Chapter Text
Hamzah’s drunk out of his mind. He knows this much is true because he has absolutely no idea how long he’s been at this stupid club. Because he’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had at this point. Because the room is spinning and at any given moment he might just vomit.
As he slouches at some random booth, blinding, vivid lights flicker and dance across his vision— so dreamlike, so hallucinogenic. Pungent clouds of marajuana waft through the air like vapor from a humidifier. His tongue, sandpaper. Some guy he’s half listening to talks his ear off next to him, and it’s easily outmatched by some shitty EDM blasting into his brain and shaking the whole place in low vibration.
This place fucking sucks. But it’s his fault, really, for insisting that he and Martin go out instead of staying home and gaming like they always do on uneventful evenings. Their night played out something like this: him and Martin showed up together, and Martin almost immediately struck up conversation with, like, 10 different people while Hamzah awkwardly stood glued to his side, overwhelmed and a little overstimulated. He quietly slinks away to the bar, where Martin didn’t even seem to notice, which pissed him off for some reason. Hamzah proceeds to order drink after drink, ignoring how awful everything tasted and savoring the burn down his throat. He doesn’t even drink, either, what the hell was he thinking? No no, he’s having fun.
When he loses count how many drinks he’s had and all his senses go numb, he stumbles into a random booth, where the guy follows soon after. The man tells him he had his eyes on him all night, and that he followed him around from a distance ever since he got here. Flattered but creeped the fuck out, he could only nervously laugh in shock, which he took as positive feedback and presses even further. Although, he doubted he was even waiting for a response. He throws flirts about his eyes, his hair, his lips. Compliments his hands and makes some weird innuendo about it. Asked how big his dick is. Hamzah wanted to believe he was just as drunk as he was, but he sounded so confident and articulate talking about all these things. His eyes darting around and studying his slouched figure and swift, precise movement to touch him here and there were all too calculated to be performed by someone under the influence. That’s when Hamzah’s heart dropped and he realized he's perfectly sober.
He needs to get out of here, now. He frantically scans the area for any sign of his best friend, and by that he means dazedly flicking his eyes back and forth at the chaos before him, but to no avail. Martin… He slumps back in his seat in hopeless defeat.
The man waves a hand in front of his face, snapping his attention back to him. “You should come over to my place. We’ll have lots of fun.” He’s a lot closer than he was before. The man leans in by the side of his face, savoring his dazed expression and batting his lashes as he does it. He’s so close Hamzah can smell his breath as he talks: sweet, but artificial.
Maybe Hamzah should tell him he isn't gay (but would that be a truthful statement?). Instead Hamzah fixes his stare directly in front of him. “No, thanks,” he deadpans, but tries to be polite about it. Please get away from me.
“Oh, I think you should.” He scoots closer, gripping his forearm with a sudden intensity; it takes Hamzah every inch of his willpower to not jerk away and scream. “Just trust me, okay baby? You come over to mine, and I’ll do whatever I want with you. I can just imagine it in my head, fuck. I know you want this, deep down. I’ll give you such a good fucking time.”
“Uh—“
“Hamzah!” Now that’s a voice that rings clear and true. He could call Hamzah’s name from all the way at the other side of the club and he would perk up like a lost dog. For a moment it clears his fuzzy senses, and he feels real again. That anvil on his chest shatters, along with any apathy remaining in his heart. Suddenly, he has the will to live. Yikes. “You ready to go?”
Martinmartinmartinmartin
A warm, gentle hand rests on his free shoulder and Martin steps into his vision. Whoa, he looks… angelic. Party lights illuminate the back of his head, painting him in colorful, soft light despite the epilepsy-inducing flickering around them. Any self-loathing and despair fizzle away into the clouds of smoke above. Hamzah totally forgets why he’s mad at him in the first place, because Martin’s here to save him. Why have anything— anyone else, really? Martin tilts his head and concern immediately overtakes his expression, grimaces when Hamzah’s dilated eyes optimistically gaze back into his. Martin squeezes his shoulder, out of comfort or worry, and Hamzah automatically leans into it, dopily grinning and giggling like an idiot. “Hi Martinnn.”
The guy pulls away, shocked by Martin’s sudden interruption. He looks back and forth between the two staring at each other to oblivion. Then, as if his brain arrived at some reasonable answer, he flares red in embarrassment. Anger. “S—sorry for intruding,” he splutters, quickly rising from his seat and shuffling away from the scene playing out in front of him. “I had absolutely no idea you guys were...” In a couple seconds, the sea of people consumed him, and neither Martin nor Hamzah caught sight of him again. Not like they were even looking his direction.
At this point, Hamzah is full on leaning into Martin’s hand with joyous affection while Martin awkwardly stands beside him, rubbing small circles on his shoulder. “Thank you,” Hamzah says, closing his eyes in relief.
“Who was that?”
Hamzah gives him a curt, patchy rundown in bullet points. His tone told Martin all he needed to know.
“Christ.”
“I shouldn’t have ran off. I’m sorry.”
Martin vehemently shakes his head. “No, what? Hamzah, I’m the one who ignored you the whole night. Leaving you out and making you go through that is really really fucked up. None of this would even happen if I wasn’t selfish, and uncaring, and, fucking stupid. I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m not gonna leave you alone like that ever again, I promise you. You’re my best friend, Hamzah.”
Hamzah could cry. They smile at each other, and for once, he feels at ease.
…
By some miracle, which consisted of several minutes of stumbling down Toronto streets and laughing at the stupidest things, they reach their shared house.
They stop at their front door and Martin fumbles for the key. At their pause, Hamzah’s knees decide to buckle at that moment, and his legs bring him closer and closer to the ground. He feels like he’s plummeting off a skyscraper. Hamzah throws his arms around Martin’s neck as a last resort, making the pair stumble and giggle uncontrollably. “Hamzah!”
The door unlocks and Martin drags him in by the arm. Rudy jumps up at their legs. Hamzah almost trips over Fish and Carl. Red and Blue meow at them from somewhere.
“You are staying with me tonight.”
“Ahah… okay…” Martin pulls him along without missing a beat, skipping Hamzah’s room and going straight into Martin’s.
They’ve shared beds on multiple occasions. Usually when they want to save money when they, say, rent out an AirBnb to watch an eclipse, or book a hotel for a dumb mukbang. But also on less common occasions, whenever Hamzah’s drunk as shit. When he’s hungover, he gets unexplainable nightmares, mainly about Martin. It’s always about Martin, actually. It’s embarrassing to admit, especially to Martin himself, but he genuinely understood and accepted his request to sleep together like it’s just another favor to him. Nothing about sacrificing his dignity, or anything affecting their friendship. Because at the end of the day, that’s what it all is: a friendship. They’re friends.
Hamzah immediately flops down onto Martin’s bed, which is honestly more comfy than his own. He’ll never tell him that, though. Can’t admit he likes this a little too much. That’ll be weird to Martin, right?
He watches Martin sleepily as he turns away and empties his pockets. Then he slips his shirt off and Hamzah blanks. Glints of moonlight rush to illuminate his frame, casting shadows across his lean, toned back. Hamzah quickly averts his gaze, embarrassment overtaking him, and suddenly everything’s a bit too hot for his liking. It’s the heater. The alcohol. That’s what’s making his chest all warm. He bites his lip and stares at the ceiling. “Martin,” he murmurs without even thinking. “Take my shirt off.”
Martin freezes where he stands. Turns to stare at him like he’s crazy. “What?” he squeaks.
Hamzah makes some impatient noise, which flusters Martin even further. “Help me take my shirt off, it’s fuckin’ hot in here.” He dazedly sits up on his elbows to meet his eyes. “Please?” Silence falls over the pair as they stare at each other again, but it is in no way a comfortable one. It’s dragged out and desperate. Suffocating. Repressed. Please, someone do something. Hamzah makes a small pout while Martin dumbly stands like a deer in headlights, eyes shifting through a different emotion each second. “You’re shirtless, so I don’t see why I can’t be, too.”
“That’s not what I’m—” He cuts himself off, gives Hamzah a desperate look as if he’ll understand what that means. He does not. Martin looks lost, and Hamzah’s this close to snapping before finally he staggers to stand before him. “C’mere.” Hamzah grins and sits up, hoisting his torso forward so that he has to look up to see Martin’s face. They’re so close. Hamzah’s knees bump against Martin’s. Martin takes a deep breath and apprehensively grips the bottom of Hamzah’s shirt. Slowly, he hikes his shirt up, his cold knuckles dragging up Hamzah’s sides. They pretend not to notice. Hamzah pretends not to jolt.
Hamzah doesn’t know where to look, because Martin’s staring pretty hard down at his face—or his exposed body; he swears it’s both. He resorts to gluing his eyes to the floor. Martin lifts the fabric higher, bringing the shirt over his head. Hamzah weakly raises his arms in response, his vision veiled for only a second. Cool air quickly rushes against his bare chest. What a fucking relief.
Once his shirt’s tossed aside, their eyes find each other like magnets. Martin’s gazing into him in some kind of bewilderment, while Hamzah can’t help but feel a little enchanted. Martin’s so tall, the moonlight gives him a halo-like glow, the feeling of him standing over him and watching like he’s the center of attention makes his stomach flutter. And, no matter how hard he tries to fight it, his eyes keep getting pulled lower and lower by some invisible force, yearning to wander down his chest. He could reach out and touch it if he wanted to. It’s the alcohol, it’s the alcohol…
“You’re hot, Martin,” he says casually, like an offhand comment. Fuck.
Martin swallows. His face looks a little pink, but that’s just the moon playing tricks on him. “Let’s just… go to sleep.” He sharply pivots on the heel of his foot and robotically moves to the other side of the bed. Panicking, Hamzah forces himself to move, scooting backwards until his head bumps against the backboard. Martin swiftly, awkwardly, climbs into bed, avoiding his eyes and turning his back away from him. He hugs the very edge of his side of bed; one more move away from Hamzah and he would fall.
Hamzah’s heart simultaneously sinks through the floor and beats out his throat, but tiredness weighs down his entire being. They’ll somehow sort it out in the morning, but Hamzah doesn’t even want to think about that. In fact he dreads it. He turns, hugs his edge of the bed, and sleep overtakes him in seconds. His last thought was fleeting: Please forget about everything tomorrow.