Fuck.

Reese panted, clutching his chest like his heart might explode. It was almost four in the fucking morning and here he was, slumped against his bathroom door like an idiot, hoping Malcolm would forget about all of it and go back to sleep. 'Cause there was no way Reese was getting to sleep now.

"Mmm, Reese…Reese?" Malcolm's voice repeated in his head, "what—"

And Reese had panicked, because really, his brain didn't think that far ahead—it was late, and his brain was like, "Malcolm is cute", and the Minty-Mints jingle wasn't helping right then, so Reese just… did it.

Again.

It wasn't the first night he had tried it, or even thought to try it; there had been other times, too, where Reese just… wanted to know what it would be like to touch Malcolm's face with something other than his fist. But the fist wouldn't have been a big deal, you know—it was Reese! Maybe Malcolm deserved it, after all, for waking up…

But who was he kidding? Even he knew that was stupid. Just like wanting to do it in the first place.

Reese tried calming down in any way that wasn't beating the shit out of the bathroom mirror (and in turn, breaking his hand), but, really, what was he supposed to do? He wasn't supposed to be the type that thought about things (and he wasn't), so why did this matter so much? Why did he even want to, practically need to look at Malcolm's (cute) face in the middle of the night and be unable to stop himself from stroking it as if Malcolm was his fucking girlfriend.

Reese did know why, actually, because it wasn't that complicated, but dealing with it—that was complicated. There wasn't much he really could do other than tell (which would ruin everyone's lives) or keep everything to himself, waiting for nights like these to wonder if the other could ever possibly feel the same way.

And he guessed, for now, he'd settle for that.


Sometimes I think I'm like, the only person left who's still obsessed with this shit? So like, if you ever wanna talk to me about Malcolm/Reese... my inbox is always open