Chapter Text
Funnily enough, for something that unravels rapidly into a series of unfortunate events that later begin to haunt his every waking thought, the beginning of it all has a severe lack of gravitas.
Will can’t even remember the first time it happened. What he does remember is waking up in the morning with his head pounding, mouth dry, eyelids crusted, the whole nine yards to set up the world’s worst hangover. Bits and pieces came back to him, fleeting memories of getting disastrously crossfaded at whatever event a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend could use as an excuse to set up a truly diabolical rager. Feeling far too old for this but wallowing in the consequences anyway, he had simply rolled over to sleep for six more hours in acceptance of his suffering, but instead of meeting the sweet, pillowy release of his mattress, he went face-to-tits with a very shirtless and equally bewildered Hasan Piker.
Will stared. Hasan stared. Will stared some more, and then Hasan covered his chest with the blankets like a distressed maiden and simply said, “You’re fucking kidding me.”
Nothing in the world had ever been funnier. Will burst into wild laughter, wheezing until he couldn’t breathe, covering his face with his hands as Hasan’s frantic denials started raising an incredulous octave.
“Don’t I get a good morning kiss?” Will barely managed to ask, trembling with the force needed to control himself.
This question only pissed Hasan off, which was the point. “You don’t get shit! You— you get an Uber, that’s what you get! How did you even get in my house? Oh my fucking God —”
“An Uber? But Hasan, I’m such a good lover.”
Hasan kicked him out faster after that. He went cackling the whole way, especially when he checked his phone to read the text Hasan sent, an incensed “ WILLIAM!!!!!” after noticing the dark bruises left across his collarbone. Will, of course, had already noticed and elected not to say anything.
If he thought about what the fuck just happened for longer than thirty seconds then maybe he would find it something other than utterly hilarious, but as it is, what’s a good friendship without capitalizing on years of homoerotic tension, just once? This is commitment to the bit, baby. It’ll be a real good story in five years— or however long it takes for Hasan to get over himself— and that’s the end of that, Will thought, and went about his merry business.
Unfortunately, he forgot to factor in that the universe hates him, and his life is never easy.
Next time, at least, he isn't blackout drunk. The only problem is that there wasn’t supposed to be a next time.
It’s been a month, probably close to two— he’s been lured into a false sense of security, and absence makes the heart grow hornier, and also he was the teensiest bit buzzed again, not enough to be drunk but enough to be stupid, and whatever other excuses anyone can think of for anything Will does. (The real answer lies somewhere in the horrific combination of honest desire and plain impulsivity, which complement each other like a house on fire. However, Will has been that sort of house-on-fire for about thirty-odd years now, so the real answer gets very boring after some time.)
He almost wishes he was drunk off his tits again, because now he has no excuse for doing something extremely dumb in an extremely dumb manner to boot. But there are silver linings, such as being able to function normally, and at least this time there’s no party involved.
Sitting at the counter of a not-gay bar, despite Austin’s presence and vocal distaste for straight bars, Will pretends to care about sipping the rest of his shitty beer and instead watches Hasan out of the corner of his eye. His social battery is tanking something fierce, he can tell, looking at the set of his jaw and the state of his nails, chewed to ribbons. He’s going to become a danger to all bar patrons if this continues, so with an apologetic smile and an “it’s past his bedtime,” Will hauls him off of his stool and out into the parking lot.
It’s crisp out, immediately doing wonders for the tired tenseness about Hasan, but not enough that he gets into the driver’s seat of his own car when Will walks him to it. Instead, while Will watches, he clambers into the backseat and lies down right where he is, a jumble of unwieldy limbs.
He does this sometimes, when he has migraines and doesn’t feel up to driving. Sometimes Will leaves him be and makes him text him when he’s home, other times he waits with him until it passes. This time is an other-time, and he makes Hasan budge over enough to claim one of the car seats.
Hasan tries to say something that comes across as thbbrhbbrhhrb, muffled into the seat, before he sits up, clears his throat, and tries again. “Thanks for the save.”
“‘Course.” Will swipes away the hair in front of his forehead to poke him there. “Head hurts?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Only ‘cause I wasn’t wearing my glasses too long.”
He takes them off all the time when he starts hating how they feel on his face. Will glances around the car. “Where are they at?”
“Lost them.”
“…You drove here, Hasan. You lost them on the way from your car to the bar?”
Hasan doesn’t answer. Why is Will even surprised? He has a special talent for not having his glasses where they’re supposed to be. He would tell him to get contacts, if Hasan was willing to have anything fiddly near his eyes at all. Instead, he considers the merits of keeping a spare pair around for him. While he thinks about it, Hasan drops his head to hide his face in his shoulder. While he’s wondering at the difficulty of having to find out his prescription, Hasan sighs into his neck. Just as he decides he’ll find and pocket one of the pairs that’s been abandoned, Hasan opens his mouth and scrapes his teeth against Will’s skin.
Will pauses. Processes. Then asks dryly: “So is that headache gone?”
“Could be,” Hasan mumbles back, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t care if it is or not.
This awful man. Will turns his head enough to be speaking into his mess of hair. “What is this about, Hasan?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” The silence is audibly unimpressed. Hasan adds, “Your fault. You started it.”
He means the first time, Will assumes— and Will also assumes he did start it. Sounds like him. Still, he can’t just accept that. “There’s no way of knowing who started it. Actually, I think you did.”
“Did not. ” It’s nearly a pout. Again he nips at Will’s neck, eliciting a huff and not much else. “Already happened once. A second time’s not gonna change anything.”
Conversely, a second time’s going to change everything. Once is by chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern, so the saying goes, but he’s pretty sure “fucking your best friend” is a situation where twice is a little more than coincidence. Twice is a dangerous road. Twice goes past a funny accident. Twice leaves commitment to the bit territory.
At Will’s continued lack of response, Hasan makes a little frustrated noise and purposefully scrapes his stubble across his shoulder to annoy him. “Jesus, Will, I’m not begging you to be my one and only. S’wrong with fuckin’ around?”
“ You threw the hissy fit last time,” Will reminds.
Hasan snorts. “Yeah, because I woke up and got fucking jumpscared. It’s fine.”
“How is a parking lot any better?”
“I’ve done worse in worse places.”
That’s not wrong. But this is— this is… a leap over a threshold, of sorts. For fuck’s sake, he doesn’t remember last time, doesn’t remember if it was good, if it was bad, can’t remember if he did something that Hasan liked, if either of them liked it at all. Even though he’s not so hard to please. It doesn’t take a delicate touch. If he wanted to, Will bets he could just call him daddy while batting his eyelashes and twirling his hair and Hasan would fall ass over teakettle. Except he’s not a buxom woman wearing lip gloss, so it might not have the same effect. But he does look damn good in drag, given around ten minutes and a nice wig. Know what? He’s gonna be Jessica Rabbit for Halloween. Hasan will see then.
He digresses. The point is this is make-or-break territory. This is something he’ll remember, something that has immediate consequences. Admittedly, between make-or-break, he doesn’t actually want it to break. He should want it to break. Will tries not to shit where he eats, but he can’t deny himself that the idea is… fun, maybe. It’s Hasan, for fuck’s sake, it’s not like he doesn’t want him— there’s not a person on earth who doesn’t want him. And for right now, at least, Hasan wants him too. He’s an idiot if he’s gonna sit around until that changes.
Will brings one hand to cup the back of Hasan’s head and rests the other on his thigh. “Alright,” he says, turning into him, moving closer. “Yeah, alright.”
Past the original reasons why this is a bad idea, this is amazingly still, you know. A bad idea. He’s a grown man, goddamnit, what are they acting like teenagers boinking in the backseat for? You couldn’t pay him to do this in his car, but whatever. It’s not his car, so it’s not his problem. Will raises one hand to spit in it before he nudges his way past Hasan’s waistband, into his boxers, running his fingers lightly across his cock. It’s not much more than that, stroking him gently to full hardness, but Hasan shifts and sighs all pleased like a great weight has already been lifted from his shoulders.
His head stays buried where it is. Will can feel his eyelashes fluttering. “Happy with yourself?”
Hasan’s answering hum quickly turns into a broken hitch of breath when Will finally wraps his hand around him, sliding up from the base to the head in one slow drag, grip just shy of too tight.
“You’re so lucky I enable you,” he continues conversationally while Hasan digs his fingers in the fabric of his collar. “‘Cause you’re seriously a fucking menace.”
“Ah—” He presses further into Will, hips stuttering when he idly twists his wrist. “Will, can you—”
“It was the puppy eyes,” Will laments to nobody in particular. Or, well, he hopes it’s nobody. He supposes some innocent bystander could have wandered by and been scarred, but maybe they’d just see them curled into each other and think they were having a really emotional moment. Unless it was Austin. That’d be hard to explain. “Your goddamn puppy eyes.”
“ Will, ” Hasan says again, half a hiss, and proceeds to sink his teeth into Will’s shoulder by means of complaint. Will nearly hits his head on the car roof.
The big fucker bites hard. The resulting ache settles hot in Will’s stomach, and he can’t be preoccupied with that right now. “What the fuck was that for?”
“Stop talking.” Hasan has the audacity to sound smug. Will does, in fact, stop talking, if only to preserve his pride. He’s fine focusing on pulling those breathy noises from Hasan’s throat anyway. He pulls his hand to the head of his cock again, slicking his palm with precome before pumping him properly, if a bit faster than he needs to. Hasan doesn’t seem like he minds.
It doesn’t take long. Hasan pants, loud and heavy, and he doesn’t have the politeness to tell Will when he’s close, but he knows anyway. He knows it in the tense bunching of his shoulders, the groan building deep in his chest, the teeth bared on Will’s neck— it doesn’t take him by surprise this time when Hasan bites, just because he can, coming over Will’s hand with his own still tightly fisted into his shirt.
And then it’s quiet. Hasan wrangles his breathing. Will rolls his shoulder a bit, wanting to feel the mark Hasan left but not willing to shove him off to check it. The moon and the stars don’t all fall from the sky from the unimaginable act of crossing the barrier of jerking a guy off in a dark parking lot. It could have gone worse.
Hasan slumps over like a bag of sand. Will scratches the back of his head. “Feel better?”
He nods, then rethinks it and adds, “Also feel gross.”
“Tell me about it. Yuck. Got tissues in here?” Hasan makes an unhelpful iunno sound, because he is always unhelpful. Will takes it upon himself to rummage through his center console until he finds an unused bunch of fast food napkins, which will have to do.
By the time he’s wiped off and put the napkins in containment (Ziploc bag that holds exactly 3 almonds), Hasan has sat upright to peer at him properly, all dark searching eyes. “Wh’about you?”
His voice is a jumble of syllables. He’s tired. Will waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“No, seriously, you’ll pop your retinas. I should take you home. I didn’t drive here anyway.” It’s a bit uncomfortable, sure, but he’ll manage. Hasan’s still squinting, and better for Will to be annoyed than have him crash his car. Hasan doesn’t agree with this, it seems, because he pulls a doubtful face. Will cracks a smile. “Don’t sulk. You couldn't handle me.”
“I could, ” Hasan says, insistent, like now it’s a challenge.
Once is chance. Twice is a not-coincidence. Three’s a God-forsaken pattern. And yet, Will says, “Next time,” which in a court of law would he considered setting a horrible precedent, and Hasan blinks, taken off guard, but then he grins, hungry.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Next time.”
Not much changes. He helps himself to one of Hasan’s couches, stays the night, and sleeps ‘til noon. He invades Hasan’s kitchen like he lives there because there’s no better time to cook than when he doesn’t have to use his own ingredients, and the smell draws Hasan over like a vulture to carrion, and they eat standing up right where they are in front of the counter. It’s normal. Routine. Could be any other day, if not for the set of teeth still imprinted on Will’s shoulder and the wry expression on Hasan’s face when he glances over it.
But other than that, it’s the same. Will doesn’t know what he expected. He had been worried about immediate consequences, patterns, the other shoe dropping. There’s still room for things to go wrong, obviously, there always is. But this. If it’s this, if things stay like this— Will thinks he might like that very much.
“Hello?” Probably annoyed at Will’s attention being elsewhere for all of 35 seconds, Hasan prods him with the end of a fork.
His cheeks are stuffed with a mouthful of food like a chipmunk, brows furrowed. A wave of fondness creeps up Will and threatens to overtake him completely. To deal with it, he asks apropos of nothing, “Should I be Jessica Rabbit for Halloween?”
Hasan’s expression turns serious, considering this, before he decisively answers: “Yes.”