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Hamzah realizes, after more than a week of being back home, that even worse than having to spend time around his family is the fact that he doesn't get to spend time around Martin.
It hadn't really dawned on him until then — until he was getting annoyed at his little brother for doing something that would've made him laugh if Martin had done the same thing — how co-dependent they were. They've been spending everyday together for the past several years, and that wasn't nothing. That was something, the kind of something that made being away from each other for extended periods of time almost unbearable.
Which sounds really fucking corny, but Hamzah's been locked in his room ever since his family finished dinner, scrolling through TikTok and trying not to count down the hours until he's back in Toronto. So maybe he was corny.
It wasn't even that he hated his family, or anything. He’s closer with his parents now than he ever used to be, no longer the angsty teenager that harbored resentment for the way they raised him. He likes them, most of the time, from a safe and healthy distance away, when he's in his apartment in Toronto with Martin and he's having sex everyday.
But spending two weeks in the house he grew up in, laying in his childhood bed, it's a lot. Teenage angst is practically peeling off of the walls, and it's only a little less suffocating than it was when he was fifteen.
He's still got a couple days left before he goes back home, and it shouldn’t even be a problem. Hamzah is an adult and an independent person, which means he can easily spend two weeks without seeing Martin. Or having sex with him. He's spent much longer than two weeks without having sex before, it shouldn't be difficult.
A video of goats using a trampoline shows up on his feed, a wholesome break in the midst of his doom-scrolling, and Hamzah watches them dance around each other, a smile tugging at his lips. It's so stupid, so nothing, but something about it is cute in a way that reminds him of Martin, so Hamzah goes to send it to him.
His finger is hovering over the share button when his eyes flicker up to the time in the top left corner of his screen, which reads 2:13 am.
Hamzah's not sure when it got so late or how he hadn't noticed, but he suddenly becomes hesitant to text Martin at all, even though the time wouldn't have stopped him if he was at home. Back in Toronto, Hamzah would still send Martin every other video from his feed, trying to hide the bright screen from Martin curled up next to him.
But it's different when they're apart. It's like an underlined, bolded, italicized message that says, "It's two in the morning and I'm still awake because I'm thinking about you when you're not even here."
He lets his phone fall onto his chest, moving one of his hands to cradle his face. It's not even a bad thing, to let Martin know that he misses him, or whatever. It was a little embarrassing, because they've only been apart for a couple weeks, but they were in a fucking relationship. That was like the whole point.
Hamzah pulls his hand through his hair and closes his eyes. He should've invited Martin to come with him, keep him packed in a suitcase or a little carry-on. Then he could be here, and Hamzah could wrap a hand around his neck and kiss the side of his face, breathing in the scent of Martin in his childhood bedroom, his past and future all blended together.
Heat simmers in his stomach, solidifying and coiling around his ribs. He hasn't even touched himself since he got here, and that was almost a miracle. It's like Jesus walking on water. Hamzah hasn't gotten off in over a week? Write that shit in the Bible.
He opens his eyes and looks up grumpily at the ceiling. If Martin was here, even if he was sleeping, Hamzah could just start kissing along the expanse of his neck, sliding a hand up under his shirt. Martin would wake up from the touch, and he'd be all sleepy and lethargic, but he'd still melt into Hamzah's mouth when Hamzah moved to kiss him, and he'd still get hard when Hamzah put his hand down his shorts.
The image sears into his mind, bright and sharp, and Hamzah lets himself sit with it, biting down on his lip. Martin was so fucking easy to fluster, and it was almost pathetic, how hungry it made Hamzah feel.
His hand starts to move on it's own accord, traveling down his stomach and towards the edge of his pajama pants. He licks his bottom lip and slips his hand underneath the fabric, palming himself over his boxers.
More images of Martin flood his mind, and Hamzah closes his eyes, tipping his head back onto the pillow. He thinks about Martin's face, positioned right between his thighs, smiling up at him with crinkled eyes, and then he thinks about grabbing onto Martin's hair and forcing him down. Martin would let him, and he'd mouth at Hamzah's boxers like a fucking bitch, desperate for a taste of the real thing.
Martin was dependably enthusiastic, like a puppy that can't stop it's tail from wagging, and the hand over Hamzah's boxers wasn't doing enough anymore, because distance makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever, and Hamzah was already hard.
He stops his movements and pushes his pants down to his thighs, bringing his boxers with them. He tries to be as quiet as possible, because even though his room was far away from everyone else, the idea of being overheard and getting caught by his parents makes him want to shrivel up into himself and explode.
His breath becomes shaky when he wraps a hand around himself, and back in his head Martin is taking him in his mouth, humming pleasantly. His hair is soft in between Hamzah's fingers and he's letting Hamzah fuck his mouth, peering up at him with wet, dark eyes. He's every wet dream Hamzah's ever had, custom-made and carefully crafted since the day they first met, built up from years of pining.
The only thing missing is the sounds Martin always made, the whining and the pleading and the way his voice would pitch when he'd say Hamzah's name. Hamzah tries to think about all of it at once, lost in the memories of the rambling nonsense that tumbled out of Martin's mouth whenever he got really close. The "Hamzah, Hamzah, please, more, more, Hamzah, please."
Hamzah's bedroom is too quiet without it, and suddenly the weight of his phone laying on his chest grows heavier. He opens his eyes and slows his hand around his dick, heat crackling like a fire in his chest.
He could, hypothetically, call Martin. It was really late and Martin might not even answer, but if he did, Hamzah'd be able to close his eyes and listen to Martin pant into his ear. It'd be like he was right there, right next to him, the next best thing.
And sure, calling Martin to have sex over the phone was way more embarrassing than sending him one TikTok, but he's starting to forget why he had been so hesitant to do that in the first place. The idea of finishing without Martin's voice breaking in his ear was beginning to feel more and more underwhelming, and Hamzah's one-track mind was already fumbling for his phone.
He clumsily swipes out of TikTok and scrolls to find the phone app, opening it and immediately clicking on Martin's name. It was sitting at the top of the screen, the most recent call Hamzah had made, from when they had talked on the phone earlier that day.
It instantly begins to dial, and Hamzah brings it up to his ear, his other hand still sitting at the base of his dick. He begins to move it again, lazily stroking himself, anticipation heavy in his head.
The wait feels infinite, so Hamzah circles back to his old material, the ring of the phone acting as background noise to the picture of Martin's face pulling up for air, lips slick with spit and cheeks flushed red. His hair would be messy, from Hamzah's hand grabbing onto it, and he'd whine desperately about how close he was. Hamzah would ignore him, just to piss him off, and then he'd finish all over Martin's face—
"Hello? Hamzah?" Martin's voice abruptly cuts through Hamzah's thoughts, thick with sleep. Hamzah's head does a sharp one-eighty and he imagines Martin bundled up under the covers, hair still sticking up everywhere.
"Hey," he answers, smiling broadly. He keeps his voice low, mindful to the fact that it was early in the morning, but he's warm everywhere, just from two words. "You miss me yet?"
Martin takes a moment to respond, like he's still in the process of waking up. "It's two in the morning, you couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
His words are slurred and soft but still clearly annoyed, and Hamzah almost laughs, shaking his head even though Martin can't see him. "Nope."
He waits for Martin to respond, still moving his hand up and down absentmindedly. A flash of Martin with cum all over his face bursts into his head and Hamzah feels like he's been punched in the gut.
"Okay, so, why'd you call?" Martin asks, words punctuated with a yawn, still sounding like he could fall right back asleep. Part of Hamzah feels bad, but a bigger part of him feels selfish and greedy, basking in Martin's attention.
"I dunno," he starts, eyes searching up at the ceiling, trying to find the right words, "I was thinking about you, and— it's been a couple weeks, since I saw you, since we— I don't think we've ever gone this long without having sex before, Martin, I'm not—"
Before he can say "built for that," the sound of Martin's laugh rings in his ear, clear and loud. "You're kidding."
He's way more awake than he was just a few seconds ago, and Hamzah grins, shaking his head again. "Not kidding."
"You're going to jerk off in your parent's house?" Martin asks incredulously, voice urgent yet quiet, like he's the one that could get caught. "You're going to touch your dick when your parents are in the other room?" He sounds almost disappointed. "Hamzah."
"Save your judgement, cause I already started." Hamzah answers, and he pumps himself a few times for good measure, swallowing heavily.
It's quiet again, and then Martin clears his throat, like it had been stuck shut. "You already started?"
Hamzah smiles, turning his head to the side. Martin had been so condescending before, and now he just sounded small and eager, unable to hide the interest from his voice.
"Yeah," Hamzah breathes out, "care to join?"
He waits for Martin to answer, listening to the sound of sheets rustling on the other end. It's sort of insane — and truly a testament to how lovesick Hamzah is — that every little sound coming from his phone is making his heart rate spike, electricity sparking throughout his body.
"What have you been thinking about?" Martin finally asks, voice still timid and quiet. Hamzah huffs out a laugh, even though the question elicits a lot of images, none of them particularly funny.
"Oh, now you wanna have phone sex." Hamzah teases, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
Martin scoffs, easily riled. "If you already started, might as well—" he cuts himself off, breath hitching, "—might as well help you finish."
Hamzah's dick twitches at the words, and he closes his eyes again, letting his mind do all of the heavy lifting. He still sees Martin with cum all over his face, eyes closed and lips pouted as his hand pushes down on his erection, trying to find friction.
"I was thinking about how desperate you get, when you wanna suck me off." Hamzah says, remembering earlier, when Martin's head had been right between his thighs. "And then I was thinking about coming all over your face."
Martin makes a sound like he's been kicked, and Hamzah feels beside himself with want, practically bleeding with desire. It was coming out of him in waves.
"And how you never touch yourself, even though you want to, because you like to wait for me to tell you that you can." Hamzah adds, words stumbling into each other. "It's so hot, Martin."
It wasn't even the tip of the iceberg; there were so many things that Hamzah could think about, so many memories to pull from. The list went on and on, pages overflowing with words that Hamzah didn't have space for in his head. They all fused together into something big and ambiguous, something that made him feel obsessive and desperate.
"I'm touching myself now, Hamzah." Martin says, and Hamzah groans, low under his breath. "Is that okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, Martin, that's okay." He answers, tightening the grip he had around himself. Pre-cum is leaking out of his tip, and he's already so fucking turned on, but he's determined to make this last, steeling himself and slowing his pace.
"And I'm wearing your shirt," Martin adds, like he can't stop himself, "and your boxers, the blue ones—"
The mental image makes Hamzah feel like he's falling, like his bed has been pulled out from underneath him and he's two seconds away from crashing into the ground. He gets the urge to punch Martin in the face or kick him in the stomach, anything to tame the explosion of feeling in his chest.
Instead he holds onto his phone even tighter and squints his eyes shut, shifting his legs so that they were bent, right knee propped up.
"You really miss me, huh?" He asks, breathless. He can see Martin clearly in his head, wearing his clothes and wanting to feel Hamzah around him.
Martin makes a noise that sounds a lot like agreement, but he follows it with another scoff. "You're the one— you're the one calling me at two in the morning."
"Yeah," Hamzah concedes, so smug that he was sure Martin could feel it through the screen. "But you picked up."
He listens to Martin whine out his name and all of his arrogance grows tenfold. It makes him feel hot all over, and even the slow pace of the hand around himself is becoming too much, heat pooling rapidly at the bottom of his stomach.
"You're so—" Martin cuts himself off, so whatever Hamzah was remains a mystery. "We're literally getting each other off over the phone, it's not a competition."
Hamzah bites down on his lip to stop himself from laughing. "You're only saying that cause I'm winning, dumbass."
Martin chokes out a laugh, and Hamzah is grinning so hard that he's not sure if he'll ever be able to stop. Getting off momentarily falls into the background, and all Hamzah wants is to grab onto Martin's face, to kiss him and say how much he loves him, how lucky Hamzah is to have him.
Because he’s gotten to have Martin for years and it's probably the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He still remembers it, the first time they had gotten each other off, when he was so sure of what he wanted but so afraid of losing Martin. When they had finished tangled up together and breathing heavily, underneath the covers in the early morning, not realizing what they were doing or what lines were being crossed.
They were just friends back then, but they've been wrapped up in each other from the moment they met, and the boundaries were always blurry. It wasn't hard to step around them, to push them so far back that they were basically nonexistent.
Martin mutters something incoherent that Hamzah can't make out, and it jumps him back into the present, where the only boundaries that still existed between Hamzah and Martin were their phones and all of the miles temporarily separating them.
It's annoying, but it’s still better than nothing, especially with Martin unraveling in Hamzah's ear. He's just making noise — it's the sort of nonsense that Hamzah's become familiar with, the kind that indicates that Martin's almost gone.
"You close?" Hamzah asks, thumbing over his own tip and swiping at the pre-cum, using it to slick up his hand. "Already gonna come into your fist, like a good boy?"
"Stop acting like you're not," Martin says, but each word is wobbly and strained, like it's taking everything in his power to string together coherency. "You're the one who called."
Hamzah scoffs, but pretending to be annoyed is a losing battle. Every time he blinks he's overwhelmed with images of Martin and his stupid fucking pretty face. He can't stop imagining what Martin looks like — head bent over his lap, hair falling into his eyes, hand stroking himself quickly — and it's dangerous, because he starts to imagine that his hand is Martin's, eager and enthusiastic to get him off.
Just the thought, just the idea of Martin giving him a handjob makes him want to finish right there, like he really is a fucking teenager, touching his dick for the first time.
"I miss you so much, Martin." He says, words mumbled, vulnerable and honest, because that's all he has left. "It's fucking embarrassing."
"Hamzah," Martin responds, in that voice he adopts when everything is a little foggy, "I'm so close."
The words make Hamzah moan quietly, head pushed back into his pillow. He feels possessive and starved, like every second without sinking his teeth into Martin was building on top of each other, accumulating enough strength to kill him.
Imagining would never be enough, he needed to be there, to touch him, to pull him into his lap and run his tongue up his neck. He needed to do anything other than sit in this stupid ass room, too far from Martin to be able to do anything.
"Want you," Martin mumbles, and every inch of Hamzah's skin feels hot, like the sun was sitting in the center of his chest. "Want you, Hamzah, please, can I—"
"Yeah," Hamzah answers, already anticipating the words that were about to stumble out of Martin's mouth. "Yeah, Martin, come on."
The words are barely out before Martin’s whining high in his ear, and Hamzah digs his back into the mattress, each stroke of his hand gaining speed. Bright white light is creeping up his periphery, the heat in his stomach is building, and he holds onto the picture of Martin in his head, the one where Martin is touching himself in their bed, blissed out and wrecked.
But then it morphs into something else, into Hamzah opening up the door of their apartment, backpack still on when Martin jumps into his arms. He sees the two of them, laughing as they stumble over to their bedroom, refusing to pull away from each other and practically falling onto to the bed when they finally reach it.
And suddenly the picture in his head only shows Martin, sprawled out underneath him, arms covering his face as he slides up and down the mattress. His whole body would be flushed pink and he'd say Hamzah's name just like he is now, over the phone, interspersed with mumbles about how much he missed him and how good he felt.
Hamzah's orgasm hits him all at once, finishing into his hand with a muffled groan. He keeps his eyes closed as everything else falls into the background, riding out his high with Martin’s face branded in his head, gradually slowing the hand around himself.
The heat that had been climbing up the walls in Hamzah's stomach turns warm and soft, just hot enough to make his head complacent and sleepy. He blinks his eyes open and watches the rest of his bedroom fade back into existence, slowly beginning to regain consciousness.
"I can't believe we've never done that before," Martin says suddenly, voice solid and loud in Hamzah's ear.
Hamzah huffs out a laugh, removing his hand from around himself. It's gross and wet and he knows that he should get up to clean it off, but he's so tired that he wipes it on his sheets, promising himself that he’ll wash them tomorrow.
"Yeah?" He asks Martin, holding his phone between the side of his head and his shoulder, trying to push his pants back up around his waist. "You had fun?"
Martin hums happily in agreement, and Hamzah feels infatuated, imagining Martin laying on his back in his post-orgasm haze, covered in blankets and smiling up at the ceiling. It wasn't just the sex that Hamzah missed, he missed that — Martin, soft and happy after they finished, grinning up at Hamzah like he was someone better than he actually was.
He's hit with a pang of longing so intense that he feels physically hurt, bruised all over. "I miss you, man." He mumbles into his phone. "This sucks."
"I know," Martin says, voice quiet again, "but it's only a couple more days."
Hamzah scoffs, looking off to the side, staring at a random place on the wall. "That's like forever, with my family."
He realizes that he sounds like all of the people he used to make fun of, all those codependent couples that used to piss him off. But, without Martin, he felt like a phone that was left uncharged, sitting at the bottom of an unused drawer. So maybe they were onto something.
"I guess you'll just have to call me again tomorrow night." Martin says, and Hamzah can hear the smile in his voice, the laughter bleeding into his words.
"Hey," he says, raising his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his own lips, "I like the sound of that."
His smile turns into a grin when Martin laughs again, warmth blossoming in his chest.
"Men only want one thing." Martin jokes, voice pitched, and Hamzah laughs quietly, rolling his eyes. Martin was so fucking stupid, and it had always been the most endearing thing about him.
"You just wait." Hamzah says mischievously, smirking to himself. "When I get back, you’ll only want one thing, too."
His stomach twists when Martin makes a disapproving, flustered sound. "Don't even mention sex, Hamzah, I'm too tired to go again."
Hamzah only then remembers how early in the morning it is, not even feeling particularly guilty about keeping Martin awake. "Sorry," he says, grinning, "I'll let you get back to bed."
Martin hums in approval, and Hamzah gets the horrible, unfair urge to drop his head in the crook of Martin's neck. "Talk to you tomorrow?" Martin asks, already sounding half-asleep.
Hamzah nods in agreement. "Yep,” he says, running a hand through his hair and pulling it out of his face. “Thanks for picking up the phone, Martin. Love you."
He holds his phone right against his ear, closing his eyes and picturing Martin on the other side, tucked into bed, moments away from slipping back to sleep. "Love you, too," Martin mumbles softly, and then the phone goes quiet, and Hamzah pulls it away from his ear, holding it in his lap.
Back in his room, everything is dark and cold, an unnecessary reminder that Martin's infectious energy could only travel so far and for so long. Hamzah ignores the lonely silence and hooks his phone up to his charger on the nightstand next to his bed, taking a long, deep breath.
Next time, Hamzah really was going to bring Martin with him. Martin could finally meet his parents, and it wouldn't even matter that they were sort of homophobic, because Hamzah wouldn't have to tell them anything. He could just introduce Martin as his friend and watch the rest of his family fall in love with him. His mom would be enamored with Martin's friendliness, his dad wouldn't be able to stop bringing up Croatia, and his little brother would steal Martin for himself, tugging on Martin's arm so that he was forced to follow him around all day.
Hamzah's heart abruptly feels too big for his chest, and he's about to shut his mind off completely so that he doesn't have to deal with it when his phone on the nightstand lights up the dark room with its bright screen.
He reaches blindly for it, pulling it in front of his face and squinting at the bright light. Expecting anything other than a notification from Martin, he furrows his eyebrows when his messaging app says that Martin had sent him an image, unlocking his phone to pull it up.
It's a selfie of Martin, lighting golden and hazy from a lamp turned on somewhere in the background, and he's smiling up at the camera, eyes lidded with sleepiness. Hamzah's shirt is visible, wrapped loosely around Martin's thin frame, and his hair is just as disheveled as Hamzah had expected, although it looks like Martin had tried to fix it hastily.
Another message pops up over the picture, and Hamzah clicks out of it to read what it says:
your shirt is comfy :)
Hamzah scrolls back to the picture, biting down on his lip and taking a screenshot. The warmth in his stomach flickers and he wants to stick his hand in his pants again; the only thing stopping him is the fact that it would feel severely underwhelming without Martin’s voice, and there was no way he would pick up Hamzah's call again.
He puts his hand to better use and types out a response instead:
If you get cum on my clothes I’m gonna kill you
He waits as the typing bubble appears on Martin's side of the screen, watching it fade away and get replaced with a string of emojis:
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
too late bro