Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hamzah is going fucking crazy. This is it. He's going insane and there's no turning back now.

Because he's looking at Martin, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed they’ve both been in for hours, giggling over what's definitely Mandy texting and he can't stop feeling almost jealous .

It doesn't make any sense and he knows it — but Jesus Christ is that annoying. 

That, and every time Mandy and Martin finish each other's sentences like they live on a low—budget romcom. Every time Martin keeps leaning onto Mandy like a touch starved cat, rubbing his head on her. Every time Martin stopped talking to Hamzah for two entire minutes or so just to respond to her texts.

And don't get him started on the baby talk. Thank God they rarely ever use pet names, because if they did, Hamzah would've been at a mental hospital already.

He doesn't know what's worse — how irrational it is that he’s getting so mad about a relationship that’s not even his, or the way it kind of isn't.

Whenever the three of them were hanging out and Martin’s fingers idly traced patterns on Mandy’s shoulder, exposed by some pretty strapless top that Martin probably got her as a gift; Or whenever they whispered nothings to each other and laughed like it made any sense. Sometimes it gets so bad it makes him feel like he’s not even there . Like he’s spying on them from somewhere else, and they don't even notice or care about his presence. Hamzah remembers it all too vividly. 

Because he knows whatever it is that they've done together, Martin probably did it to him too. And it was so fucking weird how he could just pretend nothing happened.

It's not like he even wants him to acknowledge it. Both of them are horribly aware that having a sort-of-affair with your best friend makes you a bad person, to say the least, and the best they can do to absolve the guilt of that is just to not address it at all, and promise one another it’ll never happen again even though it always does. 

But Martin could at least pretend a bit better. He makes it too obvious with the pitiful little look in his face he gives Hamzah when he's staring, just as he’s caressing Mandy’s hair, putting loose strands behind her ears with the most gentle scrape of nails on her scalp. So tender it makes Hamzah grip the edge of the couch, twisting his stomach into knots.

It was infuriating how easily Martin switched between the two of them. Even more so how it only seemed to bother Hamzah , like he’s the one that should be feeling the biggest part of the guilt.

He can’t shake the feeling that every little tap of Martin’s fingers to the keyboard of his phone, typing what he's sure are the sappiest words anyone's ever written, is a knife twisting deeper into his chest. It’s absurd, but the jealousy bubbles to the surface, uninvited and unwelcome.

Why should Martin be allowed to act so carefree when they both know what hangs between them? When Hamzah can still feel Martin’s hands everywhere , and the sweet words he’s whispered in his ear keep playing over and over again in his head like it's his brain's favorite love song?

Of course, he likes Martin. Loves him, even — but if he keeps doing that Hamzah fears he's gonna end up actually smashing his teeth in. No one will ever see that cute little smile again if it's on him.

“...Dude, are you okay?” Martin asks, with a troubled tone. It sounds less like a genuinely worried question and more like a threatened ‘why are you looking at me like you want to strangle me?’

“Yeah,” Hamzah snaps out of it. “I’m alright.” 

“‘You sure? You look crazy, bro.” 

“That’s so nice of you, Marty.” Hamzah responds with a huff, almost rolling his eyes. 

Martin laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that barely reaches his eyes, like he knows something’s off. Hamzah’s bad at hiding stuff from him — maybe he just doesn't want to.

He shouldn’t care that much about Martin’s jokes (if he can even call it that). At times it seems like the only point to Martin’s existence besides occasionally making his life hell is to joke around. He’s like a cartoonish little jester, and that’s kind of his whole appeal. but Hamzah’s already bad humor mixed with that grates on him — how casual he can be. People would call that a red flag. 

“Seriously though,” Martin presses, shifting on the bed, his phone sliding out of view but not leaving his hand. “You’ve been, like, really weird lately. Is something up? Or are you just being emo again?”

Hamzah clenches his jaw. “I already said, I’m alright, man. Everything's fine.”

Martin tilts his head, studying Hamzah for a moment longer than comfortable, like he’s trying to piece something together — but then he just shrugs. 

“Alright, whatever you say. Just don’t have a bitch fit on me.” Hamzah snorts over the ‘bitch fit’ thing, unwantedly so. Martin said that in a stereotypical white girl accent that was impossible not to at least smile over. “Mandy said she's coming over to pick us up to hang out in like less than an hour, and you flipping out won't be the best thing ever.”

“Is she coming to pick you up or the both of us?” Hamzah makes sure to say that with a snarky enough tone for Martin to realize he’s serious, but also in a post-ironic way. 

That’s such a teenage girl thing to do , he thinks. He also doesn't care much. Not this time.

“The both of us. You're third wheeling tonight.” Martin smiles in a way that makes Hamzah’s eyes actually twitch, and turns his phone back on. “I mean, sorta. She said ‘We should go to that restaurant we saw the other day. U can bring Hamzah too, smiling blushing emoji .’ and then I said ‘okay yay’ and she said ‘I leave in about 40 so I’ll pick you guys up’.”

“Oh, uhm,” Hamzah looks around, patting around the bed to find his phone to look at the time. 4:36pm. 

Maybe she’ll arrive late enough for him to give an excuse not to go. “That’s great.”

“Yeah, it is. I’m hungry as hell.” Martin lays back, propped up on his elbows. “I hope she gets here fast.”

“I’m sure you do.” 

Martin glances at him again, the same puzzled look from before in his face. This time though, his brain doesn't give up halfway through figuring him out. 

“Dude, seriously, what’s up with you?” He gets up from the bed to move to sit closer to Hamzah. 

He shifts on the bed, trying to focus on something other than the burn in his chest. “You guys could just go without me, you know. I’ve got some stuff to do anyway. I still have to record an episode for the Patreon.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Come on, man. Mandy’s cool with you tagging along. She likes when the three of us hang out together. Besides, I thought you recorded that already?”

Hamzah bites down on his frustration, the irony of that statement not lost on him. All of them hanging out — like the dynamic is even remotely equal. It’s not just hanging out when he’s hyper-aware of every glance, every touch, every laugh they share that he isn't a part of. “Yeah, but... you know, I wouldn’t want to, uh, intrude. That sounds like a romantic thing she wants you two to go on. It’s fine.”

And Martin blinks, sitting back up and straighter. “It’s not like that. You're being weird again.”

Hamzah doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he fights the urge to snap. It’s not worth it, he tells himself. Not worth blowing up over a stupid dinner, not worth Martin’s confused looks or Mandy’s pitying eyes. But the words keep pressing at the back of his throat, awfully close to slipping off his tightly pursed lips: Maybe I wouldn’t be weird if you weren’t pretending nothing’s going on. 

He tries, he really does. Tries not to blurt everything out, even though his hands are shaking like leaves in the wind. At the same time he knows he’s being almost entirely nonsensical, Hamzah also just kinda wants to fuck with him a bit. If he has to feel bad, so does Martin. 

“Probably. I wouldn’t be like this if you stopped being like that .”

“What do you mean?”

“That you’re the weird one. You keep– pretending. That nothing’s happening and that you’re not always treating me like you treat Mandy,” Martin visibly shudders the second Hamzah says her name. Like doing so would make her appear right behind them. “Except I get the leftovers.”

“She’s my girlfriend?” Martin says it like it's a question, visibly indignant.

“And what am I? ‘Cause the only thing that’s different between me and her is the fact one of us actually gets to be called a partner.” 

The two of them stop. The weirdest silence ever settles for what seems like hours.

“Neither of us actually want anything, man. I don’t know why you’re being like that.”

They really don’t. Neither Martin, nor Hamzah. But it’s painfully obvious how much they enjoy all of it — the moment it’s happening, at least. They can feel miserable afterwards all they want, but nothing takes back the wet, desperate kisses and how much at least one of them would be whimpering, begging for more in a way only the other could possibly understand.

They’ve never actually had sex — but God sometimes it feels like they’d be better off had they actually done something fully sexual instead of just making out way too passionately for it to be just platonic. It wouldn’t be so confusing that way; Friends hook up all the time. Best friends do it way more, too. 

It wouldn't be all that bad, either. Much the opposite. But that’s not exactly something to think about now, especially because Martin himself probably wouldn't think that. Even if it was, hypothetically speaking, the best moment of his life, the guilt would be so enormous he’d forget all about that and they’d never talk to each other again.

“Yet we still fucking–” Hamzah gesticulates aggressively, not meaning anything with the strange waving of arms he’s doing — he just never realized how strange it all is until he actually had to say it out loud. “Do all that. You can’t act like I’m being that unreasonable.” 

“You aren't. But you should be more mad over that than at me liking my girlfriend , Hamzah.” Martin raises his voice a bit. “You can't expect more if we're not more, dude. You're my best friend. Not my boyfriend.”

Hamzah’s breath hitches at the word. It's kind of like he just had an epiphany, but it's one he should've had way too long ago. Ever since they started looking at each other funny. Since Hamzah first planted a little peck on Martin’s cheek, figuring they were already close enough for it to be more funny than it would be weird — and when that escalated to small kisses on the lips, to full on making out, to hands between legs. 

They’re nothing. Yet Hamzah is still feeling like he's owed something more, better — maybe that says more about him than it does Martin. He’s the one who started all of it, too.

The phrase echoes in his head, digging into him with the weight of something he’s ignored for too long. Like it’s black mold at the walls of his brain that he pretended wasn't there out of laziness and now he feels like he’s dying because of it. He’s suddenly flooded with everything. Every look, every smothered laugh they’ve shared, every bump of knees under the table and every ridiculous situation they've been in together and he realizes — maybe he’s not just friends with Martin in his heart anymore.

Whatever they have going on is not solely out of touch starvedness. It’s much worse. So much worse.

“I know that,” Hamzah forces the words out, hating how they taste. “I just– God. This whole thing is weird . I thought, I don't know? That maybe you felt something, or whatever. Not like you would with Mandy, just, something else.” His voice cracks and he swears he can shoot himself in the head right now.

“I do.” Martin admits. “But it's different. You two are different.”

“I know that, too, Martin. I’m your best friend, yadda yadda. But you don't– You don't get it.”

“What about this don’t I get? If anything, you're the one that doesn't get it. You know I shouldn't even be doing this in the first place, yet–” He gulps, covering his face with his hands. “Yet every single time, I willingly cheat with you. Doesn't that say anything?”

Hamzah looks at Martin, just to tear his eyes away when he lifts his head from his hands to look back. He feels strange. Selfish.

“Don't you feel bad?”

Martin sighs and his shoulders drop a bit.

“Yeah. All the time.” The confirmation that Martin does feel bad yet keeps on treating Hamzah like he's the one he's dating makes him feel slightly ill. “Don't you?”

“Yeah, but… Not in the same way as you, I don't think.”

Hamzah really couldn't find it in himself to actually worry about Mandy in that sense, other than to actively wish he was her. 

He hates to acknowledge it, but it's so real. So real it’s been keeping him up at night like he's committed the worst crime possible — though he figures some people would consider being a homewrecker as one of the worst crimes possible.

He wishes he was the one to be going around holding hands with Martin in the most cringy way imaginable. The one to be talking about him all the time in a way that doesn't make his friends think he's obsessed. 

Every time he felt like punching Martin square in the face could also be translated to kissing him all over. Maybe that's what Mandy does when he's being annoying.

“If you feel bad, why do you keep doing it?” Hamzah asks, not wanting an awkward silence. “You know I wouldn't be mad or anything. You don't have to kiss me and all just because I want to.”

“It's not like that. I would’ve told you so.” He clicks his tongue. “You don’t need to guilt trip yourself into thinking you're manipulating me or something, dude. I enjoy this just as much as you."

“...Sorry. Just making sure.” Martin nods in response, signaling an ‘ it's alright’ and still not making eye contact. “How does that work, though? Like, enjoying that even though you still… You know. Date her and all.”

“Do you know how to explain why you like it?”

“I don’t know. Not really.”

“So neither do I. I just know I wouldn't wanna do it with anyone else.” Martin says that in such a soft way that it makes Hamzah’s skin crawl. Kind of in a nice way, though. 

“Yeah.” Hamzah tries his best to have his voice not crack again, biting down a flustered laugh with it “Me neither. Just wish you didn't act like… that.”

Martin looks around, chewing the inside of his cheek. For a second, he seems like he wants to say something else, his mouth opening just slightly before snapping shut again. Hamzah feels like he’s seen that look before — the quiet turmoil behind it, like he knows he’s been selfish too but can’t find the strength to admit it; Not to himself and not to Hamzah, either. He inhales deeply, as if he’s trying to steady himself.

“Sorry. I don’t know why I keep doing that,” Martin finally murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself. “I just… I guess pretending everything’s fine is easier. With you. I don't wanna mess everything up. I don't wanna…” He stops himself at the last sentence, but Hamzah knows what he meant to say. Lose you . 

They sit in silence for a moment, letting whatever that was sink in. It still doesn't make any sense, but at least Hamzah feels better now.

“Jesus.” Martin continues, and his nose lets out just enough air to make it seem like he laughed. “We're terrible.”

“Probably.” He smiles a bit.

Hamzah can hear the slight rustling of the sheets and feel Martin getting closer. 

Now on his knees on top of the bed, Martin grabs the side of his face, cupping his cheek gently. His usual soft stare suddenly felt too intense and Hamzah could see his own nervous reflection on his dark eyes. Such a cliché. 

Hamzah’s gaze drops to Martin’s mouth, lingering there for a beat too long. The butterflies on his stomach felt so habitual it was almost consoling. 

Martin mumbles something Hamzah can't quite hear at the distance they’re in yet. When he gets closer, it's finally coherent: “Best friend. You're my best friend.”

Hamzah’s almost ‘you too’ gets cut off by quick lips, closing that sliver of space between them. 

It’s kind of funny how being with Martin never stops feeling like teetering on the edge of a cliff, in which Hamzah is always awfully close to slipping and falling to his death. Be it because of his horrifying antics in public or be it because Martin’s lips feel just a little too perfect. He’s a dizzy rush of adrenaline, constantly leaving Hamzah both terrified and exhilarated. As lame as it sounds, he really wouldn't have it any other way.

Sure, Hamzah was still slightly pissed off at Martin. But he thinks he can ignore it, at least while Martin’s tongue is still moving against his own and his hand is still grasping his hair — the curls he always tells Hamzah he should stop wearing so many hats because ‘they’re actually really pretty, dude.’

They’re positioned awkwardly — Martin is, at least. He’s almost falling off the bed, holding himself up with one hand by the side of Hamzah’s thigh. With his other hand, he’s half holding Hamzah’s face, half trying not to collapse onto him entirely as his thumb traces small, gentle lines on his cheek.

He seems to be gradually getting more uncomfortable. judging by both the change of hand positioning and how the kiss slowly but surely shifts from messy and chaotic to almost feather light.

“Martin.” Hamzah breaks them apart and gets a small, pouty lipped ‘hm?’ back. “Don't you wanna… I dunno, get comfortable? Your back’s gonna hurt like hell like that, man.”

“God, yeah. C’mon.” He laughs softly and tilts his head towards the wall, gesturing for them to get out of the edge of the bed. Hamzah nods.

Martin crawls closer to the wall first, sitting down with his back against it. Hamzah follows, sitting on his knees in front of Martin, right between his legs. The two of them smile in a boyish way like it's their first time facing each other.

Gently, Martin puts his hand on Hamzah’s cheek again. It feels electrifying, somehow. Such a soft touch, and the way his fingers brush against his skin, lingering just under his eyes, taking in every detail. It’s almost the same tenderness he keeps manically observing in him and Mandy.

Hamzah holds Martin’s wrist in place, turning his head slightly so that he can kiss it. He feels his grip tighten for a second, and when he looks at Martin’s face he sees a small, barely noticeable wide-eyed look — Because that’s something couples do. Something only people who are committed to a loving, real relationship with each other do; but with the way Martin smiles after, bright and lovely, leaning in to kiss his lips again, it makes him feel like that's what they are, at least for now. It feels good . 

This time around, though, the kiss feels more urgent. A push and pull that reminds Hamzah of their relationship — it’s sharp and hypnotic and it's slightly driving the two of them insane. Martin slides his tongue against Hamzah’s in a way that still feels thrilling, even though it’s so familiar; It's the same rhythm they've found themselves falling into a billion times by now, but it still feels brand new. 

His fingers curl into the fabric of Martin’s shirt, holding him by the shoulders like he’s gonna slip away from his hands if he lets go. He uses the tiny amount of strength he has left in him to lift himself up, putting his legs on each side of Martin’s thighs and climbing onto his lap.

Martin kisses down Hamzah’s neck as he adjusts himself, even slightly tugging onto the collar of his shirt to brush his lips against that area of skin, too — pleasantly humming every time Hamzah lets out the slightest bit of noise, happy with how much that and his hands, carefully sliding down to his waist affected him.

When he finally settles back down, though — Martin looks like he’s seen a ghost. It’s like what they’re doing just hit him. 

He holds his breath for a moment, barely daring to look up at Hamzah. He’s visibly mentally weighing the situation again, remembering what he has to lose out of this. 

Hamzah, for one second, thinks he doesn't seem to realize they're too far gone. But Martin’s good at pretending to be oblivious. Good at faking an unawareness just for the greater good, which would be him keeping both his girlfriend and his best friend simultaneously.

Either for that, or because he feels that maybe if he convinces himself he’s trying, he'll feel better. But that's on him.

Still resting his hands on Martin’s shoulder for support, Hamzah decides to lean in again just a bit, like he’s challenging Martin to push him away. 

Because in the end, that little flicker of doubt, the tiny voice of moral ethics on the back of Martin’s mind insisting this still isn't a good idea is nothing but a waste of their time at this point. His lips are now still the prettiest shade of red Hamzah's ever seen, and it’s even better since it's because of him .

Martin doesn't move, barely even breathes. He blinks at him, awfully resembling a deer in headlights. His grip on Hamzah’s waist is firm and shaking like he’s holding in fucking demons . 

Hamzah lowers his face to Martin’s ever so slowly, just so he could watch him raise his own with pursed lips, giving up that small thread of hesitation he tried to convince himself he could keep up.

It’s less than just another kiss and more of an answer to yet more unspoken questions. Would Martin do basically anything if Hamzah initiated it? Does he enjoy their whole thing, loves him that much? And is he just as guilty as Hamzah? — A ‘yes’ in the form of three or four quick pecks on the lips and a look you only ever see in dogs begging for food.

Hamzah could laugh. Would laugh over how endearingly pathetic he is, but maybe Martin sneaking his hands under his shirt to pull him closer than they already are by his bare waist is more important at the moment.

He brings their lips together again, dragging his hands to the sides of Martin's neck. 

Feeling lucky enough by now, Hamzah moves his hips just slightly forward, trying to press himself closer to Martin — and his blood rushes. 

He’s not one to be easily overwhelmed, really. At least not like that. But maybe, because he's not at all supposed to be doing that (or any of this), or just because it’s Martin, something in him actually shifts. The warmth of his skin is suddenly almost unbearable. Martin’s touch is burning hot under his shirt and Hamzah just needs him. So much it hurts.

It's like a teenaged boy who’s just discovered the wonders a little bit of grinding his dick onto something else does to him, skin tingling and legs getting weaker; Because with the way he gets, how quickly he feels his jeans tightening, it’s like he’s never done this before at all. Not with a pillow, not with anything or anyone else — Martin feels like his first. And he’s so fucking glad he does.

Yearning for that pressure, he shifts his weight around a little bit more, not realizing he’s no longer being that subtle with it until Martin’s grip on his waist loosens a bit, but not enough for him to not notice how his hands slightly shook. 

He pulls back just a little. “Hamzah–” Martin nearly gasps.

“What?”

“What are you–”

Hamzah stops, but responds by dipping his head to the crook of Martin's neck, letting his lips brush over his skin in a way that makes Martin tremble. Of course, Hamzah won't insist if he really doesn't want to, but when he does that, he's trying to say something. Come down from your holy mountain . It’s inviting Martin to give up guilt just for a second — they're already there, anyway.

The way he feels like the imaginary devil on Martin’s shoulder makes his lips twist into a small smile that he's sure Martin can feel. It’s funny. At least for him, because when he lifts his head to look at his face, Martin just has an almost pleading expression. 

“I don't think you– we should do that.”

“Do you actually ?”

Martin looks away, and Hamzah reaches to check his phone, lazily thrown over the bed. 4:58pm. There's still time.

“It's just–” Martin stammers. “We’ve never done this before.”

“First time's the charm.” Hamzah responds nonchalantly, pretending not to notice Martin’s dick getting harder under him. 

“That's not how the saying goes.”

“Yeah, well, there's not gonna be a third time though, is it?”

Hamzah’s hands trail down to Martin’s shoulders again, softly massaging them. It’s both a gesture of comfort and encouragement.

A part of him is slightly scared this can break the fragile thing they’ve got going on. It's kind of overdramatic, but anything can happen and God forbid it’s that.

But even worse, it could become so bad their friendship gets ruined too; Deep down, though, he thinks they're gonna be fine. When have they not been fine, after all? A little dry humping never ended a friendship.

It’s not like this is a huge new step for them. It still isn't sex . Nothing wrong with goofing around a bit.

Martin must think that way, too. It’s weird because they can always see right through each other. Martin knew what Hamzah wanted from the start, — the flicker in his eyes when his touch lingers a little too long, a split second of nervous laughter giving away what he’d never say out loud. And Hamzah recognizes that look he has whenever he wants something but waits for Hamzah to do it first so he knows it’s alright. It’s like a silent agreement they have, one they don’t even talk about, as if they’re both just waiting for the other to make it all feel less dangerous. Less wrong .

Martin’s hand twitches, just barely, as though he’s debating pulling Hamzah even closer. “Yeah. There isn't.” 

Martin smiles weakly at him, knowing that's probably a lie.

Hamzah lets his head rest against Martin’s collarbone again, flinging his arms over his shoulders for support. 

“Right.”

It’s when they share a small laugh that Martin really seems to give in, because his hands snake down to Hamzah’s lower back, encouraging. 

Hamzah rocks his hips forward again, mostly just testing the waters, and Martin groans quietly in response, squeezing his eyes shut. The sounds he makes the more Hamzah speeds up gets him into a high no amount of drugs could ever get him in; The moans slipping out of his mouth whenever the pressure was too much against his crotch and the way they all matched Hamzah’s except for when they were his name, broken apart by gasps and tremulous breathing. He swears , if he could, and if it was somehow morally acceptable, he would record every little noise coming out of him and keep it archived forever to listen to it all day, every day. 

He really wants to focus on the moment. God knows when he’s gonna have another chance to do this — But his head keeps spinning and the pressure going on is just not enough anymore. Hamzah thinks it might just be the heat of the moment, how new this feels, but he’s never felt this desperate. The layers of cloth separating them felt as thick as a brick wall, holding them just close enough for him to go crazy the more he rolled his hips like a dog in heat, itching for more .

“Shit, Martin–” Too much. It’s all too much, and not enough somehow. “Wait, hold on.” 

Martin lets go of Hamzah’s back and waist, panting. His lips part slightly, his little ‘wha– ?’ interrupted by the sharp, metallic zip of the zipper of Hamzah’s jeans opening. He stands on his knees for a second to bring his pants just over them, going back to where he was as quickly as he can. It’s just one less piece of fabric between them, but it’s gonna work. 

“God,” Martin’s eyes trail from his eyes, to his lips, and all the way down to his erection, now even more obvious in the thin boxer briefs he’s wearing. He looks at him like he’s glowing; And he might as well be, from the sweat beads he can feel forming on his forehead. “So needy.” 

“Yeah.” He smiles. He thought about finishing that off with a ‘ just for you. ’, but it sounds too real. Too much for Martin’s comfort. Wouldn’t wanna risk him getting weird now .

He kisses Martin’s jaw softly and hums as one of his hands grabs his hair, and the other reaches between them to fumble with his belt, trying to undo it. 

Noticing the struggle, Hamzah chuckles and pulls back slightly, hand reaching for the buckle of Martin’s belt and unlooping it messily. His fingers curl around the zipper of his jeans, the hiss coming out of the parting fabric cutting through Martin’s little giggles. 

“Thanks.” He grins and pulls his pants down enough to not be in the way anymore, fully taking off his belt while he’s at it.

Hamzah just grins back, pressing their lips together and mockingly murmuring “ Needy. ” into his mouth.

“Mhm.” 

Hamzah’s hands bring Martin’s back to where they were before and he pulls him closer by the waist, nearly whining over how Hamzah pushes his hips down, needily moaning as he chases the friction.

“Fuck,” Martin sobs, his grip on Hamzah tightening. He’s holding him with so much force he’s nearly stabbing holes at his skin, and his nails are short . “Hamzah–”

Hamzah looks at him, eyelashes fluttering. There’s pre-cum wetting the tip of his cock and every single detail of Martin’s face just turns him on even more — he looks so messy and so ethereal. Disheveled hair and parted lips swollen and reddened to match his flustered face, the same blushed shade spreading down to his neck. It’s such a shame he can’t give him hickeys, because one of the only things Hamzah wants to do right now is to kiss and bite and suck his skin until he’s all bruised. All his .

Second only to staying like this forever. Hips undulating like waves to the shore in sharp, desperate thrusts and glistening with sweat from being so close together and moving so much. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more aroused, and he fucking loves the possibility that Martin feels the same. He hopes Martin won't be able to ever jerk off without being reminded of this, of him — because Hamzah sure as hell won't.

He leans in to kiss Martin again, noses bumping awkward and repeatedly since neither of them seem to want to mess up the rhythm they established. They kiss like they're trying to devour each other, tongues swirling until they can't breathe and Martin bites Hamzah’s bottom lip lightly, separating them to trail rapid kisses from his jaw to his neck.

“Fucking–” He throws his head back only to immediately let it fall back down to Hamzah’s neck again, half-grown stubble slightly scratching his skin in a way he could get used to. “Driving me crazy, I swear.”

Hamzah can feel Martin’s dick throb against his, even through his underwear. If it was on him, it wouldn't be like that. 

But he does have free will.

“Martin, Martin–” Hamzah puts a hand behind his head, grasping his hair. “Fuck, I– Can I?”

Martin looks up, waiting for him to explain what he means, but the words fail to come out of Hamzah’s lips. It’s embarrassing — instead of saying anything, he just uses his free hand to tug at the waistband of his underwear.

“Oh–” Martin makes a surprised little face, dilated pupils barely visible with the faint light coming out of the window. It’d be adorable if Hamzah wasn't so turned on.

“Please. Wanna– Wanna make you feel good.”

Hamzah stares at him imploringly, both eyebrows raising when Martin exhales softly but deeply, guiding his hand lower. 

His fingers tremble as the fabric slips down slowly over the heated skin of his thighs, exposing his achingly hard dick, and Martin mimics him. It's too much space and suddenly not enough, nothing between them now.

It's honestly pathetic how Hamzah’s entire body heats up impossibly more over the mere sight of the two of them so close to each other. He never thought they'd actually go this far, but he’s absolutely exhilarated over the fact that they are. 

A smile lights up his face. The corners of Martin’s lips curl upwards too, even though he’s not exactly sure why Hamzah is doing it. There's a lightness in his limbs when he goes to grab both of their erections with a shaky hand, trying not to stare too much. He doesn't want to look crazy, but for him, that's a scene you'd take a picture of to keep it in your wallet, or in a heart locket. 

“Holy shit.” Hamzah breathes out with a nervous, accidental laugh, finally looking at Martin. “Is that– Is this alright?”

Martin nods almost frantically, eyes closed. “Yeah. It is.” His voice cracks slightly when Hamzah’s thumb brushes over his tip, laced with anticipation. 

“Good. Okay. Good.” The words come out unsteady, each syllable bordering on a moan. He’s too sensitive.

He lowers his head, spitting on his own hand before wrapping it around them again. He's sure Martin has lube somewhere, but he’d rather die than get up. This is basically all he's ever wanted.

Martin squirmed when Hamzah started moving, hips twitching about the same as his cock. He was a shaky, whimpering mess and Hamzah wasn't any better off — his breath quivering, fingers holding onto Martin’s shirt like he’ll die if he lets go. 

It wasn't long before the sweet, slow strokes picked up a faster pace, near aggressiveness reflecting just how badly Hamzah craved this. That sensation, the pleasure of making Martin feel just as good as him. He feels like he's in a dream, the kind that’s so good you wake up desperately trying to remember everything that happened in it so you can write it down and keep it with you forever.

Martin wraps an arm around Hamzah’s shoulder, head resting on it, his other hand clawing at his bicep. “Fuck, oh my God. So good.” He chokes out in between moans. “You're so good, Hamzah. Oh my God.”

Hamzah swallows hard, struggling to take in the praise without whimpering. It makes him feel dizzy. “Yeah?” His trembling voice makes that sound like a beg. And, hell, it might be. 

“Yeah. So, so good.” Martin seems to have noticed it. “You’re unreal.” He turns his head to kiss Hamzah’s neck, even though he’s breathless. He pants against his skin between every peck, lips still brushing on the fast pulse of his jugular.

Hamzah’s hand speeds up, and Martin’s hips jerk upwards, thrusting into his fist and causing more friction between his and Hamzah’s dick. “Shit. Say that– Say that again, Martin. Please.” He doesn't think he ever got this pathetic.

Hamzah can feel Martin smiling. “You're so– You're amazing.” He runs his hand all the way from his upper arm to his hair, grabbing a handful of his curls. “You don't even know what you're doing to me, Hamzah, I swear.”

He closes his eyes, mouth hanging open with Martin’s name continuously slipping out of his lips, low and hushed, like it's a secret. It tastes bittersweet. He may have him all to himself now, but he'll never be able to keep him. 

Martin keeps whispering almost unintelligible praises close to his ear, and Hamzah drowns himself in the sweet misery. Soon enough, this'll be just another thing Martin (though implicitly) guarantees he didn't fully mean, and Hamzah will feel crazy all over again — but right now, it's the best fucking thing .

“Oh, fuck.” Martin grunts, back arching ever so slightly. “I’m so– I’m so close.” He raises his head from Hamzah’s shoulder so he can look at him.

Hamzah is right on the edge too, slowly melting into himself. Melting into Martin . He feels like he's floating.

Still, that means this is gonna end soon — too soon. They're gonna go back to pretending nothing ever happened and he’s gonna have to pretend he doesn't care about how much Martin loves his own girlfriend. How she's the one that gets to stay with him like this forever, how she probably gets the same praise he does and how she's the one who always gets to hear his cute little noises. 

“Martin, please– Kiss me. Please.” 

Martin looks him in the eyes for a split moment, and obliges. It’s tender and it's effortlessly sweet and Hamzah knows he’s gonna miss it. Knows he’s gonna think about it as he lies awake, alone. 

And it's also enough to make the two of them cum, Martin’s mouth parting open with a loud and shameless moan that separates them after one last stroke. Hamzah's back arches and his eyes roll to the back of his head, strangled noises coming out of him as he rides out the peak of his orgasm.

It coats Hamzah’s fingers and the hem and a part above it of Martin’s shirt, which, thank God is white. It's not gonna stain for now, at least.

The two of them breathe heavily, Hamzah’s grip loosening and Martin’s arms both falling to his sides sluggishly. 

Hamzah feels dazed. The stars he was seeing a minute ago are fading away the more the post-strange-not-sex-with-your-best-friend clarity hits. His forehead drops onto Martin’s shoulder, weakly bringing his hands up to them too.

The room is too quiet now. Too loud, too — the sound of their breathing feels unbearable against the stillness, but neither of them moves, not yet. Martin's palm is warm where it rests on the back of Hamzah's neck, but his fingers twitch like he wants to pull away.  

Hamzah stays where he is, head tucked into Martin's shoulder, listening to the gradually slowing rhythm of his breaths. It feels too good. Good in the way that something you’re absolutely prohibited to do feels good. Like something he’s not supposed to have. His fingers play idly with the neck of Martin's shirt, brushing over the skin underneath.  

And then, softly, Martin laughs.  

It’s dry and quiet and almost bitter. Hamzah shifts, lifting his head to look at him. “Don’t–” Martin starts, but doesn’t finish. His hand lingers for a moment before falling to his side once more. “You’re gonna make this weirder.”  

Hamzah blinks at him, indignant. His heart skips a beat at the words, but Martin’s expression is a mix of exhaustion and something softer, almost apologetic. Hamzah stares at him, half puzzled, and the only thing he can tell for sure is that the guilt got to him.  

“Right,” Hamzah mutters, leaning back and raking a hand through his hair. He wants to laugh, too, but his chest feels tight. He doesn’t know what’s so funny. “Wouldn’t wanna make it weird. Yeah.”  

Martin doesn’t respond right away, just looks at him for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. In the end, all he does is let out another breath and drop his head back against the wall.  

Hamzah awkwardly climbs out of his lap, sitting right next to him and pulling his pants back up. Martin imitates him again, just like he did before. He needs to wash his hand and the two of them need to change, but getting out of the bed would be just as bad right now. He feels disgusting.

“Did I fuck it up?” Martin asks, and the way his voice gets lower the more he goes on makes it sound like he wasn’t intending to ask that out loud. 

“Well,” Hamzah sighs. “Not beyond what was already fucked up, I think. So it’s fine.”

“Is it?”

“Dude, you tell me.”

They stay silent for a moment. Too long of a moment, at that. Martin looks at Hamzah, but Hamzah just stares at the wall in front of him. Way more interesting than Martin’s pretty face. He probably has that glossy eyed, kicked dog stare on and just the thought of seeing that right now pisses Hamzah off so badly it could send him into a coma.

Hamzah’s brain is going a thousand miles an hour, and it keeps looping on the same questions. What was the point of going through that whole sappy conversation if he’s just gonna act the exact same way he apologized for acting for? What the hell is the point in being so shamelessly vocal and cumming all over his hand if a second later he’s regretting it so hard he’s visibly considering never talking to Hamzah again? It’s insane. It’s actually insane.

Of course, he is to blame. He knew Martin would get all weird and he still did it, but he’s just a man. Martin’s a man too, but he’s a taken one. There’s way more responsibility on his shoulders than there are on Hamzah’s. 

“This doesn’t change anything, right?”

Before Hamzah can answer, though he doesn’t even know for sure what he was gonna say, Martin’s phone goes off, ringing. He flinches slightly and reaches to pick both the phone and the call up.

“Hey.” Martin looks at the window, listening. “Oh, alright. Just a second, then. I gotta change my shirt. We’ll be there in, like, two seconds. Okay. Love you.” He hangs up and stares at his screen for a second, pursing his lips.

“Mandy?”

“Yeah, she’s here.” Martin gets up, stretching his back as he does so. He walks to the chair next to his desk, picking up a random shirt from a pile on it that’s probably just as disgusting as the one he’s wearing, but at least doesn’t have both his and Hamzah’s cum in it. “She told us to go to the front door.”

“Right. Okay.” Hamzah does the same and tries not to look at Martin taking off his shirt to change to the other one. “We’re still going to that restaurant?”

“Yup.”

“That’s great.” He picks his phone up from the bed to check himself out in the camera app. His face is flushed and his hair is a mess, but he has a beanie thrown on that desk next to the chair with the pile of definitively terrifyingly dirty clothes sitting on it. 

As Hamzah tugs it over his head, the one Martin has another to match, Martin glances at him briefly, almost like he’s about to say something, but decides against it. He adjusts the hem of his new shirt, one from their one year anniversary merch, clearing his throat instead.

Martin opens the door of the room to make his way to the front door, and Hamzah follows.

When Martin moves to leave after picking up his wallet from the kitchen counter, Hamzah reaches out without thinking, his fingers lightly brushing against his wrist. Martin pauses, looking down at the touch with an expression that’s too hard to read.  

“Martin,” Hamzah says, not really sure where he’s going with it. His voice feels smaller than he expected. “You’re not gonna– like, freak out about this, right?”  

Martin’s lips twitch like he might laugh, but he just exhales, almost amused. He raises a hand, hesitant for a moment, before pushing gently at Hamzah's forehead, nudging him back in a motion that’s just shy of playful. “Don’t overthink it, dude.”  

Hamzah tilts his head confusedly and blinks at him, caught off guard. And then Martin’s already halfway across the room, grabbing his keys and shoes, putting them on. “You coming, or what?” he calls over his shoulder, voice carefully casual, like they hadn’t just crossed a line a few minutes ago.   

Hamzah stands there for a second, the imprint of Martin’s hand lingering on his skin, just like it always does, before shaking himself out of it. He adjusts the beanie again, even though it’s already fine, and follows him out the door, grabbing his shoes too so he can put them in inside the car. 

He’s not gonna freak out if Martin’s not gonna freak out, at least this time. That’s how it’s supposed to go.