringing it to his lips. "I'm not answering this."
Malik watched him take a long, pointed sip. His eyes narrowed. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"You look so submissive when you slurp, you know that?"
Marco choked slightly, lowering the can with an offended glare. "Let me drink my cola. Zero sugar." He gestured at the can as if it were evidence. "This is a diet beverage. It's not submissive. It's health-conscious."
"You actually have a booger," Malik said suddenly, his voice shifting to one of casual, helpful concern.
Marco's hand flew to his face. "Where?"
"I got it. Come here. Let me get it."
Before Marco could react, before Alex could even process what was happening, Malik lunged forward. His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Marco's shirt, and—with a strength that seemed entirely disproportionate to his lean frame—he hauled Marco up off the couch and into the air.
Marco's legs dangled. The Pepsi can slipped from his fingers, landing with a sad clatter on the carpet, fizzing softly as it spilled. His face was a mask of outraged shock.
"Sweet boy," Malik cooed, his voice low and teasing, holding Marco aloft like he weighed nothing.
"Release me, you closeted man!" Marco squirmed, his sneakers kicking uselessly. "¡Suéltame, cabrón!"
"Just give me your holes," Malik said, his grin widening. "You're being mad federal."
Marco's eyes went wide, his arms flailing. "Yeah, you're being mad criminal!"
And then, with a twist of his torso and a wild swing of his arm, Marco's fist connected with Malik's face.
It wasn't a hard punch—Alex could see that from her position on the couch, half horrified and half fascinated. It was a theatrical punch, the kind thrown in movies where the sound effect does all the work. It landed on Malik's cheekbone with a soft thwack.
Malik immediately dropped him.
Marco crashed back onto the couch, bouncing once, his hair a mess, his shirt stretched out of shape. He was breathing hard, pointing an accusing finger at Malik.
"¡Estás loco! You don't just grab a man and demand his holes! That's not how friendship works!"
Malik was already laughing—a deep, genuine laugh that shook his whole body. He staggered back to his armchair, clutching his cheek, which was barely pink.
"You punched me!" he howled. "You actually punched me!"
"You deserved it! You were being mad criminal!"
"I was joking!"
"Jokes don't involve lifting a man off a couch! That's assault! That's secuestro! Kidnapping!"
"It was a booger retrieval! I was being helpful!"
Alex watched the exchange, her mouth slightly open. The spilled Pepsi was still fizzing on the carpet. The paused video game menu was still glowing on the TV. And the two of them were now locked in a heated, nonsensical debate about the ethics of booger retrieval and the appropriate response to being lifted by one's shirt.
She had been dating Marco for over a year. She had been present for family dinners, holiday celebrations, fishing trips, and wilderness encounters. She had seen things. She had heard things.
And yet, somehow, this felt like a new level of absurdity.
"You're both idiots," she said finally, her voice cutting through their bickering.
They both turned to look at her, Marco still pointing, Malik still grinning.
"Beautiful, brilliant idiots," she amended, "who are going to clean up that Pepsi before it soaks into the carpet."
Marco looked at the spill. Malik looked at the spill. They looked at each other.
"Rock paper scissors?" Malik offered.
"You owe me for the booger thing."
"You owe me for the punch!"
"I hit like a girl, you said so yourself!"
"I never said that!"
"You implied it!"
Alex sighed, closed her textbook, and stood up. She walked to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and returned to the living room, where the two of them were now arguing about the philosophical implications of "hitting like a girl" versus "hitting like a man."
She handed the paper towels to Malik.
"Clean," she said, her voice the calm, authoritative tone she had learned from her mother. "Then we can discuss whether the yams question was valid."
They both stared at her.
"Wait," Marco said, "does that mean you'd crack for Malik if he was a girl?"
"Clean the Pepsi, Marco."
"But—"
"Clean the Pepsi."
He cleaned the Pepsi.