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Martin was so high that he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
It was Sunday afternoon and the sun was getting ready to set. Light was filtering in through the opened windows, making his bedroom feel golden and hazy, like the edges were slightly out of focus. It was the sort of atmosphere that embodied all Sunday afternoons — those pockets of time that seemed to exist in slow motion, time warped and sluggish.
He was laying in his bed, head pressed back onto the pillows, and looking up at the ceiling. Every now and then smoke would drift into his vision, from the joint Hamzah was hitting, and Martin would watch it dissipate into the air.
They had been sharing the joint earlier, squished together and passing it between themselves, but it didn't take much for Martin to get stoned, and he had gotten comfortably high before finishing his half. So, because he was a really awesome friend and an even better boyfriend, he had surrendered the rest of it to Hamzah.
"You still alive over there?" Hamzah asks, somewhere to his left. Martin turns his head to the sound and sees Hamzah sitting with his legs stretched out, leaning back against the headboard.
The joint is in his hand, held in midair above his lap, and Martin's eyes move up to Hamzah's just as Hamzah blows a puff of smoke out of his mouth. Martin watches transfixed, because Hamzah was even more attractive than he already was when he smoked weed. Somehow.
"I'm good." Martin replies, because he wasn't struggling as much to keep his eyes open, now that he had something to look at. "I'm definitely high."
Music was playing from his phone, too, which was lost somewhere in the sheets. It was one of Hamzah's songs, one he had never heard before. Something with no words, because Hamzah was pretentious sometimes.
Hamzah laughs, cutting through the noise in Martin’s head, and Martin smiles up at him. "What, you're not?"
"I am." Hamzah responds, almost defensively, and Martin sees now that his eyes are lidded and red. The sight makes Martin's heart do a little summersault. "But your tolerance is fucked. You didn't even have half."
Martin squints up at the ceiling, thinking. "It balances out, though." He says, still staring at nothing in particular, before moving back to look at Hamzah. "I need less, you need more. It's really— like that's sort of romantic, right?"
Hamzah scoffs, smiling. "You think everything is romantic."
It's more of a light-hearted jab than a compliment, but Hamzah might as well have called him pretty, the way Martin's face warms.
So what if he thought everything was romantic? Everything was romantic, life was beautiful and worth experiencing; that in itself was romantic. And, yeah, of course he was going to associate romance with Hamzah, because Martin was like, in love with him, or whatever, and Hamzah could act as tough as he wanted, but Martin knew that he was in love with him, too.
They were just a part of each other, at this point. Martin loved Hamzah and Hamzah loved Martin. It was like facts of life, like gravity, and every time Martin thought about it for too long his whole body would get warm. They were best friends and they were spending the rest of their lives together, that was just something that was going to happen.
Martin’s super casual about it. Yeah, Hamzah loved him, or whatever, happy and willing to follow him anywhere. Yeah, Martin loved Hamzah, and he’d give up everything else in his life if he had to, just to keep him. Yeah, their love felt bigger than each other, bigger than the whole world. Whatever, it’s cool.
He steals a glance at Hamzah, only to see that Hamzah was already looking his way. Their eyes meet and Martin feels a smile break out across his face, watching it instantly mirror in Hamzah's.
His gaze suddenly hones in on Hamzah's mouth, almost involuntarily, and he feels something stumble around in his chest. It's like he had forgotten, somehow, in the love spiral his mind had fallen down, that one of the best parts about being in love with Hamzah was getting to kiss him. Especially when it was a Sunday afternoon, and all they were doing was laying around in bed, stoned out of their minds.
He continues moving his eyes down Hamzah's body, stopping at the basketball shorts that were riding up his thighs and revealing a strip of the boxers he was wearing underneath. Martin swallows, feeling abruptly like he could get hard if he sat here long enough, just looking.
What he really wants, though, is to move across the bed and sit on Hamzah's lap. Hamzah's thighs were practically made for that, tan and broad and pornographic. Martin loses track of time imagining it, because he can't will himself to actually get up.
"You're staring pretty hard, man." Hamzah says, breaking the quiet that had accumulated and nudging Martin's shin with his foot.
The feeling jerks Martin out of his trance, and he looks back over at Hamzah a little sheepishly, still dazed. Hamzah is smirking, and the sight only makes him dizzier.
"You're staring pretty hard." Martin parrots, watching Hamzah roll his eyes fondly and bite back a smile. He thinks he's deflected well enough, but then Hamzah takes one last hit of the joint before turning to his left to put it out, and Martin's head gets fuzzy again, watching smoke leave Hamzah's mouth.
He's moving before he realizes it, sitting up on his knees and crawling across the sheets towards Hamzah. Hamzah raises his eyebrows, but when Martin comes to a stop next to him, his gaze briefly flickers down to where Martin's knee was now touching his thigh.
Martin doesn't say anything, he just slowly leans forward and connects their lips. Hamzah kisses him back almost immediately, easily in sync with what Martin wanted.
It was the best thing Martin has ever felt, he's sure, even though it was all really familiar at this point. Hamzah opens his mouth and Martin tilts his head to the side, following his lead and letting Hamzah push up against him, giving up control.
He places a hand on the side of Hamzah's face, moving his thumb across his cheek. His skin is warm underneath Martin's touch, and Martin thinks about pulling back to see his face again (because it had only been about thirty seconds, but Martin missed looking at it, and Hamzah probably looked really cute, with his cheeks all flushed and red, and he'd say, "What?" in that fond, amused voice he used whenever Martin did anything stupid) but that train of thought gets thrown out of the window when Hamzah bites down on his lip, teeth sharp enough to bring Martin back to earth.
He becomes too preoccupied to do anything other than whimper into Hamzah's mouth and kiss him back, heat swirling around his chest.
Hamzah, who was much better at multi-tasking, continues to lick into Martin's mouth, soft and lazy, while his hand finds the underside of Martin's right thigh. He gently directs it across his lap and to the other side, so that Martin was now straddling him, all without breaking their kiss.
The scene Martin had been imagining not even a few minutes ago in his head was nothing compared to the real thing. He sinks down into Hamzah's lap and feels so good he could cry. He could live here, act as Hamzah's lap dog, always available whenever he was needed.
Both of Hamzah's hands were now holding onto his waist, holding him in place. Martin's own hand on Hamzah's cheek was moving towards his hair, running his fingers through the curls.
Something flops around in his stomach when Hamzah moans into his mouth, grip on Martin tightening. The casual, languid atmosphere they had been building up turns sharp and hot in an instant, potential fizzling in the air around them.
Hamzah pulls his mouth off of Martin's and immediately attaches it to his neck, grazing his teeth against the skin. He bites down and Martin whines, a sound he's always embarrassed about when he's sober, and then Hamzah licks a stripe over the bruised skin.
"Hamzah," Martin chokes out, holding harder onto Hamzah’s hair. He was so turned on in such a short amount of time that he was already getting hard, and they weren't even doing anything.
It would have been embarrassing if Martin wasn't stoned out of his mind, chasing after the heat in his stomach like he needed it to breathe.
He knows that Hamzah can feel it, too, because he backs away from Martin's neck with dark pupils and a shit-eating grin. Martin doesn't give him the chance to say anything — he shoots forward and kisses him again, using the hand in Hamzah's hair to pull him closer.
Hamzah smiles into his mouth and Martin feels helpless, shifting his hips forward and grinding down into Hamzah's lap, desperate and sloppy. Hamzah stops kissing him then, leaning backwards and hitting his head against the headboard.
"Martin." He says, in the same tone that Martin had just used, voice shaky. "Fuck, baby—”
Martin continues his movements, unable to stop, and all of a sudden he can feel Hamzah's dick hard underneath him. It’s like fireworks are erupting behind Martin’s eyes and in all of his blood cells. He wants Hamzah to kiss him again, and before he can even ask Hamzah is leaning in, connecting their lips for him.
They could do this forever, Martin thinks, just making out. Hamzah runs his tongue over Martin's bottom lip and refuses to let Martin gain any sort of control, pushing up whenever Martin pushes down. It's like a game, almost, except everything's getting a bit messy and less defined, because the friction from the movement happening below them is making Martin see stars.
"Wanna fuck you so bad." Hamzah mumbles, in between breaths and against Martin's lips.
Martin feels hot all over, warmth crawling up his ears and spreading across his chest. It also feels like his brain has stopped working; the edges of his mind are fuzzy, just like the corners of the room. He's so gone that he doesn't even feel real.
"Please," he says, voice pitched an octave too high, before he's nipping at Hamzah's mouth again. "Please, Hamzah."
Hamzah hums against his mouth, pleased. "Knew you'd like that." He taunts, and one of his hands slips under Martin's shirt, finding his skin. "Even more than me, yeah?"
It's so easy to give in that Martin doesn't even try to fight it. "I know you're trying to make fun of me," he starts, breath ragged as he pulls back from Hamzah, "but I'm so hard right now that nothing you say could make me feel embarrassed. It's just gonna turn me on."
"Martin." Hamzah says again, exasperated, and Martin wants him to say his name like that forever. "Take your shirt off or I'm going to kill myself."
A laugh bursts out of him, cutting through the fog in his head, and he briefly forgets how hard he is, leaning back to get a better look at Hamzah. "What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Hamzah grins, lifting one of his shoulders in a half-shrug. "Go ahead.” He says, incredibly casual, before nodding expectantly in Martin's direction.
And, admittedly, Martin's easy — it really didn't take much to get him to do anything — so he just bites back a smile and wraps his fingers around the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. He throws it to the side once it's off and watches Hamzah's eyes roam around his chest.
"Good boy," Hamzah mutters, meeting Martin's eyes appreciatively. Martin's face glows pink and he rolls his eyes, but the heat at the bottom of his stomach only grows hotter.
"Your turn." He replies, and Hamzah doesn't take any convincing at all, copying Martin's motions and discarding his shirt next to them on the bed.
Martin's back to being spaced out, biting his lip at Hamzah's now bare chest. He hums absentmindedly and places one of his hands on Hamzah's stomach, moving it up and down. Hamzah's skin is warm, because he was like a radiator, constantly emitting heat, and it was nice to touch. Martin barely gets to enjoy it, though, before Hamzah's hand wraps around his wrist, lifting Martin's attention up to his face.
At the same time, his other hand moves to press up against Martin's forehead, holding his hair out of his eyes. His hand is just as warm as his chest and Martin lets his eyes close, leaning into his palm. He feels really good. Comfortable.
"You need me to open you up?" Hamzah asks, soft-spoken and gentle, like he's asking how Martin’s day was, not if he wants Hamzah's fingers inside of him.
"What, you expect me to do it myself?" Martin responds, opening his eyes and raising his eyebrows at Hamzah, pretending like he wasn’t flustered.
Hamzah takes his hand off of Martin's head and pushes playfully on his shoulder, which causes Martin to laugh. “Shorts off, boy." He orders, in that dumb voice he adopts when he's trying to act cool.
Again, Martin's real easy, so he removes himself from Hamzah's lap without saying anything. He shuffles over to the edge of the bed, pulling off his shorts and the boxers he was wearing with them.
While he does, he sees Hamzah turn to his left, pulling open the drawer of their nightstand and taking out a little bottle. Martin's stomach tightens at the sight, biting his lip before beginning to move back onto Hamzah's lap.
Once he makes it, he settles back into his position, watching Hamzah pour some lube onto his fingers. Martin drops his head, already overwhelmed, and unconsciously rocks his hips, like he had been doing earlier, placing his hands on the sheets below them.
He almost slips away completely, falling back into the headspace of Hamzah and heat and friction and Hamzah, but then Hamzah is placing a hand on his chest, stopping Martin's movements in place.
"Up," is all he says, motioning towards the ceiling with his head. Martin gets the message, face prickled with heat as he leans on his knees, sitting up and hovering over Hamzah's lap. He meets Hamzah's eyes, watching him smirk while his slicked-up hand falls out of sight below them.
And then Martin feels a pressure, one of Hamzah's fingers slowly circling around his entrance. Martin keeps his eyes on Hamzah, whose gaze is full of heat, all directed at Martin, and it makes him want to say something crazy, like, "Please spend the rest of your life having sex with me," or something even more embarrassing, like, "I'll never love anyone more than you."
He closes his eyes when he feels Hamzah's finger enter, taking a shaky breath at the sensation. It's nice, if not a little uncomfortable at first, and by the time Hamzah has started to push in and out, stretching him easily, Martin finds himself wanting more.
"Feel good?" Hamzah asks, voice thick with something undefinable. His other hand is back on Martin's waist, gently holding onto his side.
Martin nods hastily. "You can add another."
Hamzah makes a sound of appraisal before following Martin's direction and adding a second finger. It immediately burns, in a pleasantly painful kind of way, and Martin swallows back a whine, unsure how he was going to last long enough for Hamzah to get his dick out. The feeling of Hamzah's fingers pushing up inside him was already making Martin's brain light and fuzzy, high on pleasure (and weed, technically, but that was secondary at this point).
He drops his head into the crook of Hamzah's neck, muffling whatever sounds had been about to escape. He breathes in Hamzah’s scent and feels like he's already going crazy.
"So good, baby." Hamzah says, right in Martin's ear, before pressing a kiss onto his jaw. "My good boy, yeah?"
Martin nods uselessly, the part of his brain dedicated to turning thoughts into speech temporarily broken. Hamzah hums in understanding, still moving his fingers in and out, pace quickening. It was all becoming a little overstimulating, and if Hamzah kept speaking, it was going to be over really fucking fast.
"Hamzah," Martin mumbles, voice breaking when Hamzah's fingers curl inside of him. He wants to say something else, anything, but every thought in his head is scrambled together and incoherent.
"I got you," Hamzah says, so soft it makes Martin's stomach flip. "Just one more minute."
One minute feels like a fucking lifetime, but Martin would wait forever if he was asked to, so he nods again, cut off from speaking when Hamzah suddenly adds another finger. Martin’s whole body is in flames, and he moves his head out of Hamzah's shoulder, trying to distract himself from putting a hand around his dick by looking in front of him instead.
Hamzah is biting down on his lip, eyes still lidded, looking down at where his fingers were disappearing inside of Martin. He's not even saying anything anymore but it's worse, somehow, and Martin can't stop himself from letting a pathetic sound escape from the back of his throat.
He watches Hamzah's gaze flick upwards, meeting Martin's eyes with a smirk. Martin is pretty sure a minute hasn't passed yet, but Hamzah slows his movements anyway, stopping abruptly and taking his fingers out altogether.
"Get on your back." Hamzah says, voice clipped and coarse.
Martin just blinks, disoriented at the feeling of emptiness. Somewhere in his mind he knows that this means that Hamzah is finally going to fuck him, but his head feels like it's lagging two seconds behind everything else.
"Finally," He mumbles, head cast down as he catches his breath. Hamzah scoffs somewhere in front of him and it causes Martin to grin to himself, shifting to the side so that Hamzah can move his legs.
Hamzah does, and once there's room on the mattress Martin flops down onto his back, closing his eyes. It becomes silent except for the sound of Hamzah moving around, clothes and sheets rustling, and Martin starts to notice that there's no music playing when the beginning of a song fades in, another one Martin doesn't know.
It's familiar, though, a buildup of sound that makes Martin feels like he's floating, hovering over the bed. He gets lost in it for a second, gray static in his mind, until he tilts his head to the right and opens his eyes, seeing Hamzah's shorts discarded on the ground.
Anticipation simmers in his stomach, growing bigger and hotter when he hears the sound of their lube bottle opening again. He doesn't have the strength to deny himself any longer, burying the side of his head into the sheets and wrapping a hand around the base of his dick.
He gets in a couple good strokes before his hand is being swatted away, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from complaining.
"Come on, Martin." Hamzah says, although he sounds a little out of breath. "You can wait a little longer, can't you?"
Martin thinks, no, he can't, he needs to feel as good as possible right now or he was going to die. Hamzah was going to be charged with first degree murder, and the judge was going to ask, "What happened?" and Hamzah was going to have to say, "I didn't fuck him."
"Just hurry," Martin says, feeling delirious. He tilts his head up to look at Hamzah, and when he sees Hamzah touching himself, breathing hard with his eyes closed, Martin's head fall back onto the mattress. "Hamzah, come on."
"Mmhm,” Hamzah breathes out, and Martin has to clench his fists to stop his hands from wandering. It's so hard, he's so hard, and the sounds coming out of Hamzah's mouth were not fucking helping.
Finally Martin hears movement, like Hamzah is shifting to sit on his knees, and all of sudden he feels hands hold onto his shins, pushing his legs up so that they were bent at the knee. Then Hamzah uses his grip to spread them, and Martin's stomach dips when he feels Hamzah's presence right in front of him.
He becomes flushed all over, and the stubbornness he had felt not even seconds ago washes out of him. It's replaced with a want to please, a need to let Hamzah take all the time in the world, to let him do whatever he wants.
Martin drops his gaze, finding Hamzah's eyes without having to lift his head. Hamzah is looking right back, and his hands move so that they were holding onto both of Martin's thighs, keeping his legs apart. He's still not doing anything, but Martin doesn't ask him to.
"You're so pretty, Martin." Hamzah says, so sincere it makes Martin's whole body jerk. "I’m gonna take care of you, okay?"
And then he lets go of one of Martin's thighs, using his hand to line himself up with Martin's entrance. Martin's heart is beating too hard in his chest, and he nods absentmindedly, right when Hamzah first pushes inside.
His breath hitches at the feeling, closing his eyes and scrunching up his face as Hamzah goes deeper. Once Hamzah is all the way in, he sits still, letting Martin get comfortable. It's so much more than a couple of fingers, but the added pressure feels so good that Martin has to put an arm over his eyes, trying to hide from the orgasm already creeping up on him.
"This okay?" Hamzah asks, and he sounds just as gone as Martin, like it's taking all of his restraint to stay still.
"I'm gonna come so fast," Martin says, his arm obscuring how red his face is at the confession. "It's gonna be embarrassing."
Hamzah groans, hands tightening around Martin's thighs. Martin's about to actually answer Hamzah's question when Hamzah does it for him, pulling out of Martin before pushing back in. It feels so good that Martin's mind goes blank, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling. Hamzah does it again, and then again, getting faster each time, and it feels so good.
Martin moves his arm to rest above his head, unable to do anything but stare up at Hamzah and grip tightly onto the sheets. Hamzah's hair was sticking to his forehead and his mouth was fixed open, tongue poking into his cheek. He looked concentrated, pace becoming consistent, using the grip on Martin's thighs to pull him back and forth.
"Hamzah," Martin mutters, addicted to the feeling of being pushed around, sliding against the mattress. He was so hard that pre-cum was leaking onto his stomach. "I—"
He has something to say, he thinks, somewhere in the back of his head, but it's out of reach, hidden underneath the fog in his brain. He feels like he's being fucked stupid, like every time Hamzah pushes inside of him, thoughts and memories were being pushed out.
"I know." Hamzah says, breathing heavily. "You're doing so good, Martin, I'll let you come soon, okay?"
Martin just moans in response, closing his eyes and nodding fervently. He's not even sure if he'll be able to wait for Hamzah's permission; he didn't have that kind of discipline, not right now, not when he was high.
Hamzah moves one of his hands up and down the underside of Martin's thigh, fingernails digging into his skin. His eyes are closed when Martin finally blinks his own open, and his head is tilted up towards the ceiling, Martin's name tumbling out of his mouth.
It's too much, Martin has to shut his eyes again, jaw clenched with the effort it was taking to not touch himself. He's just letting Hamzah use him, at this point, waiting for Hamzah to tell him how good he feels, how much he loves him, how he can come whenever he wants.
Another minute passes (and it’s like torture, almost, if torture was so painful that it felt really good) and then Hamzah's movements suddenly become faster, like he's finally losing control, just as desperate to get off as Martin. It's even more intense, somehow, and Martin arches his back at the sensation, feeling outside of himself.
It felt as though every part of his body was glowing, pink and red all over, like Hamzah was the sun and Martin was sunburnt. Like he was a kid who forgot to put sunblock on, knowing it was still worth it, at the end of the day, to get to spend so much time outside, even when his skin was peeling viciously.
He's so high that he feels like he can’t breathe. His head is blurry and every thought he tries to grasp onto slips out of his hands. Tears are welling up in the corners of his eyes, and he can't do it anymore, he can't wait, he's so close, it's over—
"Hamzah, Hamzah, I can't—" Martin vocalizes, words spilling out of him, a few stray tears falling down his cheeks, "I love you, I want to be good, but I need to— I need to, I'm sorry, I can't—"
Hamzah is looking down at him, smiling with his tongue resting over his bottom lip, nodding in response.
"Yeah, go ahead, baby, it's okay." He says, and Martin immediately wraps a hand around himself, Hamzah pushing deep inside of him, and he's coming before he even gets a full stroke in.
The heat in his stomach turns white and blinding, taking over everything else. His cheeks are stained with tears and he thinks he's speaking, repeating Hamzah's name over and over again, but his head is so full of fuzz that he can't even tell. Hamzah is still fucking him and Martin is still stroking himself, wanting to feel everything, even as the ecstasy begins to fade.
And then it's over, cum all over his hand and his stomach, and he feels full of bliss, content and happy and still euphoric. He meets Hamzah's eyes and he can tell that Hamzah is close — his pupils are dark and roaming, and his movements have become clumsier and clumsier.
The grip he had around Martin's thighs is now closer to his waist, so tight it was probably bruising. Martin's whole body was starting to feel overstimulated, but he bites his lip and takes it all, face hot at watching Hamzah lose his composure.
"Gonna come inside you," Hamzah mumbles, head bent low. Martin barely has time to react before Hamzah is moaning above him and thrusting a couple more times, so aggressive that it’s painful, and then he's coming, holding Martin close once he finishes.
Martin is breathing just as hard as Hamzah, closing his eyes and letting it all wash over him. The inside of his thighs were slick and Hamzah's hands were still holding onto him, grip beginning to loosen. Martin wants to live in this moment forever, fucked out and comfortable, laying in bed, high. Sunday fucking afternoon.
But then Hamzah is moving, pulling himself out of Martin as gently as possible, and Martin winces at the feeling. He's still breathing hard, trying to regain consciousness, finding it difficult to think.
"Fuck me," Hamzah mutters, maneuvering to the edge of the bed before getting off of it. He stretches as he stands up and claps Martin on the shoulder, walking to where his shorts were on the ground. "You good, bro?"
Martin crinkles his nose, following Hamzah with his eyes. "Don't call me 'bro' after you just came inside of me, dude."
Hamzah laughs, stepping into his boxers and pulling them back around his waist. He throws Martin's own shorts at him, hitting him in the arm, and then disappears into their bathroom. Martin blinks hazily at his shorts, struggling to keep up with everything.
Eventually he finds it in himself to sit up, just in time for Hamzah to re-emerge from the bathroom, cloth in hand. Hamzah rejoins him on the bed, sitting on the edge with his feet on the floor, and he takes hold of Martin's hand, beginning to clean him off.
It’s quiet until Hamzah clears his throat. "Seriously, though," Hamzah says, meeting his gaze before starting on his stomach. "You got all, I dunno, spacey."
Martin shrugs shyly, leaning back against his palms now that they were clean. He still feels spacey, but a little less than before. "Yeah, I think it just— it just felt really good, and it made my brain, like, foggy." He says, watching Hamzah, abruptly hit with a surge of affection. "But I appreciate the concern."
Hamzah grins, shaking his head before he steps off of the bed, presumably to get rid of the gross, dirty cloth. "Yeah, alright."
He disappears again, walking out into the hallway, and Martin's eyes droop down for a second, falling on the shorts Hamzah had thrown his way. He picks them up and decides to put them on, body beginning to ache slightly as he moves around.
And then, once he’s standing up on wobbly legs, getting ready to join Hamzah in the hallway, he sees Hamzah's shirt, crumpled up and discarded on the pillows. Martin doesn't think twice about it, moving back onto the mattress to take it in his hands and slip it over his head.
It's nothing special — it's old and gray, the word 'California' scrawled across the chest, but it smells like Hamzah, and Martin tries not to be weird about it, falling back onto the bed and facing the ceiling. He crosses his arms over his face and feels so happy that it's practically bursting out of him.
Hamzah walks back into the room a few moments later, and Martin feels the mattress dip when he joins him again on the bed. Martin moves his arms up to his forehead to see Hamzah sprawled out next to him, eyes level with Martin's.
"Nice shirt," Hamzah says, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
Martin feels like a cat, basking in the rays of a sun that was just about to set. He watches Hamzah stare at his shirt and lets himself grin.
"Thanks." He responds, carding a hand through his hair. He wants to say something else, something clever and witty, but words still elude him. And then Hamzah catches his eyes, and all of his thoughts fade into the background.
Because Hamzah's eyes are brown and Martin’s in love with him. He’s in love with his stupid brown eyes and his stupid curly hair and his stupid, annoying personality that somehow happened to match almost exactly with Martin’s.
It’s like they were created in a lab, specifically for each other. It’s so stupid.
One of Hamzah's hands reaches out to hold onto the back of Martin's head, scratching at the nape of his neck. Martin grins again, eyes dipping down to Hamzah’s mouth, before Hamzah uses the hand to guide them together.
And then they're kissing again, and it's different but the same, because Martin's spent and tired, slotting his mouth against Hamzah's with even less energy than before. The feeling is less intense, too, like the electricity has fizzled out into a warm breeze, fresh and light.
"I love you, too,” Hamzah whispers, in the space between their breaths, and the breeze has picked up speed now, gaining enough strength to punch Martin in the gut. "You're my best friend, man."
Martin’s heart does a whole gymnastics routine in his chest, and he realizes that he's going to spend the rest of his life feeling like this, like his heart is constantly two seconds away from giving out. He's going to entangle his life with Hamzah's so deeply that they won't be able to exist without each other, and it's going to kill him.
Like, he’s actually going to die from a heart attack, and it'll still be worth it.