Chapter Text
Felix watched Hasan's user name pop up as he was streaming and his heart fluttered.
He'd been thinking about Hasan for weeks, ever since they'd met at that party. Hasan was so different from anyone else Felix knew—calm, collected, and impossibly sure of himself. Not stumbling over himself just to talk to him.
Felix leaned back in his chair, the stream forgotten for a moment. The chat was still scrolling, a blur of emotes and questions he couldn't focus on.
The notification ping echoed through Felix's headphones, sharp and intrusive. He fumbled for the mute button, knocking over an energy drink can that rolled across his desk, dripping sticky residue onto his keyboard. "Shit," he muttered, scrambling to minimize the stream window. His fingers trembled against the mouse—weird, since he’d faced pro league finals with steadier hands.
Outside the glow of his monitors, the LA night pressed against his apartment windows. Felix stared at his own reflection—pale, wide-eyed, hair sticking up in frantic tufts—before forcing himself to check Hasan’s message.
Just three words: *"saw your stream"*
Felix’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He typed *"u watchin?"*, deleted it. Tried *"hey"*, deleted that too. The cursor blinked like a taunt. Hasan didn’t do small talk. Every interaction felt like stepping onto a debate stage without notes
Suddenly Felix was all too aware of his viewers watching, waiting, the chat scrolling faster as his silence stretched. He slapped his keyboard with sudden energy—*"POGGERS IN THE CHAT"*—forcing his streamer persona back online like armor. The words felt hollow even as they left his mouth.
His phone buzzed again.
Hasan’s next message glowed on the screen: *"Everybody could tell that was so fake"*
Felix’s fingers froze mid-keyboard smash. He swallowed hard, the stream’s background music suddenly grating against his ears. Chat exploded with speculation—*“WHO’S HE TALKING TO???”*—but he ignored them, pulse hammering in his throat. Hasan saw right through the performance, always did.
He grabbed his phone, thumbs flying: *“its called content u bozo”*. A beat. Then: *“why u stalkin my stream anyway?”* Felix held his breath, knuckles white. This was Hasan’s move—silence as strategy, letting tension coil tight
"one- one second guys, urgent call," Felix stammered, slamming the stream into BRB screen so hard his chair rattled.
He snatched his phone, Hasan's reply already waiting: *"Stalking? You’re the one who liked my post from 12 years ago"* Felix’s cheeks burned.
The BRB screen’s looping animation flickered in the dark room as he paced, carpet fibers catching under his bare feet. He could hear the muffled chaos of his own stream’s chat through the door—speculations morphing into memes. Hasan always knew how to pin him, exposing the frantic energy beneath the persona. Felix typed fast, *"caught red handed,"* then added, *"u free?"* before he could overthink it. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Hasan’s reply came seconds later, blunt and unflinching: *"Not tonight. Hanging out with friends."* Felix stared at the words, the rejection stinging sharper than he’d expected. He kicked his desk leg, sending a half-empty soda can clattering to the floor. The chat was still screaming behind the BRB screen—he could feel their impatience vibrating through the walls.
He unmuted his mic, forcing a laugh too loud for the empty room. "Back, back! My mom called—y'know how it is." The lie tasted sour. Chat flooded with *"LMAO MAMA xQc"* and *"UR FLUSTERED"*, but Felix bulldozed through, rambling about a new game update. His hands shook as he clicked into a match, focus shattered. Every gunshot in-game made him flinch.
Hasan’s last message burned in his mind: *Not tonight*. Felix gritted his teeth, spraying bullets wildly at an enemy he barely registered. He’d been dismissed. Again. The stream dragged on, his jokes falling flat, energy brittle.
Later, slumped in his gaming chair at 3 a.m., Felix scrolled through Hasan’s Instagram—fitness posts, rally footage, a selfie with that infuriatingly calm smile. He paused on a photo of Hasan laughing with friends at a rooftop bar posted tonight. Free. Unreachable.
The next morning, Felix woke to sunlight stabbing through his blinds and a pounding headache. His phone buzzed with notifications—clips of his stuttering stream performance already edited into memes. He chucked it facedown onto the mattress, the hollow *thump* echoing in the silent room. Hasan’s rejection still sat heavy in his gut, sharp as a splinter he couldn’t dig out. He dragged himself to the kitchen, stepping over discarded energy drink cans, and stared blankly at the coffee maker.
Outside, LA traffic hummed like white noise. Normal. Everything was normal. Except for the itch under his skin, the restless need to *do* something, to prove Hasan hadn’t gotten under his armor.
The coffee machine gurgled to life, filling the cramped kitchen with bitter steam. Felix leaned against the counter, knuckles white where he gripped the edge. Hasan’s rooftop bar photo flashed behind his eyelids—that easy laugh, the effortless circle of friends. Felix’s own reflection stared back from the dark microwave door: hollow-eyed, hair matted on one side. He slammed a fist onto the countertop, rattling mugs. *Why did he even care?* The thought hissed through him, sharp and unwelcome. Hasan was just another stubborn asshole in a city full of them. But the memory of those three words—*"saw your stream"*—still sparked something hot and restless in his chest.
Felix spent the afternoon rage-grinding ranked matches, his focus brittle as glass. Every loss felt like salt rubbed into last night’s humiliation. He ignored his dad’s texts about sponsorship obligations and muted Discord notifications buzzing like wasps. The only thing that cut through the static was the memory of Hasan’s effortless dismissal—*Not tonight*. It coiled around his thoughts, tightening with each hour.
Felix’s phone buzzed mid-game—a Discord call from Hasan. His finger slipped, sending his character careening off a cliff. Chat erupted in *"LULW"* and *"THROWQC"* as he fumbled for the accept button, heart jackhammering against his ribs. "Uh, one sec chat, technical... thing," he muttered, slapping on a BRB screen. Silence swallowed the room.
Hasan’s voice was calm, almost casual. "Saw you were online. Thought you might want actual human interaction instead of screaming at pixels." Felix’s throat tightened. He could hear distant laughter and a sports game playing in the background on Hasan’s end—
The silence stretched, sharp as a blade. Felix swallowed. "I’m streaming," he blurted, then winced at how defensive it sounded. Hasan just hummed, the sound low and knowing. "Yeah, I noticed. You’re playing like shit today." Felix’s knuckles whitened around his mouse. The truth stung—he *was* playing like shit. Hasan always saw through the noise.
So he did care. He was paying attention to him when he was with his friends. Felix felt a sudden rush of heat to his face. "Better than you," he shot back, voice tight. "like you care." The background noise on Hasan's end faded, like he'd stepped into another room. Felix could almost picture him leaning against some expensive kitchen counter, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips. The silence stretched, charged and heavy. Felix shifted in his chair, the leather creaking loudly in the quiet room. His viewers were still waiting behind the BRB screen, oblivious.
"Maybe I do," Hasan finally said, his tone dropping, losing its casual edge. It wasn't flirtatious; it was matter-of-fact. A statement. Felix's breath hitched. He stared at the swirling colors of his BRB screen, the only light in the dark room. The implication hung there – Hasan saw his frustration, his late-night scroll through old posts, the uncharacteristic stumble on stream.
He saw it all, and he was calling him on it. Not with mockery, but with that unnerving calm that always left Felix feeling exposed. "You're not subtle, Félix," Hasan added quietly.
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance, a sharp counterpoint to the thick silence in Felix's apartment. He could hear the faint, tinny echo of Hasan's background noise – the sports game commentary, the murmur of voices. Hasan was at someone's house, surrounded by people, yet his focus was entirely here. On him. Felix's thumb tapped a frantic rhythm against his desk, the only sign of the adrenaline spiking through him.
Why couldn't he come up with a smart remark?
Felix's mind raced, scrambling for the perfect comeback—something sharp enough to pierce Hasan’s calm—but all he managed was a choked silence. The BRB screen’s swirling colors pulsed in his dark room, mirroring the frantic beat of his own pulse in his ears. Hasan’s quiet observation—*"You're not subtle"*—hung between them, stripping away the streamer bravado, leaving only raw nerves.
On the other end, Hasan’s background noise shifted; the distant chatter and sports commentary faded completely, replaced by the soft click of a door closing. Absolute quiet. "Still there?" Hasan asked, his voice low, intimate despite the digital distance. Felix could picture him now—leaning against a wall in some dim hallway, phone pressed close, all that stubborn focus narrowed to this moment. To him. The realization sent a jolt through Felix’s spine, equal parts thrill and terror.
Finally Felix spoke, "and what are you going to do about it?"
The words hung in the air, reckless and raw. He heard Hasan’s soft exhale, almost a laugh, but not quite. "You’re still live," Hasan reminded him, his tone shifting back to that infuriating practicality. "Go entertain your chat." The line went dead before Felix could retort, leaving only the buzz of disconnection in his ear. He stared at his darkened phone screen, frustration warring with something else—a strange, electric pull. That wasn't a rejection, Felix counted it as a small win.
Felix flicked off the BRB screen, the sudden roar of his chat flooding back. "WE BACK?" "WHO WAS THAT??" "SO SUS." He forced a grin, leaning into the mic. "Technical difficulties, it was just my computer trying to update Windows." The lie felt flimsy, but he bulldozed forward, launching into a frantic play-by-play of his game. His hands moved on autopilot, but his mind replayed Hasan's voice—*You're not subtle*—and that final, loaded silence. Every kill felt hollow, every death amplified the restless energy buzzing under his skin.
Hours later, stream finally ended, Felix slumped in his chair. The silence of his apartment pressed in, heavy and suffocating. He grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over Hasan’s contact. The rooftop bar photo flashed in his mind again—Hasan relaxed, surrounded, untouchable. Felix typed *"u still out?"*, deleted it. Tried *"call was weird"*, deleted that too. He threw the phone onto the couch, pacing the cramped space. Why did he care so much? Why did Hasan’s attention feel like a live wire?
The next morning, bleary-eyed and scrolling Twitter, Felix froze. Hasan had posted a selfie at the gym, sweat-damp hair pushed back, muscles glistening, a rare focused intensity in his eyes. The caption was simple: *"who cares for subtlety?"*
Felix slammed his phone down, heart pounding. It felt like a grenade tossed casually into his kitchen. He paced, bare feet slapping cold tiles, the echo of Hasan’s voice—*"You’re not subtle"*—twisting into a challenge. Was this a game? A taunt? Or something else entirely? He snatched his phone back, thumbs hovering, itching to reply with fire.
Felix’s thumb hovered over the reply button, knuckles white. *"Who cares for subtlety?"* The words pulsed on his screen like a dare. He could feel the old defensiveness rising—the urge to fire back with a sarcastic gif or a clipped *"cringe"*. But Hasan’s calm, focused gaze in the gym selfie held him still. This wasn’t just bait; it was a line thrown into the dark, waiting to see if he’d bite. Felix took a sharp breath, the silence of his apartment suddenly deafening.
He typed three letters—*"lol"*—then erased them. Too flippant. Too scared. Instead, he tapped the heart icon beneath the post, a tiny digital flare in the void. No comment. No context. Just acknowledgment. The act sent a jolt through him, equal parts vulnerability and defiance. He threw his phone onto the rumpled bedsheet as if it had burned him, pacing the narrow space between his desk and the window.
Outside, LA’s haze blurred the sharp edges of palm trees. Felix pressed his forehead to the cool glass, replaying Hasan’s voice—*"You’re not subtle."* The words weren’t mocking; they were an observation, sharp and intimate. A challenge. His mind raced: Hasan was watching his stream, noticing the cracks, calling him out mid-game. Why? To unsettle him? To pull him closer? Felix’s breath fogged the window, obscuring the view.
He needed to show Hasan he didn't care. Felix dm'ed a girl, didn't even care if she was hot, only caring if the action would eventually get told to Hasan. He sent a reply to one of her photos: *"hot"*
He didn't even care if she replied, and he knew it was a douchebag move. The girl was just a pawn to prove something to Hasan. He threw his phone on the bed and headed to the shower, letting scalding water pound the restless energy from his muscles.
Steam filled the tiny bathroom, fogging the mirror until his reflection vanished—a small relief. When he emerged, towel slung low on his hips, a Discord notification glowed on his phone screen. Not the girl. Hasan. *"Saw your comment."* Three words, no emoji, no context. Felix smirked, a sharp twist of satisfaction cutting through the steam. Got his attention.
The satisfaction curdled fast. Felix paced, damp hair dripping onto his shoulders. Why did he need Hasan to see? Why did *this* stubborn asshole matter? He snatched his phone, fingers flying. *"ur point?"* he typed, then deleted. *"jealous?"* Too desperate. He settled on cold indifference: *"and?"*. He hit send before he could overthink it, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Silence stretched. Felix stared at the screen, the blue "Delivered" tag mocking him. He imagined Hasan smirking at some trendy cafe, showing the pathetic exchange to friends. The thought burned. He chucked the phone onto the couch, where it bounced with a dull thud. *Pathetic*. The word echoed in the empty room. He needed noise, chaos—anything to drown out the quiet humiliation.
He fired up his PC, slammed his headset on, and launched a stream without warning. "WE LIVE!" he barked, voice raw. Chat flooded in, confused but hyped by the sudden energy. Felix dove into a high-stakes tournament match, his movements frantic, aggressive. Every click of the mouse was a hammer blow against his own frustration. He ignored questions about his weird DM, focusing only on the carnage on screen, channeling the restless heat into pixelated destruction.
The tournament match became a blur of pixelated violence, Felix’s movements sharp and reckless. He ignored chat’s questions about his sudden return, the lingering *"and?"* to Hasan burning a hole in his thoughts. Every headshot felt like a release, every loss a fresh sting. Mid-game, a Discord notification popped up—Hasan again.
*"Playing like you’re trying to break the keyboard. Relax."* Felix’s character froze for a split second, long enough for an enemy sniper to take him down.
Chat exploded with *"POGGERS"* at the unexpected death, but Felix only saw red. He slammed his fist on the desk, the mic picking up the thud. "Fucking—lag!" he snapped, voice tight.
He minimized Discord, refusing to let Hasan hijack his stream. But the damage was done. His focus shattered, Felix fumbled the next round, his usual precision replaced by jerky, frustrated movements. The more he tried to bury Hasan’s words, the louder they echoed. *Relax.* As if it were that simple. As if Hasan hadn’t been the one to wind him up in the first place. Felix gritted his teeth, forcing himself back into the game, but his rhythm was off, his timing just a hair too slow.
After the tournament ended—a humiliating early exit—Felix cut the stream abruptly, muttering something about "ISP issues." The second the "END STREAM" button clicked, he yanked off his headset and grabbed his phone. Hasan’s message still sat there, untouched. Felix typed fast, knuckles white: *"dont tell me how to play. dont tell me to relax. u started this."* He hit send, the words a raw scrape of defiance. No emoji. No softening. Just the jagged edge of his frustration laid bare.
Silence followed. Felix stared at the screen, the blue "Delivered" tag burning into his vision. He paced, the quiet apartment amplifying the echo of his own heartbeat. Then, a notification. Not text. A call. Hasan’s name flashed, insistent. Felix’s thumb hovered, torn between slamming decline and the desperate need to hear that voice again—to *fight* it out, finally. He swiped answer, pressing the phone to his ear.
"What?" he snapped, the word brittle.
Hasan’s voice was calm, infuriatingly so. "You sent that DM to get my attention. It worked." A pause, deliberate. "Now tell me why you’re throwing a tantrum instead of just asking for what you want." The directness was a gut punch. No teasing, no games—just Hasan stripping the performance bare.
Felix’s throat tightened. "I don’t want anything from you," he shot back "I'm not throwing a tantrum", but it sounded hollow, even to him. He could hear the faint hum of Hasan’s breath, the rustle of fabric—maybe leaning back in a chair, maybe crossing his arms. Waiting. The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.
Felix’s knuckles whitened around the phone. "I’m not throwing a tantrum," he repeated, voice fraying at the edges. The silence on the other end was a weight, pressing down until he could almost hear Hasan’s unspoken *bullshit*. He paced the length of his streaming room, bare feet slapping against the cool floor, the chaos of discarded energy drink cans and tangled cables mirroring his thoughts. What *did* he want? Not this dizzying push-pull, not the way Hasan’s attention scraped him raw and left him buzzing.
Hasan’s exhale was soft, deliberate. "Then stop acting like it." The words weren’t harsh, but they landed like stones.
Felix’s breath hitched, the accusation hanging between them like static. He gripped the phone tighter, the plastic casing digging into his palm. "Acting?" he choked out, the word tasting bitter. Outside, the relentless LA sun beat against his window, casting sharp lines across the scattered controllers and empty energy drink cans littering his desk. He wanted to scream—to shatter that infuriating calm. Instead, he forced his voice low, a raw scrape of sound. "You don’t know shit about how I act."
A soft sigh traveled down the line, followed by the deliberate click of a lighter. Hasan’s voice returned, smoke-tinged and unnervingly patient. "I know you sent that DM to provoke me. I know you streamed angry because I got under your skin." A beat. "And I know you’re still on the phone because you want something you won’t ask for."
Felix’s free hand clenched into a fist. He could picture Hasan leaning back, maybe in that stupidly expensive leather chair, watching him unravel like a glitchy game. "Maybe I just like pissing you off," he shot back, but the defiance rang hollow. The truth pulsed beneath—a raw, exposed nerve Hasan kept prodding.
Hasan’s low chuckle vibrated through the phone. "You think you piss me off?"
Felix froze mid-pace, the taunt hitting harder than anger. He opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but nothing came out. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He could hear the faint rustle of Hasan shifting, the soft exhale of breath—patience that felt like a trap. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud in the stillness of his apartment. Every instinct screamed to hang up, to tell him that he had a million girls in his DMs, that he didn't need this. But he didn't move. He just stood there, phone pressed to his ear, caught in the gravity of Hasan’s question.
Hasan’s voice cut through the quiet again, softer now, almost curious. "You don’t know what you want, do you?" The words weren’t mocking; they were an excavation, peeling back layers Felix hadn’t let anyone touch. Felix’s throat tightened, the admission trapped behind clenched teeth.
He sank onto the edge of his unmade bed, the phone a lead weight in his hand. Outside, the city’s hum felt distant, muffled by the pounding in his ears. He traced the frayed edge of his sweatpants with a trembling finger, the chaos of his streaming setup blurring into insignificance.
He knew what he fucking wanted, he wanted Hasan to be like everyone else, to fold, to flatter, to beg. But Hasan didn't. He just waited, a silent pillar in the storm of Felix's chaos. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Felix's knuckles ached from gripping the phone. He could hear the faint rustle of fabric on the other end, the quiet inhale—Hasan breathing in his frustration like smoke.
"fuck you, Hasan" Felix's voice was a low rasp, stripped of its usual chaotic energy. He stared at the tangled headset cord on the floor, the words hanging heavy in the quiet room. The silence on the other end felt like judgment. He could almost see Hasan's raised eyebrow, that infuriating look of calm analysis.
Hasan let the silence linger for a beat, then two. When he spoke, his tone was level, devoid of triumph.
"You say that," he observed quietly, "but you haven't hung up." The observation was a scalpel, precise and exposing. It wasn't about winning the argument; it was about forcing Felix to confront the contradiction screaming in the space between them.
Felix dug his nails into his palm, the sharp bite of pain grounding him. He wanted to hurl the phone against the wall, to shatter the unbearable tension. Instead, he found himself whispering, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a raw, bewildered exhaustion. "What do you *want* from me?" The question was stripped bare, vulnerability laid open like a wound.
Hasan’s response came instantly, stripped of games. "Honesty. Stop hiding behind the streamer persona." His voice was low, steady—a command, not a request. "You’re not raging at a game right now. You’re raging at me. So say it." The directness was a shockwave, leaving no room for deflection.
Felix’s breath hitched. He stared at the muted glow of his PC, the cursor blinking on his unfinished stream schedule—a relic of the life he controlled. Here, now, control was nonexistent. "Fine," he spat, the word raw. "You drive me fucking insane. Happy?" The admission tore out of him, jagged and real.
Hasan didn’t react immediately. Felix heard the soft tap of fingers against a surface, deliberate, almost rhythmic. "Not quite," Hasan finally said, his voice a low hum. "Why?"
Felix squeezed his eyes shut, confusion flashing across his harp features. "Why? What do you mean why?"
"Exactly that." Hasan’s voice remained steady, unflinching. "Why do I drive you insane? I've seen it since we first met—you push, I push back. You hate it, but you can’t stop." Felix’s breath caught, the question slicing through his defenses. He paced faster, the worn carpet fibers scratching his soles. Outside, the LA twilight bled into his room, casting long shadows over discarded controllers.
Felix sighed heavily, "man, if you think I knew why, I wouldn't be here." He kicked at a stray controller, the plastic skittering across the floor.
Hasan's voice sharpened slightly. "Bullshit. You're not stupid. You know exactly why you keep circling back." The accusation hung there, forcing Felix to confront the chaotic knot of anger and attraction he'd been dodging for weeks.
Felix stopped pacing, leaning against the cold windowpane. The city lights below blurred into streaks of orange and white. "Don't ask if you already know," he muttered, tracing a finger through the condensation on the glass.
Hasan’s exhale crackled softly through the speaker.
"I want you to admit it." Hasan's voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of a challenge.
Felix traced the condensation on the windowpane, his reflection fractured in the glass. The city lights blurred below, distant and indifferent. He swallowed hard, the admission clawing its way up his throat—raw and terrifying in its simplicity. "Because you're not like everybody else," he whispered, the words barely audible.
Hasan didn't interrupt. The silence stretched, charged and heavy, as if he was letting the confession settle between them. Felix could hear the faint rustle of fabric again, Hasan shifting, leaning in. Waiting for the rest.
"Everyone else—" Felix's voice cracked, raw with frustration. "They laugh when I'm not funny. They agree when I'm wrong. They want clips, money, not... *this*." He gestured wildly at the phone, though Hasan couldn't see it. "But you?"
Hasan’s silence wasn’t empty now; it was a held breath, a space carved out for the truth Felix had been choking on. "You don't break, or bend- or, fold," Felix continued, the words tumbling out faster, rougher. "You just... *see* me. The real shit. And I hate it." He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, the city’s glow painting his skin in fractured light. "Because when you look at me like that, I can’t hide behind the stream. I’m just... me. And it’s fucking terrifying."
A soft, almost imperceptible hum came from the other end—not agreement, not judgment. Just acknowledgment. Then Hasan’s voice, stripped of its usual performative edge, low and intimate: "Where are you right now?"
Felix glanced around his dimly lit room—the glow of dormant monitors, the tangled nest of charging cables, the half-eaten bag of chips crumpled on the desk. "Home. Streaming setup." He paused, throat tight. "Why?"
Hasan’s exhale was a whisper against the receiver. "Stay there." The line went dead before Felix could protest, the silence crashing in like a wave. He stared at the blank phone screen, heart hammering against his ribs. The abruptness left him unmoored, adrenaline spiking through the exhaustion. He paced again, fingers raking through his messy hair, replaying the raw honesty he’d just spilled. Every nerve screamed that he’d made a mistake.
What had he done? Hasan would tell everyone.
Felix paced faster, the worn carpet fibers scratching his soles. Outside, the LA twilight bled into his room, casting long shadows over discarded controllers and empty energy drink cans. He snatched his phone, thumb hovering over Hasan’s contact—delete it? Block him? But the memory of that low, intimate *"Stay there"* coiled in his gut, paralyzing. He tossed the phone onto his rumpled bed like it burned.
Twenty-three minutes. Felix counted each one, bouncing his knee, gnawing at his thumbnail until it bled. The silence in his apartment thickened, broken only by the hum of his idle PC. He flicked through Twitter, Instagram, Twitch—anything to drown out the echo of his own confession. Every notification made his pulse spike. None were Hasan.
His door buzzer shattered the quiet. Sharp, insistent. Felix froze mid-pace, heart slamming against his ribs. He didn’t buzz anyone in. He hadn’t ordered food. Slowly, he crept to the intercom screen. The grainy image showed Hasan, hood pulled low, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark jacket. He wasn’t looking at the camera. Just waiting.
Felix’s thumb hovered over the unlock button. His breath hitched. This wasn’t a text, a call, a DM. Hasan was *here*. Outside his door. Right now. The raw vulnerability he’d spilled over the phone felt suddenly, violently real. He pressed the button. The lock clicked open downstairs. A soft, mechanical sound that echoed like a gunshot in the stillness of his home.
He didn’t move. He stood rooted in the center of his dim living room, the glow from his idle monitors painting stripes of blue light across the chaos of cables and abandoned snacks. The silence stretched, thick and charged.
Then came the footsteps on the stairs—steady, deliberate, unhurried. Each one vibrated through the floorboards, ratcheting up the tension coiled in Felix’s chest. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, fingers curling into fists.
The knock was firm. Not loud, not demanding, but impossible to ignore. It echoed in the sudden stillness of his room. Felix’s throat went dry. He stared at the door, the cheap wood grain suddenly fascinating. He could see the shadow shifting beneath it, tall and unmistakable. Hasan hadn’t texted. He hadn’t called. He’d just come. The reality of it—Hasan standing inches away, separated only by that flimsy barrier—hit Felix like a physical blow.
He forced his legs to move. Each step felt heavy, deliberate, as if wading through water. His hand trembled slightly as it closed around the cool metal knob. He took a shaky breath, bracing himself, then pulled the door open just wide enough to see.
Hasan stood there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. He’d pushed his hood back, revealing sharp, focused eyes that locked onto Felix’s immediately. No smirk, no casual greeting—just that unnerving stillness, the kind that made the air crackle. He didn’t step forward, didn’t push. He simply waited, his gaze stripping away every defense Felix had left. The scent of rain clung faintly to his jacket, a sharp contrast to the stale energy drink air inside.
Hasan didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped forward, forcing Felix to stumble back as the door swung wider. Rainwater glistened on his leather jacket, and the scent of petrichor and something earthy—sandalwood?—cut through the stale apartment air. His gaze swept the room: the glowing monitors, the nest of cables, the half-eaten bag of chips spilling onto Felix's keyboard. A single, raised eyebrow was his only commentary before those dark eyes snapped back to Felix, pinning him in place. "You look like shit," Hasan stated, his voice low and devoid of mockery. It was a clinical observation, stripping Felix bare all over again.
Felix bristled, the familiar defensive heat flaring in his chest. "What the fuck do you—" he started, voice ragged, but Hasan cut him off with a single step closer. The proximity was electric, stealing Felix's breath. Hasan didn't touch him, just stood there, a solid, immovable presence radiating calm intensity. Felix could see the faint dampness in Hasan's hair, the focused line of his jaw. The silence stretched, thick with everything Felix had confessed over the phone, now made terrifyingly tangible.
Hasan was tall, he knew this already but this close, it felt like a physical force. Hasan towered above him, Felix wasn't used to people being taller than him.
The proximity felt like a physical force. The scent of rain and sandalwood was overwhelming now, sharp and clean against the stale energy drink air. Felix’s pulse hammered in his throat, loud enough he was sure Hasan could hear it. He swallowed hard, trying to reclaim the anger, the defiance—anything to shield the raw nerve he’d exposed over the phone. “You just gonna stand there?” Felix’s voice came out hoarse, a challenge that sounded thin even to his own ears.
Hasan’s gaze didn’t waver. He took another deliberate step forward, forcing Felix back until the edge of his streaming desk dug into his spine. Monitors cast jagged blue light across Hasan’s face, highlighting the focused intensity in his eyes. “No,” Hasan said, the word quiet but absolute. “I’m here because you finally told the truth. Now we deal with it.” His hand lifted, not to touch, but to gesture at the chaos around them—the scattered controllers, the tangled wires, the half-empty chip bag. “This isn’t working for you. You know it.”
Felix’s breath hitched. He wanted to snap back, to shove Hasan away and reclaim the illusion of control. But the exhaustion was bone-deep, and the raw honesty he’d spilled earlier left him hollowed out. “So what?” he managed, voice cracking. “You’re my fucking life coach now?” The defiance felt thin, brittle. Hasan’s stillness was unnerving—no anger, no impatience, just that unwavering scrutiny.
Hasan’s gaze didn’t flicker. He leaned in slightly, the movement deliberate, invading Felix’s space until the scent of rain and sandalwood drowned out everything else. “No,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I'm trying to see if you really mean it.”
Felix’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the edge of his desk. He could feel the tremor in his hands, the way his breath caught in his throat. Hasan’s eyes traced the tension in his jaw, the restless shift of his weight—reading him like a map. “Mean what?” Felix rasped, the defiance crumbling into something raw and exposed.
Hasan didn’t blink. “That you’re tired of the bullshit.” He tilted his head, gaze sweeping over the cluttered room again—the chaos a mirror of Felix’s mind. “You told me I see you. So let me see.” His voice dropped, softer now, but no less relentless. “Stop hiding behind the stream, the anger, the fucking acting out.” A beat. “Just stand there. And breathe.”
Felix flinched. The command was absurdly simple, yet it felt like stripping naked. His fingers dug harder into the desk edge, knuckles bone-white. He wanted to bolt, to scream, to shove Hasan back—anything to shatter this suffocating stillness. But Hasan’s gaze held him, unyielding as stone. Felix sucked in a ragged breath, the stale air scraping his throat. Another followed, shaky but deeper.
Hasan watched, silent. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just absorbed the minute tremors running through Felix’s frame—the twitch in his jaw, the frantic pulse visible at his temple. The blue monitor light carved harsh shadows under Felix’s eyes, emphasizing the exhaustion etched there. Hasan’s expression remained unreadable, but his focus was absolute, dissecting every flinch, every hitched inhale.
Slowly, deliberately, Hasan shifted his weight, closing the final inch between them. Felix stiffened, bracing for contact, but it didn’t come. Instead, Hasan’s hand lifted, palm open, hovering just beside Felix’s face—close enough to feel the heat radiating, not quite touching. "Breathe."
Felix’s exhale shuddered out, ragged and uneven. The world narrowed to the space between them: the faint scent of rain on leather, the unwavering intensity in Hasan’s dark eyes, the unbearable stillness that demanded surrender. He felt stripped, raw, every defensive instinct screaming to lash out or flee. But Hasan’s presence was an anchor—heavy, immovable, forcing him to stay.
Slowly, Felix’s grip on the desk loosened. His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him like water from a cracked vessel. He met Hasan’s gaze, the defiance flickering and dying. "Fine," he whispered, the word barely audible. "You win. Happy?" It wasn’t surrender; it was exhaustion, the bone-deep weariness of someone who’d run too long on fumes.
Hasan’s hand didn’t move, still hovering beside Felix’s jaw, stayed quiet.
Felix’s chest tightened. He could feel the heat radiating from Hasan’s palm, smell the lingering rain on his jacket, and it made his skin prickle. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Felix finally broke it with a shaky exhale.
Hasan’s hand lowered slowly, deliberately, but his gaze never wavered. "Happy?" he repeated, the word a low rumble. "That’s not the point. The point is whether *you* are." He took a half-step back, giving Felix just enough space to breathe but not enough to retreat. His eyes swept over the cluttered room again, lingering on the glowing monitors.
Felix shifted, the edge of the desk digging into his spine. "What do you want me to say?" he muttered, avoiding Hasan’s eyes. "That I’m miserable? That this"—he gestured wildly at the chaos—"isn’t enough?" His voice cracked, raw with exhaustion.
Hasan didn’t flinch.
He let Felix’s words hang in the air, sharp and brittle, before responding with unnerving calm. "I want you to stop performing." His gaze locked onto Felix’s, stripping away the last shreds of bravado. "For me. For chat. Even for yourself." He took another step closer, the space between them charged with the weight of everything unsaid. "You think I came here to judge your mess? I see the real one—the one you’re carrying inside. And it’s eating you alive. Just tell me what you want, genuinely"
Felix flinched as if struck. His throat worked, but no sound came out. The truth clawed at his ribs—a desperate, terrifying thing he’d buried under streams and rage and junk food. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally rasped, "you, you fucking asshole." The admission tore loose, raw and jagged. "I want *you*, I could pay for anybody but I want you"
Hasan's face flashed a smirk—quick, sharp, almost predatory—before settling back into that unnerving calm. "Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to resonate in Felix's bones. He didn't move closer, but his presence expanded, filling the cramped space between monitors and discarded energy drink cans. The rain-streaked window cast shifting shadows across his sharp jawline.
Felix braced for mockery, for a cutting remark about his desperation. Instead, Hasan’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly, the intensity shifting from dissection to something dangerously close to understanding.
"I want you to tell me what's too far and what's not, I want you to tell me when I'm being a fucking idiot," Felix continued, the words tumbling out in a rush now that the dam had broken. His knuckles were white where he gripped the desk edge, but his gaze didn't waver from Hasan's. "I want you to look at me like this—like you see every stupid, messy part—and not fucking walk away."
Hasan closed the distance in one fluid step, his hand finally making contact as he cupped Felix's jaw. His thumb brushed the sharp line of Felix's cheekbone, a touch that was both grounding and terrifying in its certainty.
"What do you want right now, in this moment?"
The question hung between them, simple yet seismic. Felix’s breath caught as Hasan’s thumb stilled against his cheekbone, the contact burning through his defenses. The monitors hummed, casting jagged light across discarded controllers and crumpled snack bags—a monument to his chaotic existence.
Hasan’s gaze didn’t waver, patient and relentless, waiting for the raw core beneath the performance.
Felix whined low in his throat, a sound of pure frustration that vibrated against Hasan’s palm. The touch anchored him, yet amplified every nerve ending. He could smell the rain still clinging to Hasan’s jacket, feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Stop asking stupid questions," he muttered, his voice thick, eyes flickering away before snapping back, defiant. "You know what I want."
Hasan’s thumb brushed the sharp edge of Felix’s cheekbone again, a deliberate, assessing stroke. His gaze remained steady, dissecting the tremor in Felix’s lower lip, the frantic pulse at his temple. "I need to hear it," he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated in the small space between them.
Felix’s breath hitched. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping open, blazing with defiance. "You," he choked out, the word raw and stripped bare. "Right here. Right now." His hand shot out, fisting the damp fabric of Hasan’s jacket, pulling him closer until their chests almost touched. The scent of rain and leather flooded his senses, drowning out the stale energy drink air.
Hasan didn’t move. His thumb stilled on Felix’s cheekbone, his gaze unreadable but impossibly focused.
"That’s not enough," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. "Be specific. What do you want me to do?" The challenge hung between them—a demand for surrender wrapped in velvet steel.
Hasan's voice sent tingles down Felix's spine, a low command that demanded absolute honesty. Felix's grip tightened on the jacket, knuckles white against the dark fabric, "kiss me- please."
Hasan didn't hesitate. His free hand slid behind Felix's neck, fingers tangling roughly in the platinum mess of hair as he closed the distance. The kiss wasn't gentle—it was a collision, a claiming. Felix gasped against Hasan's mouth, the taste of rain and something darker flooding his senses. His back hit the desk edge, forgotten energy drink cans clattering to the floor as Hasan deepened the kiss, swallowing Felix's ragged moan.
The world narrowed to the scrape of stubble, the insistent pressure of Hasan's lips, the dizzying heat where their bodies pressed together. Felix's hands scrambled for purchase, finally gripping Hasan's shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle beneath the damp leather jacket. It was overwhelming—too much sensation after months of numbness—and a choked whimper escaped him, part protest, part desperate surrender.
Hasan pulled back just enough to break the kiss, his breath ragged against Felix's swollen mouth. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned Felix's flushed face—the dazed blue eyes, the rapid flutter of his pulse at his throat. "happy?" he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of Felix's kiss-reddened lips.
Felix shuddered, his fingers still clenched in Hasan's jacket. "Shut up," he breathed, voice raw. He surged forward, crashing their mouths together again with bruising force, teeth scraping, a muffled groan vibrating between them. The desk rattled under their weight, scattering papers and a half-eaten bag of chips.
Felix really pitied his cleaners.
Hasan met the aggression with equal intensity, one hand sliding down to grip Felix’s hip, pulling him flush against his body. The other remained tangled in his hair, angling his head for deeper access. The kiss was messy, desperate, a physical argument where words had failed—wet heat, the sharp tang of adrenaline, the dizzying press of bodies demanding more.
When Hasan finally broke away again, it was to trail his mouth along Felix’s jaw, down the strained column of his throat. Felix gasped, head thudding back against a monitor, his fingers scrabbling at Hasan’s back. "Fuck—" he choked out, the sound dissolving into a ragged moan as teeth scraped his pulse point, possessive and sharp.
He heard items clatter to the floor as he arched against Hasan, the desk digging into his lower back. He couldn't care less if things broke, nothing mattered as much as what was happening- how he felt. Hasan’s teeth grazed his collarbone through the thin fabric of his hoodie, drawing a sharp gasp from Felix. His fingers tightened in Hasan’s hair, pulling him closer, needing the pain and pressure to anchor the dizzying rush.
Hasan’s hand slid under Felix’s hoodie, calloused palm scraping against bare skin. Felix shuddered at the contact, his breath catching in ragged bursts. The touch was electric, overwhelming after months of isolation—too real, too much. He felt exposed, raw nerves singing under that rough exploration. "Hasan—" he choked out, the name fracturing into a moan as fingers traced the sharp ridge of his hipbone.
The desk groaned under their weight, forgotten clutter cascading to the floor. Hasan ignored it, his mouth returning to Felix’s with bruising focus. This kiss wasn’t gentle—it was a demand, a relentless push that stole Felix’s breath and blurred the edges of his vision. He tasted salt, sweat, and the lingering bitterness of energy drinks, a chaotic cocktail that mirrored his own unraveling. Felix’s hands clawed at Hasan’s back, desperate to pull him closer, to erase every inch of space between them.
Hasan’s fingers tightened on Felix’s hip, anchoring him as his other hand slid higher under the hoodie, tracing the tense line of Felix’s spine. The calloused scrape against sensitive skin drew a ragged gasp from Felix, his body arching instinctively. Every touch felt amplified, electric—a stark, jarring contrast to the numb isolation that had defined his days. His friends making him have a fleeting happiness was nothing compared to the intensity of this, his entire body was humming.
He fumbled for the hem of Hasan’s jacket, yanking it off with impatient, clumsy tugs. It landed in a heap beside overturned controllers, forgotten. The cool air hit Hasan’s bare arms, but his gaze never wavered—dark, focused, drinking in Felix’s flushed skin and dilated pupils. Felix’s hoodie followed, tossed aside to reveal lean muscle taut with restless energy. Hasan’s palm flattened against Felix’s chest, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart.
Hasan pushed him back firmly against the desk, the edge biting into Felix’s thighs. Felix tried to lower his hands to the taller man’s waist band but Hasan caught his wrists, shaking his head and letting out a shaky breath.
"Not tonight," Hasan murmured, his voice rough but controlled. His grip on Felix's wrists tightened slightly, not painful, but unyielding—a physical boundary cutting through the haze of desperation. Felix froze, confusion warring with the frantic pulse still hammering in his throat. He stared, breath shallow, at the sharp lines of Hasan’s face, the dark intensity in his eyes that offered no room for argument. The sudden halt felt like cold water thrown over burning skin, leaving him exposed and trembling.
"Don't you want this?"
The question hung between them, Felix's voice cracking. He strained against Hasan's grip, hips jerking forward instinctively, seeking friction. His skin burned where Hasan's palm still pressed against his bare chest. The monitors cast fractured light across the sweat-slicked planes of his abdomen, each rapid breath visible in the charged silence. Hasan's gaze dropped to Felix's parted lips, then dragged his eyes back to Felix's—
"I want it, so bad" Hasan said, his voice low and thick, "but not like this." He released Felix's wrists, stepping back just enough to break the fevered contact. Felix swayed, bracing himself on the desk edge, knuckles white.
Felix stared, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. The abrupt distance felt like a physical blow. "Not like this?" he echoed, voice raw. His gaze darted across Hasan's face—the controlled stillness, the deliberate calm where moments ago there had been only heat. The rejection stung deeper than any argument. His hands trembled where they gripped the desk, knuckles bone-white against the scratched surface. "Then how?" The question was a challenge, sharp with confusion and the dregs of adrenaline.
Hasan didn't retreat further. He stood his ground, eyes locked on Felix. "properly, Félix," he said, the deliberate use of his real name a quiet thunderclap. "A date, first."
Felix barked a laugh, sharp and brittle. "A date? You show up uninvited, corner me, kiss me like that, and now you want a fucking *date*?" His voice cracked on the last word, disbelief warring with the tremors still coursing through him. He shoved off the desk, the movement jerky. "look at you being the romantic"
Hasan didn't flinch. "Yes." His gaze swept the chaotic room – the scattered controllers, the overturned cans, the discarded clothes. "If *this* is going to happen, you have to clean up, and we have to do this properly"
Felix stared, the frantic energy draining from him like a punctured balloon. He ran a shaky hand through his ruined hair, the reality of the mess – both literal and emotional – crashing down. "Properly?" he echoed, the word tasting foreign and heavy. His eyes flickered to Hasan's intense, unwavering stare, then away to the disaster zone of his living space. The adrenaline surge left him hollow, trembling in its wake.
Hasan stepped closer again, but this time without the consuming heat. His hand came up, not to claim, but to brush a stray strand of platinum hair from Felix's damp forehead. The touch was startlingly gentle. "Dinner. Tomorrow. Seven," he stated, leaving no room for negotiation. His gaze held Felix's, stripping away the layers of frantic defense. "And clean this fucking place."