Chapter Text
Hamzah wakes up in a start far too early one morning. Mouth ashy, muscles cramped, eyes heavy in their sockets. Exposed skin sticks to the sheets and the low hum of circulated air does nothing to ease the thrum of hot blood coursing through him.
He peels himself out of bed; the sun had barely risen, and the light pooling through the blinds was meagre at best. A look at his phone confirms it's four o'clock in the morning, the quick shower does nothing to ease the drowsiness from his bones.
By the time he dresses and slowly creeps out to avoid waking Thomas, he feels dirty again.
The Curacao sun beats down like artillery bombardment: sudden, unremitting, brutal – but in these early hours it was remarkably cooler. Brisk air slides over the bare skin on his legs as he makes his way down the porch. The same tired thoughts churn over themselves in his mind like a pit of snakes. He can feel it all the way up his arms and in the restlessness of his legs. It’s more than just his usual idle fidgeting. It’s agitation. And the more his mind tangled, the more agitated he got. So now he was walking.
Before he knew it he was at the end of the drive. One foot after the other and he was weaving his way through streets.
He barely takes notice of the barren roads he walked through, bright buildings and cafes slathered in colour strangely quaint without their usual population. It was like the whole world was asleep but him.
Hamzah only glances up as the rocky pavement slowly grows finer. It breaks into blades of grass, and then slowly melts into sand.
The beach is deserted, but the bone-white sand bears traces of people — footprints and half-destroyed sandcastles. The fattest part of the sun straddles the horizon, and the orange reflected onto the water is the blinding.
Calm down, Hamzah wills himself, eyes squinting into the direct sunlight.
Blades of grass tickle his bare legs as he sits.
Hamzah's mind drifts back to a previous night spent on this exact beach, the memory unfurls like a dream. The camera had long been set aside, having died mid mukbang. They had still managed to gather enough footage to make a good video, vowing not to focus on their channel for the rest of the trip. They’d wandered to the beach with the intention of just watching the sunset, but they sat there in conversation long after dark. Their voices mingled with the rhythmic pulse of the ocean.
Martin had been unusually quiet after their banter subsides, his usually buoyant demeanour dampened. His silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was different, almost contemplative.
"I’m glad you’re here." Martin had murmured, breaking the pleasant silence they’d fallen into. The sun made his memories hazy, but he can still see the redness of Martin's sunburnt skin and the warmth in his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“I’m glad too, man.” Hamzah swallows hard. His chest aches with everything he can’t bring himself to say, he can only offer a quiet, earnest smile.
Hamzah had always felt inexplicably drawn to him.
He finds it hard to recall a time Martin wasn’t always there, a few minutes away at most.
He couldn’t count the amount of nights they’d spent talking about their hopes and fears, dreams and disappointments. Everything they could think to say, and then a little more. Talking until his jaw hurt and his sides ached from laughing.
He was grateful, of course he was, he’d never had a friendship like this before. Something so effortless and natural, and yet something still had the nerve to irk him.
A thorn in his side. All-consuming.
He scans across the stable line of the sea and rests his head atop his folded arms. Hamzah sighed into the morning air, the silence was a cruel but honest companion.
Hamzah had always managed to keep his emotions neatly compartmentalised, but lately, that delicate balance was slipping.
In conversations with others, he deflected questions about his feelings without difficulty. His denial was his shield, and he wielded it with almost comical precision. Each time he caught himself daydreaming, he’d mentally slap his own wrist, reminding himself to focus on something, anything, other than the swallowing ache in his heart.
He played the part of the supportive friend with practised ease, all the while feeling a simmering resentment that he was loath to admit.
Each time he saw Martin’s eyes light up when Mandy entered the room, or they’d share a hushed inside joke and playful touch, Hamzah felt a subtle, almost imperceptible stab of frustration. He’d see Martin’s unguarded joy, the easy way Mandy fit into his life, and let envy seep down the back of his throat. Acidic and harsh.
It was all too easy to dismiss these feelings as inconsequential, to chalk them up to something trivial.
Hamzah’s internal conflict was compounded by his attempts to rationalise his feelings. He told himself that it was only natural to feel this way, that everyone has moments of jealousy, and that it would pass. Yet, as days turned into weeks, the bitterness persisted. The truth he was desperately trying to avoid was now too clear to deny: his feelings were more than just a fleeting annoyance; they were a significant, unsettling force in his life.
Hamzah’s mouth pulls into a thin line.
Suddenly, a voice called out behind him, shattering the bubble Hamzah had gotten so caught up in. Startled, he turned to see Martin approaching, his figure outlined against the dawn-lit sky.
A bolt of panic surged through him, fuelling a rapid onslaught of thoughts to crash into the side of his head and render his mouth useless.
“Hamzah?” Martin repeats, close enough to see Hamzah’s mirrored confusion.
“Hey.” He replies, managing to sound a lot cooler than he felt.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” He hadn’t shaved his stubble, and his voice hadn’t quite settled properly.
“Wake me? Nah, I didn’t even know you were up.”
“Just cause I was in the kitchen, I thought I might have made a sound or something.”
“You know I’m a deep sleeper. Nothing can wake me, man.” The irony of the statement isn’t lost on him.
“So what's up with this—” Martin takes a quick look at his phone, the motion is enough to alert Hamzah to the emptiness in his right pocket, he’d left his phone back at the house. “—almost five a.m. beach visit then?”
He looks towards Hamzah, wearing a light-hearted smile.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re up?” He says, mostly just to say anything at all. Point fingers elsewhere.
And Martin takes the bait, settling down next to him.
“Me ‘n Mandy are going to swim with the turtles, we had to wake up super early for the bus.” Just the reminder of the time has him yawning into his palm.
They talk around the topic for a few minutes. Idle, comfortable chatter. Something about sunken ships and stingrays, the video they swore they’d stop talking about; and eventually how the couple had neglected to bring anything to put their packed lunches in, so they would have to eat all their sandwiches for breakfast and just pray they didn’t get hungry later on.
“So,” Martin starts, jumping on the lull in conversation. The green world seems to soften around him. Grass blades rise low on his ankles, and bend with the pale expanse of his legs stretching out across them. “Your turn. How come you’re up?”
Hamzah clears his throat, “It’s nothing, really.”
There’s a pause before he feels compelled to add, “Just couldn’t sleep.”
“Right.”
Birds wheel above them in elliptical orbits, quick flashes of colour diving into the spray and climbing back up into the sky. Hamzah tilts his head up to avoid Martin’s insistent gaze.
They dipped and climbed like fighter planes, just missing one another.
“I didn’t wanna say anything, but I’ve noticed you look a little—” Martin’s arms gesture around uselessly to aid his words, “—out of it sometimes? I don’t know, like there’s something on your mind.” His eyes search over Hamzah’s face.
“I just want you to know you can talk to me, about anything.” He adds, suddenly more sure in himself.
Hamzah, slightly taken aback by Martin’s sincerity, tries to brush it off.
“It’s nothing, really.” He repeats, not entirely on purpose. “I don’t wanna bother you with it.”
The second the words escape his lips, he feels a pang of regret. He knows he's only confirming Martin's suspicions that something is indeed wrong.
“You wouldn’t be bothering me,” Martin replies, just a second too quickly. “You know that.”
There is something in the way Martin talks that gives him away, his keenness to seek information. He’ll always try to ease Hamzah in but it’s obvious in how he works his jaw—the words ready to spill out as soon as he gains more ground.
“Martin, please.” Hamzah’s voice strains a little. “Just drop it.”
He knows he’s being defensive, hates himself for it, but he’s strung out and stretched thin.
They are silent a moment – edging into territory they never touch. Late nights shoulder to shoulder, a sickly guilt, the type of things that would keep Hamzah’s head buzzing long after he’d laid down to sleep. It still accompanies a sense of hesitation and shame, a knee-jerk reaction to run away, a long list of fears and insecurities that all bubble up to the surface.
Hamzah refuses to meet his gaze.
“I just want you to tell me what’s wrong.”
Hamzah’s heart pounds in his chest. Scattered and alarmed, his brain struggles to put together any answer that would suffice. He feels a hot flush of anger, frustration, and something else—so much so his hands shook with it. He speaks without thinking, and it comes out rough. “You wouldn’t understand.”
A complex mix of emotions flickering across Martin’s face, too quick to decipher. Hamzah hadn’t meant to say it, hadn't meant to let himself spill as much as he already had.
Agitation squirmed in the muscles of his face. He couldn’t help but feel like he was losing somehow. Like there was a right thing to be saying and he was making a mess of things, falling short of every beat.
“Hamzah, I can help–” The way Martin’s voice wraps around his name hurts, it feels like something he’s forbidden from. Beatific and just out of reach.
“I don't need your help, Martin! God, just—” Like an open wound, Hamzah cannot stop the words from bleeding out of him. He hates it when Martin speaks like that, soft and nauseatingly sweet like he’s speaking to someone unreasonable, crooning to a cornered animal. It makes Hamzah sick to his stomach.
The volume of his voice brought the rest of the world to a halt around them. Anything Martin might have said fizzled away on his tongue.
Hamzah can feel Martin’s eyes on him, can feel his concern like a second heartbeat.
They go what feels like a long while before speaking again, before Hamzah can bring himself to address him again.
“Just go away. Let me sit here, alright?” He grits out, the hinges of his jaw feeling as if they’d been wound too tight. Every syllable was a struggle.
Martin didn’t respond immediately. He sighs through his nose, a resigned sound, and after a moment, pushes himself up from the floor.
Hamzah watches out of the corner of his eye, a blur of browns against gentle blue; the clouds seem to drift closer to him in twin longing.
The action seemed to signal the end of the confrontation, but the tension remained, coiling tightly between them. He knows he should apologise, but the words won’t come. They never seem to.
“Fine.”
Blood rushes in his ears. Martin’s fading footsteps blend with the rapid pump of his heart.
It takes Hamzah a while to calm down, he paces the stretch of beach twice before making his way back to the house. He blames the heavy knot in his stomach on his lack of breakfast. It’s still early enough that he only encounters a few locals on his walk back, the clock still a few minutes shy of six a.m.
Exhaustion seems to catch up to him as soon as he cracks the door to his room open, slipping his sliders off and collapsing back into the cool embrace of his sheets. He gets another few hours of dreamless sleep.
Martin and Mandy were out for the day, snorkelling with turtles, or whatever Martin had said. Hamzah considers the space a blessing.
A breeze passes that ruffles gently through his hair. A light sweat graces his skin, from the hours of baking in the sun he’d grown familiar with.
Hamzah spends the majority of his day in and around the pool, trying to soak in the serenity. He even takes a solo trip into town to shop around, but he finds his mind too busy to engage with any of it. The vibrant stalls and colourful wares blur together as his thoughts drift back to this morning on the beach. Every souvenir seems insignificant, every distraction fleeting. His heart isn’t in it; not really.
The world continues to shift around him, an unstoppable machine. Hamzah feels truly disconnected from it. The pound of footsteps, the hum of conversation, the strong aroma of street food and coffee—all of it is muted, as if he's watching from behind a glass wall. He wanders aimlessly, drifts in and out of shops, thumbing at trinkets and half-reading menus.
All the days started blending into one another around the four day mark, his memories a muddy mix of salt and laughter and overwhelming heat. His brain feels crowded by a cloud of humid fog.
Things weren't supposed to be like this. he couldn’t even place when things shifted, there was just something different now. A spanner in the works.
Hamzah thinks of texting him but ultimately decides against it. He leaves the town and wanders back to the resort.
Drinking wasn’t exactly an escape, it was just convenient. If they were back home Hamzah probably would’ve smoked, alcohol could open the wrong doors in him sometimes. It chipped away at his hold on his inhibitions with surprising force.
He shakes his head at the thoughts his mind dredges up. Lingering touches and slurred promises.
Hamzah picks up a 6-pack on his walk home regardless.
Night approaches like a quiet friend. It paints the sky in oranges and blues, cicadas humming distantly. Hamzah takes a long sip from his can. The air was thick with the scent of the sea and blooming flowers.
Alcohol buzzed through his veins, low and steady in the back of his mind. Hamzah had wandered back to their holiday house to charge his phone, setting his can down next to the small crowd of plastic bottles he was collecting on his nightstand.
Thomas had startled him for a split second when he opened the door to their shared room, his resemblance to his older brother was even more uncanny in low light.
Luckily for him, talking to Thomas was easy. He's picking up a few stray pieces of clothes from the floor when he mentions everyone going out for dinner. The prices for food in the resort were bordering on extortionate, so they were heading to this small restaurant Martin’s parents found.
He’s holding the same shirt he’d laid out with a few other pieces of clothing to dry in the sun earlier, all of them having been thoroughly sweat through.
“Nah, ‘think I’ll pass. Getting an early night.” He swipes his phone screen a few times.
“Both you and Martin then, what a surprise.” Thomas muses, slipping the shirt on over his head. Hamzah ignores the growing anticipation in his gut.
“We aren’t having boys night without you, don’t worry.”
Thomas smiles to himself as he grabs what looks to be his wallet, long blue shadows make everything in the room a bit of a guessing game from afar, especially without his glasses. They exchange quick goodbyes and Thomas slides back out of the door.
Hamzah’s head falls back onto his pillow. He closes his eyes and listens to the muffled flow of the family’s conversation through the wall, picking out voices when he could.
He thought about the way Martin’s face had tightened with hurt and confusion. A thick layer of guilt had honeyed his conscience ever since he’d reopened his eyes earlier this afternoon.
He was going to apologise. He had to, because when it came down to it, Hamzah couldn’t imagine his life without Martin. Didn't want to hurt him, or Mandy for that matter. These were some of his dearest friends, he felt as if he was harbouring something unforgivable—but this laceration did not have to bleed into his reality, he could bandage it shut if he really kept himself in check.
He could watch them wrapped up in one another and stop his heart twisting like a wrung-out dishcloth. He could smile and joke and the jealousy bristling in his gut would be nothing but a phantom pain. He could sigh someone else’s name against his pillow, think of anyone else when he was alone and wanting. He had to. This was his cross to bear, his penance for a yearning so immoral. And he would bear it in silence, for their sake. For Martin, for Mandy.
Hamzah mulls over what to say until his phone reached a decent battery percentage.
He glanced at his reflection and the room spun slightly. Maybe he was being dramatic. Maybe this was just another fleeting crisis, another night where his emotions got the better of him. The certainty he clung to felt fragile, like it could shatter with the slightest push.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. For now, he would focus on the apology. The rest—well, he would figure it out. Eventually.
He tries Martin’s room first, knocking his fist into the door only to be met with nothing. He hums to himself, finding both the main living area and kitchen barren. He finally pops his head outside, rounding the corner towards the pool. The lights submerged beneath the water paint everything blue, including the figure sat on its edge.
Hamzah swallows and is overly aware of the blood pumping at the base of his throat, warm pulse fluttering away like a scared hummingbird.
Martin’s shirt, dull green lines on white linen, swayed gently in the night breeze.
”Hey, man.”
Martin turns to look at him over his shoulder, seeming to not have noticed him approach at all initially. Hamzah’s heart twists at the smile he receives, he looked worn down.
“Hey.”
“Not going to dinner?” He extends a can to Martin. They aren’t cold by any means, but the condensation is nice on his warm palms. There’s enough left for two drinks each.
Martin inspects it for a moment, as if he’s unsure, before finally taking it. “Nah, too tired. What’s your excuse?” He offers a half-smile, tilting his head back to take a few long sips.
Hamzah taps his fingers on the edge of the pool. “I just don’t feel like talking to people right now.”
“You’re talking to me, right now.” That makes Martin really smile. You could hear it in his voice.
“That's different.” It was different, it had always been different.
“Okay. Whatever that means.”
Night reduced everything beyond the glowing lights of the pool to obscurity, a mishmash of monochromatic shapes.
Hamzah’s mind drifts. The alcohol was not a good idea, but he knew that when he bought it. He glances at Martin, taking in the way the light plays off his features, the way his lips curve into a small, contented smile. He thumbs at the tab on his drink.
Martin catches his gaze and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
I’m sorry.
“How were the turtles?” Hamzah says, like a coward. He’ll get to the apology, but he doesn’t want to dive straight into the deep end. Luckily Martin seems enthusiastic to share.
He talks about Patrick, their slightly eccentric tour guide, and how it was a two and a half hour bus ride just to get to another beach. It sounds ungrateful, but when on an island brimming with beautiful beaches and picturesque landscapes, they all do seem to blur together slightly. Martin talks about how the land had framed it like a picture and how the sand had burnt his feet.
“He said it was one of the most sought after beaches, cause it’s all natural. The water was suuuper blue.” He shows a few photos from his phone. The water was in fact remarkably clear, it made sense why it was such a popular snorkelling spot. “Bus ride was worth it for the turtles. They loved me, seriously.”
Hamzah chuckles. “Oh yeah? Can you sympathise with them more now?”
“What, for eating plastic?” Martin laughs. “I guess. They were pretty cute.”
Hamzah hums in agreement before adding. “What did Mandy think?”
Strangely, that seemed to strike a chord. The corner of Martin’s mouth twitches. “She liked it too, I guess.”
“You guess? Mandy loves animals. How could she not love that?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t that. We kind of argued — nothing crazy, but enough for it to be an uncomfortable bus ride back.” Martin is almost grimacing into his words by the end of his sentence, likely recalling the stifling journey.
“Oh. Is that why you skipped dinner?”
“I mean, I wasn’t lying. Fighting does tire me out.” Martin kicks a leg gently in the water, his eyes following the ripples spreading across the surface.
“Are you alright?” Hamzah asks after a moment, weighing up the options in his head over whether or not their argument had to do with him or not. His mind jumps from thought to thought. His stomach turns for even considering it, but he can’t help himself.
Their altercation earlier might have set the stage for tension. It wasn’t hard to believe his name could have been brought up, it wouldn’t be the first time.
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. “I mean, she didn’t say anything I hadn’t already thought myself. I just need to apologise, that’s all.”
Hamzah considers asking about details, but he knows he has no real right to be prying for information right now, so he reigns in any questions.
“Okay, I trust you’ve got it.” Hamzah says, resting his hand on Martin's shoulder. “As long as you’re good.”
Martin smiles, blowing through his nose, and says.
“You’re the worst.”
“What?” Hamzah asks, incredulously.
“You can say things like that and I can’t?”
“About that, yeah.” Hamzah took a breath in through his nose, everything he’d rehearsed suddenly seemed inadequate. “I’m sorry about this morning.” The words came out so quickly they almost sounded like one big long word. Martin waves him off.
“Man, it’s fine. I was being pushy.” There’s a hint of something in his voice, a lingering unease. It tugged at Hamzah's conscience, pushing him to continue.
“No, I know I’ve been acting weird. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It wasn’t fair.” He says, and as robotically as it comes out, it's genuine. “I’ve been...dealing with stuff, and it’s not your fault. I’m sorry if I made you feel like it was.”
Martin’s shoulders relax, the tension visibly draining from his body. He gives Hamzah a fond look.
“You’re my best friend. I’m going to worry about you no matter what. I just want you to know you can talk to me, you don’t have to shut me out.”
Hamzah shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his words. A drift of wind carries up the sound of bugs in the nearby foliage, faraway.
“Yeah.” He mutters.
Martin lets out a soft laugh, mostly to himself. “You really aren’t good at this.”
“Thanks for noticing.” Hamzah retorts, smiling despite himself.
“I’m here for you, that's all I’m saying.” He nudges his shoulder into Hamzah’s. “You know, men's mental health and everything.”
“Dude. You cannot tell me I’m bad at this and then, fucking drop that.” Hamzah shakes his head, smirking.
“I mean it, though. I know we joke around a lot, but I’m serious about this.” The air is clear, and still, and the words are carried with a refreshing candour that does little to dispel his thoughts.
Hamzah feels as if his Adam's apple had turned to stone. He clears his throat before responding, “I know, man. And I appreciate it.” The vulnerability in his voice surprises even himself. “Same for you, obviously.”
“Oh yeah?” Martin prompts, looking at him out of the corner of his eye as he takes a long swig from his can. He then sets it aside, emptied.
“Can’t get rid of me, even if you tried.” Hamzah slings an arm around his shoulders, leaning into Martin with all of his weight. He’s quick to retaliate.
“Is that a threat?” He says, already trying to wiggle out of Hamzah’s grasp.
“You bet.” Hamzah grins at Martin's feeble attempt to push him away. Without warning, he tightens his grip, pulling him into a headlock. Martin yelps in surprise, his laughter echoing off the poolside tiles.
His next action wasn’t exactly thought through, his thoughts scatter and his actions become impulsive around Martin. The hands tugging at his forearm only made him slowly start to lean forwards, towards the blue depths of the pool, laughing as Martin starts to claw.
“Hah-Hamzah! Wait Hamzah, I’m serious, don't—!” Martin’s pleas.
But it was too late. In one swift movement, he pulls Martin forwards, sending both of them crashing into the cool water with a splash. The water engulfs them, momentarily stealing their breaths as they resurface.
The water is refreshing against their warm skin. Martin sputters with laughter, trying to push Hamzah away but failing miserably. They end up in a tangled mess, laughing like children as they struggle to right themselves in the pool.
Martin splashes water at Hamzah, finally getting some distance. "Asshole." He grins as he swam backwards. “You are so lucky I didn’t have my phone in my pocket.”
Hamzah grins back, a sense of lightness filling his chest. "Just trying to cool us off, man. It's a hot night." He ducks as Martin attempts to splash him again, the water rippling around them in the moonlight.
The low buzz of alcohol made swimming even more relaxing than usual, even while fully dressed, so it was hard to resist floating around for a little while. Luckily the clothes were nothing either of them cared too much about, shirts and shorts already well worn from long days in the sun.
Martin climbed out first, shaking water from his hair. When Hamzah finally emerged from the pool, dripping wet and giggling to himself, the weight on his shoulders felt lighter, buoyed by the lingering smile on Martin’s face.
“Should probably get out of these,” Hamzah says, it’s still far too warm to be truly bothered by the dampness of their clothes, but the cotton sticking to their skin still wasn’t exactly pleasant. Their wet footsteps leave a messy trail from the poolside back to Hamzah’s room.
The air conditioning makes him bristle, far cooler than the comfortable humidity outside.
Peeling off his shirt, he makes his way over to the little controller to turn the temperature up. The wet fabric clings stubbornly, but he manages to tug it free and toss it in the vague direction of his unpacked suitcase. “I can give you something to wear. ‘Feel like I kind of owe you now.”
“You definitely do.” Martin had his arms bundled up against his chest. “A towel would be great, too.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hamzah dips into the bathroom, grabbing a few plush white towels from the stack they’d been provided and hands them over. Martin mumbles a thank you before pulling his shirt off, towelling down the damp skin.
Hamzah follows suit, grabbing a towel and starts to vigorously rub his hair, his curls springing back to life with each pass.
Hamzah can't help but steal glances at Martin as he moves around the room, eyeing the mess wordlessly. He felt like a fucking teenager. He couldn’t count the number of times he’s seen Martin shirtless, he’d always rationalised any lingering glances as having an appreciation for his hard work.
His eyes felt heavy as he watched a single droplet of water trail down Martin’s chest, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. This had to be some sort of torture.
Hamzah forces himself to look away, throwing a shirt and a fresh pair of shorts at him. He slips into the ensuite bathroom to change.
Hamzah takes the time to root around for something for himself. Calm down, Hamzah wills himself, pulling a clean shirt over his head.
“You’re still down for the museum tomorrow?” Martin asks, his voice bouncing off of the tiled walls of the bathroom. He was talking about one of the handful of museums they’d passed on their trips through the city centre. Their names were jotted down in his notes app, not that he could recall any of them now.
“Sure. But like, not too early.” He calls back, more than loud enough for Martin to hear him through the cracked door. He slips on the same blue shorts he’d worn to bed for the past few nights.
Martin continues talking about the plans following that, despite the fact Hamzah had already heard it three times over. Something about venturing out of Willemstad and doing some shopping elsewhere, then shifts to sharing how much he’d learnt about the history of Curacao during his tour and how it could be relevant to the museum.
Hamzah can only imagine he’s loosely quoting their guide, chipping in his own commentary here and there. He always did that, acting as if he was the most knowledgeable on a topic after finding out the most basic fact. In anyone else he would have found it a little irritating, but in Martin it was strangely endearing.
Hamzah stands near the edge of his bed, glancing around the room as if searching for something to anchor his thoughts. The crowd of empty water bottles does little to distract.
His thoughts about Martin, however brief and consistently brushed off, were now held firmly in his mind. A quick flash of sharp bone beneath the hem of his shirt, a glimpse at his teeth, the brush of their arms when sitting all too close to one another. To Hamzah, they were tantamount to pornography, things he’d store away in his memory for late nights, mull over when he was home alone and waiting for a text.
He barely even clocks Martin walking out of the bathroom, nor half of the words flowing out of his mouth.
“Are you even listening to me?”
The borrowed shirt hangs slack on his shoulders, just the slightest bit too big. Hamzah cringes to himself. How was this worse?
“Yeah,” He breathes, suddenly aware of Martin’s proximity. He was now standing directly in front of him, a hair too close.
His eyes are glued to his mouth. He thinks of the way Martin had laughed earlier, carefree and genuine, wet hair plastered to his forehead. He thinks of the way Mandy’s hand fits so perfectly in Martin’s. He thinks of a night from months ago, the two of them huddled under a blanket on Hamzah’s couch, sharing snacks and watching a sequence of bad youtube videos. Martin had fallen asleep halfway through, his head resting on Hamzah’s shoulder, his breath warm against his neck.
He thinks of the countless moments they had shared, teetering just on the line. His blood flows backwards.
“Good, because we’ll have to leave—” Martin started, but he was quickly cut off as Hamzah leaned forwards, closing the distance between them.
It’s a tentative thing, a light brush of lips.
Hamzah feels his heart drop when he realises it’s just him.
Martin is still against him, frozen in place, like the kiss had knocked the soul from his body. It was as if time had slowed to a standstill, the only sound the persistent hum of the air conditioning.
Here’s exactly where he should stop, push Martin away and apologise, before taking a trip back down to the beach to wander into the water and drown. He should wipe his mouth and consider some sort of intensive therapy. But Hamzah knows himself, and he knows if he doesn’t take this chance, he will fizzle out and die like a distant star.
So instead, his hand finds the back of Martin’s neck, pulling him closer. He makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and kisses him more intently. Then, as if awoken from a trance, Martin’s entire being responds.
He sighs through his nose, an almost dreamy sound. His hands magnetise to Hamzah’s face, and then slowly slip into his hair. Ecstasy and disbelief tangle as the seconds slip by, the heat of Martin’s mouth coaxing him further into both. Unsure of how it’s happening, unsure that it really was.
His breathing grew heavier every time Martin came back for more, as if he couldn't get enough, as if he wanted Hamzah, as if this felt good for him, too.
God, did it feel good for him, too?
Hamzah pressed a hand to the centre of his chest, slowly guiding Martin down so he could press him into the plush sheets, the need to be close to him overpowering any rationality. He goes down easy, propping himself up on his elbows. Hamzah is absolutely high on the soft way he lets himself be kissed, pressing back into every touch given to him.
They fell into a fervent rhythm, all teeth and heavy breathing.
Martin groaned at the way Hamzah’s body cages him in, the way he can’t let go yet.
For the first time in ages, he felt present. Really present.
The culmination of months filled with mixed signals and conflicting feelings and denial all comes to a stop in that moment. It melts into clarity. It feels like coming home, like staring down the barrel of the gun, looking death in the face.
His attraction to Martin felt sacrilegious, and yet satisfaction washes over him like the warm tide.
His hands snake down the lean column of Martin’s waist, pressing him back against the bed. His fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt and splay out across the expanse of his torso, Martin shivers at the gentle possessiveness of the action.
Hamzah relishes every second, unsure of where he’d store all of this new information. The gentle scratch of Martin’s bitten down nails against his scalp, the smooth curve of his back beneath his hands, the addictive press of his lips. There is nothing that could possibly pull him away from this. There’s no room left in any of his senses – all raised and sharpened to a thin, pulsing needlepoint. Hamzah can’t recall anyone else making him feel this way, so willing to throw every inhibition to the wind without a second's consideration, a yearning so profound it bordered on obsession.
Desperation tangles them together, Hamzah slots his thigh between Martin’s legs, slowly trailing kissing down the side of his face. He’s crumbling like hot sand in his hands and Hamzah savours every breathy little sound Martin lets escape his mouth.
He wonders what it’s like for Martin to be touched this way, to be pawed at like a girl. The notion that he was likely the only person to ever have him like this has his head spinning.
“Hah—Hamzah,” Martin manages between sharp breaths, hands gripping the stern line of Hamzah’s shoulders.
“Yeah, baby?” He exhales, too busy kissing down Martin’s neck, pulling the collar of his shirt aside to expose more sun-tanned skin. He’s completely gone, mind lost in a place of weightlessness, somewhere that doesn’t matter.
He sucks a little mark just below his collarbone, dragging his teeth along the skin like a man starved. His mind registers a faint sound, but he couldn't quite put a finger on it, not with every other ounce of stimuli buzzing across his skin like a live wire.
“Hamzah!” Martin’s voice trembles with panic as he pushes Hamzah back, hands firm against his chest. The whites of his eyes are far too bright, breath coming in short, frantic gasps.
It’s only then that he hears the front door slam closed and the familiar hum of chatter through the wall. They were back. Reality crashes over his head like a beer bottle, shattering the moment and leaving him stunned.
“They’re -– we can’t —we can’t do this.” Martin’s words tumble out in a frantic staccato, sputtering as if he’d been dropped into the pool again. Hamzah wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually going into shock, he’d never seen him so pale.
It’s all he really needs to say. Hamzah is suddenly dead sober.
He feels a pang of guilt so sharp it almost knocks the wind out of him. He opens his mouth to say something, anything to make this right, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he touches Martin's arm as he pushes himself off of the bed, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.
“Martin,” he manages, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Hamzah watches, stunned, as Martin takes a step back, his movements jerky and disoriented. “Martin—” Hamzah starts, but Martin’s reaction is immediate and visceral. He pushes Hamzah away, the force of it sending Hamzah stumbling back a step. The sting of rejection is sharp, a painful reminder.
“Hamzah, this can’t be happening. We shouldn’t have—” Martin’s voice cracks, his panic palpable.
The words burst out of Hamzah before he had a chance to think. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.” He says, his voice betraying a desperation he hadn’t intended
“What?” Martin’s expression hardens, a blend of hurt and incredulity flashing across his face. “You think this is something we can just, pretend didn’t happen?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Hamzah says quickly, “I just— I didn’t want it to be... I mean, I don’t want it to ruin things between us. I don’t want it to be a big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” He strains, shaking his head. “We - we crossed a line.” There’s a finality in his words that makes Hamzah feel it. Regret. Hot and all consuming, a hard ball of dread weighing him down like an anvil.
The following silence feels wrong, hurts like a joint out of its socket. More than anything, Hamzah wishes there was something he could say to push it back into place.
“I should go.” Martin says after a long, drawn out moment.
“Okay. We’ll talk.” Hamzah utters, forcing the words out even though they feel like a promise he’s not sure he can keep. It sounds like the right thing to say.
Martin nods, solemnly.
The loud pounding of his heart overpowers Martin’s retreating footsteps. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound was like a verdict. It left a chasm in its wake.
His mind replays the intensity of their kiss, the way Martin had pulled away with such distress, how he looked nothing short of mortified afterwards—the memories were branded onto Hamzah’s mind, vivid and painful.
The very spontaneity that had once seemed so exhilarating now felt reckless. How were they supposed to move on from something like that? How was he supposed to look any of them in the eye?
He fumbled with the edge of his shirt, twisting it in his hands. He wasn't sure what to do with his body.
The silence is sharper and more bitter than ever before. Maybe it's the bile rising in his throat distorting his sense of it, but whatever the cause, his throat constricts uncomfortably, as if bracing for a cry.
It never comes, like the oppressive stillness of a storm that never breaks.
Hamzah gets another poor night's sleep.