Mila Santos Is (Not) Dead

x: endless desert

MALACHI SLEPT RESTLESSLY, tossing and turning for most of the night. Sometime around three, he rolled over, sweaty and uncomfortable. He'd need coffee later today. Lots of it. His eyes blinked open. Maybe if he peed, he'd be more comfortable—

Reza was awake and had been staring at the back of his head. As Malachi's eyes opened, Reza's quickly snapped shut as if he didn't want him to know he'd been watching him. Malachi's cheeks flushed. He scrunched up his face. "Reza?"

"No, no. Reza is sleeping. Come back later."

Malachi grinned despite himself. "Douchebag."

Reza's eyes snapped open. He sat up, using one hand to prop himself up. "What the hell and the fuck did you just call me?!"

Malachi rolled onto his back, looking up at Reza. His eyes were black as midnight and just as deadly. "Douche," he enunciated, "bag."

Reza flipped him off. Malachi rolled his eyes. He sat up, miscalculating how far Reza was from him. As he sat up, their faces nearly collided. He scooted to the edge of the bed.

"You were staring at me."

"I wasn't staring at you, I—" Reza tucked his legs up beneath him. Sometime in the night, he'd shed his flannel pajama pants and heavy sweatshirt for his boxers. For once, Malachi forced himself to look Reza in the eye. He didn't trust himself to look anywhere else. "I was just looking in your general direction."

"Mhm." Malachi picked at his own sweat-stained t-shirt, suddenly self-conscious. He didn't know what to do with his hands, his voice, his eyes—how were you supposed to look someone in the eye? You couldn't very well look at both their eyes at once! How did people do this? Malachi was giving himself whiplash focusing on one of Reza's eyes and then the other. While his left one was pure, inky black, he noticed his right one had a small shaft of dark, stormy gray cutting through it. He could see himself in the reflection of his eyes. He looked just as awkward and scared as he felt.

How could he carry on this conversation? He didn't know how to carry on a conversation. What were they supposed to talk about—the weather, the missing girl? Malachi didn't know how to navigate this—any of this.

Reza casually tossed one arm up over his head. "Still can't sleep either?"

Malachi shook his head. He wanted to say a million things to him, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. He was too hot and his head was still spinning from their conversation earlier. Besides, Mila never left his mind. She was all he could think about. They were too close to her. Too close to finding her. And yet here they were. In a motel in some Texas town, trying to sleep. When Mila could be out there, in danger.

Malachi's heart hammered in his chest, the blood pounding in his head. He couldn't think. The silence grew longer, unbearable. Malachi desperately searched for something to fill it. He didn't want Reza to stop talking, didn't want to stop hearing his voice. He said the first thing that came to his mind:

"I once wrote Dr. Phil self-insert fanfiction."

Reza sputtered out a laugh. "Where the fuck did that come from?"

Malachi shrugged.

"Like, as a joke, no?"

Again, Malachi shrugged.

"Does it still exist? Please tell me it still exists."

"Immortalized on Wattpad. I forgot my password. It was nearing a hundred thousand reads last time I checked."

With a sly, foxlike grin, Reza slowly reached for his phone on the bedside table. "Let's see, let's see. How many Dr. Phil self-insert fanfics with almost a hundred thousand reads can there be...?"