The menu card is ready guys!!! Enjoy ordering imaginary foods from it 💓💓 Hope it meets your expectations. Literally took 2 weeks to complete. Worth it though.
And yes, the story location is set in Chandigarh, even though I know nothing about the place. I used google maps to find a perfect address and the butterfly park looked good. If there are any Chandigarh people, let me know, I might ask for help.
Ps: Discount for Employees, Family members of employees and friends.
Hi all! This is Sudi aka @hamzair-is-my-otp . I have been thinking of somethings that will help out fandom be alive and I'm here to share it.
I'm thinking of starting a discord for this fandom (if there's already one let me know!)
I don't know how many of you are in HP fandom but they regularly conduct writing fests and prompt challenges based on specific tropes. Or based on the month. I was thinking why not do the same to our fandom too. Let me know everyone's thoughts on this.
The prompts won't just be for a specific pairing every time. It would vary. Like if a prompt is given, anyone can use it for any pairing. Because our fandom is small compared to many other fandoms who write fics within themselves for specific pairings and I want everyone to be involved in any way possible, I'm thinking of weekly stuff too.
I want volunteers who would help me do this (if we're doing it). Not just with discord, but also to brainstorm prompt ideas. Anyone can volunteer.
People are leaving this fandom because of personal commitments or less engagement to their fics or due to harassment. We can't do anything about the first one, it's life. But if you're leaving because of the other two, please stay, let's start something new and make this fandom stronger. Let's all write more and make the anons grow tired.
Everyone please reblog and comment on fics that you like. Please don't be silent. Even a heart or two in the comment section would make the author happy.
Prompts would not just be about hamzair, rehmat, hamlina but also the ones with OCs, readers, major Iqbal, SP Aslam, and anything that's posted as a fic. Basically any and every pairing you want to make.
This is not just limited to fics, you can also draw, write poetry, do whatever you want with said prompts but be involved in whatever way you can.
Kindly reblog this. I can only tag a limited amount of people in this. Others also tag everyone on your list. Let this spread to even the smallest writer. We need everyone to keep this fandom's light bright and shining.
Honestly Dhurandhar movies and this fandom has been playing a MAJOR role in helping me through my own personal struggles and depression. I know it's the same for many of you, even if it's not said out loud. That's one of the main reasons I don't want this fandom to die.
I know we have a mix of school students, college students, and working adults here, so please don't worry about deadlines. These events will be completely flexible with long submission windows and short-word, one-shot options, so you can join in whenever life and exams give you a break.
I'm requesting everyone who reads this post to comment their HONEST opinions on this. Even if it's negative, it's welcome because this is an initial discussion, not a forced conclusion. Thankyou ❤️
Finished ch22 of The Kohl in your eyes and YALINA IS THE QUEEN, SHE IS THE ICON, THE LEGEND AND THE MOMENT
YALINA IS THE MVP OF THE CHAPTER
Also, good on Hamza/Jaskirat
Honestly can't wait for uzairs reaction to the spree of the unknown gunmen
IN THE MIDST OF ALL LYARI MEN, YALINA IS THE ONLY BOSS PERIODT💅👑
I was very sure of what her role would be in my story as I refused to write a female character in any other way. Since I had a chance to use her character properly, I did. My first change had been to actually write her way to be a doctor, even though being a daughter of a politician. And also be instrumental in helping Hamza or Uzair without Hamza manipulating her. Glad that you liked her characterisation, dear Anon!
And yes, there are three people in this marriage now— Hamza, Uzair and Jaskirat iykyk. But Hamza and Jaskirat have both made their peace about their relationship with Uzair. But the three will meet. Soon. And it will be a marriage of two people again. But will it be too late though?🤔
About a brat Uzair now, I have grand plans actually. Especially written in dialogues, how Uzair channels his inner bratty-ness in the upcoming plot of the story. I believe they will be fun🤭 Hamza be ready to be a brat tamer!
*Non-profit adaptation
*Original work by Alessandra Hazard
DISCLAIMER:
This book Is based on pure Russian Mafia theme. It contains derogatory language, mentions of violence, explicit M/M content, D/s dynamic, and a protagonist of questionable morality.
Assumption of Stockholm syndrome. Hurt/comfort, angst and ruthless behavior have been observed. It's a captor/captive story. Since it's set up in Russia, there have been many instances where Russian language is used. For the readers' convenience they are rightfully translated into English for better understanding.
TMI : Jaskirat's guards refer to him as "Singh" and "Dhruv" is rizwan.
CHAPTER- 1
CHAPTER - 2
A slice of stale bread. A small bottle of water. That was his daily ration.
By the end of the week, the last remnants of Uzair’s optimism were extinguished by the hunger gnawing at his insides. He felt fatigued and weak, almost dizzy at times. In all his life he had never known true hunger, not until now. His stomach contracted in painful spasms and all he could think about was food. He needed glucose-rich food. Uzair knew if he didn’t have low blood sugar, it probably would have been nowhere near as bad, but it was a small comfort when hunger kept him awake at night, curling up on the narrow bed, the only piece of furniture in the room.
The worst part was how some of the guards liked to torture him by eating all kinds of delicious-smelling food in front of him, laughing when Uzair stared at it with hungry eyes. Sometimes, if the guards were drunk or bored, or both, they used him as a punching bag, but even that was preferable to the sight and smell of food he couldn’t eat.
Their employer hadn’t made an appearance. From what Uzair had overheard, he wasn’t even in the house. Now Uzair felt silly for expecting a visit from the main bad guy. It wasn’t a cheesy Hollywood movie where the villain always came to gloat and share his evil plans with the victim. In all likelihood, Uzair and his well-being were completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things to the person behind all of this. This kidnapping clearly was nothing personal, and the bad guy didn’t have to explain anything to him. The thought smarted. He’d never felt so powerless in his life.
Uzair was curled up in bed, shivering from cold and holding his stomach, when he heard the sound of the locks turning. He tensed. They had already fed him that morning. Were the guards bored again? His ribs still hurt from the last time they had been bored.
Uzair tried to stand, but it probably wasn’t a good idea considering how fatigued he was, so he settled for sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Even that drained him of what little energy he had left, and he had to breathe deeply to fight the sudden bout of dizziness that washed over him. He wasn’t going to faint, dammit. Not now.
The door opened and closed, but his vision was still swimming and he could only make out the blurry tall figure that had entered the room.
Finally, his vision sharpened, the world came into focus, and Uzair found himself gasping as he met the cold Light Green eyes of Jaskirat Singh Rangi.
Fuck.
In the past week, he had thought of Rangi a few times, wondering if he had anything to do with the kidnapping, but he had dismissed the idea. Jaskirat was a condescending prick, and his eyes totally creeped Uzair out, but it didn’t necessarily mean the guy was a criminal. He had told himself “Filthy-rich Russian tycoons” didn’t equal “Russian mafia.” Well, clearly he’d been wrong in this case.
For a long moment, there was only silence as they looked at each other.
Uzair fidgeted, feeling more than a little self-conscious. He probably looked pathetic. His curls were no longer tamed by gel, his fringe falling over his eyes. Uzair was wearing the same Green dress shirt from a week ago, but now it was crumpled, dirty, and stained with blood. At least he had been allowed a shower yesterday (only because the thug that brought him food had complained to Vlad that he stunk).
All in all, if Jaskirat Singh Rangi had been unimpressed with him a week ago, when Uzair had looked his best, he was unlikely to take him seriously now that he looked like a beaten-up, half-starved kid.
“What do you want with me?” Uzair said calmly—or at least he tried to, but his voice was weak, the words shaping up oddly in his mouth.
Jaskirat’s inscrutable expression didn’t change. He continued looking at him in silence, his gaze sharp. It was a hundred times more unnerving than any words.
Uzair fought the urge to squirm. “Look, whatever issue you have with my father, I know nothing of it. Just let me go, okay?”
The man stepped closer and grabbed his chin in an iron-like grip, so hard it hurt. “What are you playing at?”
Uzair blinked up at him, confused. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly, trying not to wince from pain or show his fear.
Jaskirat’s lips thinned. “Who do you take me for?” he said. “Why did Baloch send me his only son? Unarmed, no bodyguards, no precautions at all? Kidnapping you was laughably easy.”
Uzair couldn’t help but laugh, though his lips were still swollen from the last beating he’d received and it hurt a little. “Sorry? You sound disappointed.”
The man stared down at him, as if Uzair were some strange creature that didn’t make any sense. “You can’t possibly be such a clueless child,” he said in disgust, letting go of him and straightening up.
Uzair studied him curiously, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. If the guy was unable to see past his boyish looks, he could use that. Maybe his youthful appearance would finally be good for something. He could play it up, pretend to be totally harmless and clueless—pretend to be the vulnerable teenager he certainly wasn’t. Uzair was an optimist at heart. He was a firm believer that completely evil people didn’t exist. Even the most heartless, hardened criminals would think twice before mistreating a vulnerable kid. Wouldn’t they?
Well, it was worth a try.
Uzair put on his best puppy-dog eyes and looked up at the other man from under his eyelashes, letting his exhaustion and fatigue show on his face. “I’m starving,” he said softly. “If you don’t want me to get sick, you should feed me better. I have low blood sugar. I feel sick and dizzy if I don’t get to eat properly.”
There was no flicker of remorse on Rangi’s face. “You’re alive,” he said curtly. “That’s the only thing I care about. A weakened captive is less of a hassle.”
Nice.
Refusing to give up, Uzair bit his lip and dropped his gaze. “Okay.”
Silence.
He waited with bated breath, but with every passing second it was becoming increasingly obvious that this man was as cruel and unfeeling as he looked.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Rangi said, laying his large hand on top of Uzair’s head gently.
Uzair went motionless, not daring to look, not daring to breathe. There was something about that gentleness that unsettled him to his core. He knew very little about this man, but one thing he knew for certain: he didn’t have a gentle bone in his body.
“I d-don’t know what you expect me to say,” he managed, fighting the wave of dizziness brought by fear. He stared down at his bare toes. “I know nothing about my father’s dealings with you. He tells me nothing. He didn’t know I went to meet you. I had no idea what I was getting into when I decided to go in his stead.”
The long fingers carded through his curls ever so gently.
Uzair couldn’t breathe.
The fingers tightened before yanking his head up by his hair. Hard Green eyes bored into his. “Do you expect me to believe this?”
“You’re hurting me,” Uzair said, letting tears well up in his eyes. He managed to make his bottom lip tremble. “I’ll tell you everything I know, I swear.”
The painful grip on his curls didn’t lessen one bit, but Rangi’s gaze flicked down to Uzair’s wobbling lip. The look lasted a fraction of a second, but Uzair didn’t miss it.
Oh.
He dropped his gaze again as a new thought occurred to him. Uzair truly hadn’t intended to go this route—a part of him couldn’t even believe he was seriously considering it—but…But. He wasn’t a damsel in distress.
He refused to be a damsel in distress and timidly wait to be rescued. It was his own fault that he had acted recklessly and gotten himself in this predicament. Not to mention that his father was going to skin him alive if he had to pay some outrageous money to ransom him. Yes, Uzair had screwed up, but it was still his chance to prove to his father that he could handle tricky situations by himself. If he could manipulate this powerful man, he would more than prove to his father that he wasn’t useless, that he was smart enough and resourceful enough, that he could be trusted.
But could he do it if a mere look from this man made his knees weak with fear? If a pseudo-gentle touch made his heart pound?
Uzair lifted his gaze to the other man again. His stomach tied in knots when his eyes locked with Jaskirat’s. The Russian wasn’t unattractive. Far from it. He was ruggedly handsome, with his short, dark hair, straight nose, and his sharp jaw. He was very fit, his shoulders wide and powerful under the black turtleneck he was wearing, his arms and chest thick with muscle. If the guy wasn’t tall, he would have looked beefy. As it was, he just looked like a perfect killing machine. There was a quiet, carefully restrained aggression in his body language, something lethal and dangerous. Although Uzair was of perfect height and build, he felt small next to this man. Breakable.
Uzair moistened his lips with his tongue.
The painful grip in his hair tightened, yet Jaskirat’s voice was very soft. “I want answers. Now.”
Uzair took in a deep breath, trying to shake off his nerves. Jaskirat Rangi was just a man. Just a man like him or Sameer. All right, maybe not like him or Sameer, but still. Every man, no matter how hardened and clever, was susceptible to a bit of manipulation and persuasion. He just had to find the right approach.
“I’m telling the truth,” Uzair said quietly, keeping his tone open and naive. “I got the email by mistake. I went to meet you without telling my dad because I wanted to prove to him that I was mature enough to be involved in the family business.”
Jaskirat snorted derisively.
Swallowing the biting remark that came to mind, Uzair said, “You don’t take me seriously. Why do you think my father is any different?”
Bingo. He could see that Rangi was finally inclined to believe him.
The tight grip in his hair loosened, turning into a gentle caress again. Uzair wasn’t sure which was actually worse.
“So you’re here only because you’re a stupid, reckless child,” Jaskirat said, his tone mild.
Inwardly, Uzair imagined punching him in the nose with great relish and in great detail. Outwardly, he caught his lip between his teeth and shrugged. “Could you tell me why you kidnapped me?” he asked, trying to ignore the fingers still buried in his hair.
“No,” Rangi said.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be the prime suspect in my kidnapping?” Uzair said, cocking his head. “There’s the email. There are people who know I went to meet you.” Well, Sameer had seen a photograph of Jaskirat and could likely give his description to the police.
Rangi didn’t look worried in the least. “We had a very public meeting at a very public place, a meeting arranged through official channels.” His voice remained soft, his unnerving, empty eyes fixed on Uzair’s curly hair as his fingers ran through it gently. “There are numerous witnesses who saw me leave well before you and get on the flight to Sochi, where I spent the week. The president of Russia himself can confirm my alibi.”
Uzair’s eyebrows flew up. Who, exactly, was this man? How could such a relatively young man achieve such power?
Three guesses how, Uzair thought, suppressing a shiver. “So are you demanding a ransom from my father?”
Jaskirat gave no response.
“What did my father do to anger you so much?”
No response.
Uzair gritted his teeth before remembering himself—remembering his plan. He couldn’t show his anger. He couldn’t throw temper tantrums. He had to be good. He had to somehow soften the guy up.
He had to seduce him if necessary.
Uzair felt his cheeks colour a little. The task seemed daunting, even impossible. This man couldn’t have gotten to where he was by being susceptible to manipulation. He was dangerous. If he even suspected what Uzair was up to…
His stomach twisted into knots.
“At least tell your people to bring me food, please? I feel sick.” Uzair looked up at Jaskirat and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’m so hungry.”
Jaskirat’s gaze followed the movement of his tongue. If Uzair didn’t feel so shitty, he would have laughed. It looked like Neville, his first boyfriend, had told him the truth for once. The asshole had lied to him for months, hiding that he was married, and when the truth had gotten out— when his wife had turned up at Uzair’s flat—Neville actually had the nerve to blame Uzair for steering him off the “right path,” claiming that no red-blooded straight man could look at his lips and resist thinking of sticking his cock between them. At the time, Uzair had felt so stupid, pathetic, and dirty, but maybe, just maybe, Neville had been right. Maybe.
Uzair breathed carefully, painfully aware of Jaskirat’s fingers in his hair, of those cold eyes scrutinizing him. It was impossible to tell what was on the guy’s mind. Although Uzair had caught Jaskirat’s gaze lingering on his mouth, his gaydar remained silent. Everything in him screamed to be careful with this man, that a head-on attempt at seduction and manipulation wouldn’t be well-received. He had to keep in mind that the guy, despite his impeccable English, was living in Russia.
While being gay was still far from easy back home, things were much worse in Russia. Although Uzair didn’t like to generalize and stereotype, he couldn’t help noticing that anti-gay rhetoric seemed to be ingrained in Russian culture. Every other swear word used by his guards was a homophobic slur, whether it was relevant or not. Uzair had never been called a faggot—pidaras—as often as he had been this week, even though he gave the guards no reason to think he was gay. Uzair guessed he must be thankful that their homophobic views prevented them from doing anything that would make them faggots, too, but it wasn’t very comforting. He felt ill at ease surrounded by such hostility and disgust toward what he was. If they found out he really was gay, Uzair had a sneaking suspicion that it would be a green light for the guards to use him as they pleased: they would rationalize that he was just “asking for it”—and of course using a dirty faggot wouldn’t make them gay.
That was why he had to tread carefully with this man. One wrong move would invite a disaster.
“Please,” Uzair said softly. “I’ll be completely cooperative. I’ll do anything you want.” He kept his voice free of innuendo, making sure his expression was earnest. He couldn’t initiate anything—that would be blatantly obvious. His gut told him Jaskirat Singh Rangi belonged to the category of men who got off on power and who liked to see submission, but not necessarily sexual submission. Uzair could fake submission. If he could play his cards right, he mightn’t even need to sleep with the guy. The thought of actually having sex with this man, having Jaskirat’s hands on his body while those disconcerting eyes looked down at him, sent a shiver through Uzair’s body.
Against his will, his gaze was drawn down to the other man’s muscular thighs. He could see the outline of Jaskirat’s cock beneath the fabric. Although it wasn’t hard, it looked massive, long and thick.
Swallowing, Uzair licked his dry lips, a squirmy sensation in his stomach. Fuck, a cock like that would completely wreck him—and a man like Jaskirat Singh Rangi was unlikely to be gentle. He would be rough, commanding, and caring only about his own pleasure. Uzair could practically see it: the Russian’s heavy body on top of him, crushing him as he moved between Uzair’s thighs, using Uzair as a hole for his dick—
Jaskirat released his hair and stepped away. His eyes were narrowed as he studied Uzair’s face like a hawk.
Uzair held his gaze, hoping that he wasn’t blushing and his dirty thoughts weren’t written all over his face. Sometimes he hated his vivid imagination. He wasn’t sure why he had been thinking about that. In all likelihood, Jaskirat wasn’t attracted to him in the least and he had nothing to fear. He had more pressing things to worry about than the guy’s cock—like getting some food into his empty stomach.
“Please,” Uzair said quietly.
Some emotion flickered across Jaskirat’s face. He stared at Uzair some more, his expression inscrutable once again, before turning around and leaving.
Then, he heard Jaskirat’s cold voice, muffled by the door but clear enough:
“Daite malchishke chto-nibud poyest suschestvennogo. Myortvym mne on ne nuzhen.” (Give the boy some decent food. He won’t be of use to me dead.)
A slow, little smile curled Uzair’s lips.
It might be a small win, but he felt his optimism returning.
Baby steps.
-----------------
Jaskirat Singh Rangi strode away from the captive’s room, his mood darker than ever.
The maid he met on the way to his office took one look at him, paled, and ducked her head, as if hoping he wouldn’t notice her. Smart little thing. Too bad he was too worked up right now.
He grabbed her arm. She froze, barely breezing.
“Lena, isn’t it?” he said quietly, eyeing her blond hair and slim figure. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had plush, soft-looking lips. His eyes lingered on them. His jaw tightened.
“Yes,” she said meekly, glancing up at him for a moment before dropping her gaze. He could see her pulse beating madly at the delicate base of her neck. She was scared of him. Or perhaps she was excited. Probably both.
Silently, he opened the door to his office and went in. He knew she would follow him inside.
He wasn’t wrong. He rarely was.
“Close the door,” he said.
The door clicked shut behind him.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the howling of the wind outside and a tree branch banging on glass. The room was very warm despite the freezing weather.
There was no heating in the grey room, Jaskirat thought, recalling the boy’s shivering body. The lack of heat was a strategic decision: usually the “guests” staying in the grey room were to be weakened by hunger and cold. Certainly not to be pampered and fed properly.
Jaskirat’s jaw clenched.
“You may leave now,” he said. “Or you may undress.”
After a brief pause, there was the sound of clothes rustling.
He took a deep breath, trying to relax his shoulders. It wouldn’t do to hurt the girl. He rather liked her—when he didn’t feel like breaking something. Or someone.
“Over my desk,” he murmured. He wasn’t in the mood for elaborate foreplay. Not today.
She was wet when he pushed into her.
She let out soft moans as he fucked her, fully clothed but for his open fly, his fingers gripping her hips in a punishing grip, his teeth gritted and his eyes staring into the snowstorm raging outside.
He barely felt himself coming. It was just a release, an outlet for his dark mood. It did nothing toward easing it.
“Thanks, love,” he said afterward, pulling a few bills out of his pocket and placing them on the desk by the girl’s panting form.
She smiled dazedly, grabbed the money and her clothes, and hurried out of the room.
Jaskirat tied the condom and threw it into the rubbish bin.
Dropping himself in his chair, he lit a cigarette and closed his eyes.
Blyad. Goddammit.
Even despite the fuck, the boy’s black curls and plush, cherry pink mouth stood before his eyes. That mouth. It was a cross between an angel’s mouth and a whore’s.
He wanted to fucking wreck it.
He’d wanted it from the moment he first saw the boy in the restaurant, all dressed up and trying to play grown-up games without knowing any of the rules.
Jaskirat wasn’t used to denying himself what he wanted. He always got what he wanted. Except he couldn’t fuck the boy’s mouth, couldn’t split those lips on his cock and choke him on it as his body wanted.
For fuck’s sake. He wasn’t a faggot. No matter how pretty that mouth was, his physical attraction to a boy didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like what he couldn’t understand or control. It was also inconvenient as hell. He ought to be thinking about the best use he could get out of Baloch’s only son and heir. Instead, he had spent minutes petting the boy’s soft curls and staring at his mouth. Unacceptable. And it was completely unacceptable that he had relented and ordered the guards to feed the captive better only because the boy batted his eyelashes and asked him prettily.
Jaskirat smirked, disgusted and irritated with himself. He should have starved the kid. He should have starved him until those pretty lips became pale and chapped, until those rosy cheeks hollowed out from malnutrition, until the boy turned ugly and pathetic. How an ordinary, bull-faced man like Faiz Baloch had managed to produce a son who looked like that was a goddamn mystery.
Jaskirat threw his cigarette into the ashtray and pressed a button on the intercom. “Bring me a bottle of vodka, Vlad.”
He could sense Vlad’s surprise even without seeing him. “But you don’t drink,” Vlad said slowly. “You never drink.”
Jaskirat murmured, “You’ve always had a penchant for stating the obvious, Vlad.” His voice hardened. “Get me that bottle now.”
“Give me a minute,” Vlad said, probably realizing Jaskirat was in no mood to tolerate his insolence this time.
Vlad had been his head of security for almost ten years. He was very loyal—he was one of the few people Jaskirat trusted implicitly—but Vlad tended to forget himself, expressing his disagreement with Jaskirat’s actions in situations most people would never dare to.
The door opened and closed.
Vlad walked in and placed a bottle of vodka on the desk, his pale brows drawn together. He opened his mouth but shut it upon meeting Jaskirat’s gaze.
Jaskirat stared at the bottle in front of him. His mouth was dry and the urge to drink was definitely still there, but he squashed it easily enough. He hadn’t touched alcohol in fifteen years and he had no intention to do so ever again. He was still in control of himself and his life. He was still in control.
One boy with cocksucking lips wasn’t going to change that.
“Take it away,” he said, satisfied.
Vlad didn’t comment, just took the bottle back. His Grey eyes observed him in silence.
“What?” Jaskirat said without any inflection.
“What are you going to do with Baloch’s brat?”
Jaskirat lit another cigarette and took a long drag. “Haven’t decided yet. I didn’t exactly plan this.” The boy had practically fallen into his lap.
Vlad cocked his head to the side, his expression curious. “It’s very unlike you to act impulsively.”
Jaskirat shrugged with one shoulder. “I know a good opportunity when I see one.”
Vlad nodded slowly. “So does that mean you’ll use the boy?”
Use the boy.
“Of course I will use the boy,” Jaskirat said, looking at the bottle still grasped in Vlad’s hand. He dragged his eyes away. “Baloch needs to be taught a lesson.”
“And pay what he owes you,” Vlad said. “It’s not even about the money,” Jaskirat said, eyeing the cigarette in his hand. “The Englishman played me.” He thought of Dhruv’s lifeless eyes and crushed the cigarette in his hand. “No one gets away with that.”
“Don’t you think it’s cruel to drag the kid into it?”
“He’s twenty-three years old,” Jaskirat said flatly. He had checked. Twice.
Vlad snorted. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t give him a day over sixteen. He looks so…innocent, I guess.”
Jaskirat shot him a sharp look. “Why the sudden interest?”
Vlad shrugged. Was he avoiding Jaskirat’s gaze? “He’s interesting. In the past week he never cried once, didn’t go into hysterics even when he was brought in. He’s practically a perfect captive.”
Jaskirat continued studying him, watching Vlad grow uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Is that so?” Jaskirat said.
“Yes.”
“He has bruises on his face,” Jaskirat said, watching his head of security. “And from the way he was breathing, his ribs are at least bruised. I gave no such order.”
Vlad swallowed.
Jaskirat didn’t soften his expression, watching Vlad squirm. It wasn’t that he gave a fuck when his men roughed up his “guests” a little. But he didn’t tolerate it when his orders weren’t carried out precisely. He hadn’t given his men permission to touch his newest acquisition.
“You know how the lads get when they’re bored,” Vlad said, still not quite meeting his eyes.
“I know,” Jaskirat said. “But it’s your job to rein them in.”
Vlad nodded, his wide shoulders slumping. “It won’t happen again,” he said, turning to leave.
“Did you participate, too?” Jaskirat said.
Vlad froze.
“I thought so,” Jaskirat said, very softly.
“Look—” Vlad started, his ears red. “It happened only once. I know I shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have let it happen, but it was fucking freezing outside and I had a few sips of vodka to warm me up and—I know it’s no excuse—”
“It really isn’t.”
“I know!” Vlad said, frustration and regret lacing his voice. “It’s just —there’s something about that kid that makes all my men agitated, and I’m not an exception.”
Jaskirat’s eyes narrowed. He had an inkling what had his men so agitated. It wasn’t even the boy’s pretty face or blowjob lips. It was the air of innocence about him. The urge to dirty him up would be nearly irresistible to men who didn’t have a shred of innocence left.
On one hand, it was a relief to know he wasn’t the only one affected by the boy, but on the other…it was clear that leaving Uzair Baloch in the care of his men may not be a good idea if they were so easily influenced by the captive to the point of forgetting their orders. It was dangerous. Jaskirat surrounded himself with only the best men, but he was aware few had his self-control. Some inebriated idiot might be too susceptible to the boy’s pretty lips and doe eyes.
“Are you saying you can’t control your men?” Jaskirat said in a low-pitched voice.
Vlad gulped. “I’m saying I can’t control them around the kid,” he replied with a grimace. “No matter what I threaten them with, when they get bored or drunk, they want to have fun. And the boy looks…” Vlad licked his lip. “No homo, but he looks fucking beautiful all beaten up and bruised.”
Jaskirat’s fingers twitched. “Is that so?” He stared at the fire cracking in the fireplace. That boy was dangerous. If he could get even his normally unflappable head of security so agitated…
“Singh?” Vlad said tentatively.
He looked up. “I’m disappointed in you, Vlad.”
His jaw tightening, Vlad nodded briskly, his beefy body tense and wary.
Jaskirat went silent for a while. He always enjoyed this part. Let him stew for a bit.
“I expect that such…a lapse of judgment will never happen again,” he said at last.
Vlad relaxed, breathing out. “It won’t. I promise.”
“Not good enough,” Jaskirat said. “Baloch’s son will be moved to the room adjoining mine.”
Vlad’s eyes widened. “What—but it’s a security risk—”
“You know what’s a security risk, Vlad?” Jaskirat said cuttingly. “When my head of security gets too fucking distracted at work.”
Vlad flinched. “I promise it won’t—”
“Your promises are not enough. I’m not punishing you only because you have proved in the past that I can trust you with my life. But now you proved I can’t trust you or your men with Baloch’s brat.” Jaskirat pursed his lips. “Get the room secure and have the boy moved into it. From now on, until you prove to me I can trust you with this, I will be the only one who has contact with the boy. Dismissed.”
Vlad nodded and left with a chastised look on his face.
As soon as the door shut after him, Jaskirat leaned back in his chair and breathed out, unclenching his fist.
So I'm making a fanart for Cleats Vs Combat Boots (Hamzair AU fic) by @savagedrama (I hope at least you like it! cause I hated myself 😭 through the process of drawing this cause I couldn't get it right!! Does he even look like Uzair!? IDK!! 😭)
Guys I don't know what I am doing so bare with me
I don't have experience drawing human figures at all!! Digital? I am a noob!
This is my first ever digital drawing that has a human figure in it and my first EVER fanart!!!
As you can see I am (almost) done with Uzair half and I am planning to draw the hamza half (soon)
And guys if you ever post a dhurandhar fanart tag me!!! I need more!! I am running on a low supply thus I put myself through the torture to draw it myself 😭🙏🏻
And yes this is hand drawn while teasing on a reference picture
(I still feel like the colour scheme and typography are way off the mark please feel free to send me a few ideas on what I should use cause I feel stuck 🙏🏻🙏🏻)
Hi @savagedrama
I hope you like this one 🙏🏻
I still haven't caught up with cleats vs combat boots 😭🙏🏻 busy life sry
and I saw you post a new omegaverse fic which I am looking forward to reading 🤧
This story is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual events, places, or persons is purely inspirational.
This book contains explicit M/M sex and graphic language. For mature audiences only. (like minors give a fuck) and this story is set somewhere in europe.
PART - 1 PART - 2 PART - 3 PART - 4 PART - 5 PART - 6 PART - 7
SO THE FINAL CHAPTER IS HERE-
PART - 8
Rangi didn’t return in a few days.
Nor did he call. Uzair knew he could call, but the mere thought made him cringe. He didn’t want to seem clingy.
By Friday, Uzair didn’t know what to think. It didn’t help that Ameena and Ayla kept asking where Mr. Rangi was—the question Uzair had no answer for.
Where was he?
There was a niggling thought at the back of Uzair’s mind that Rangi was a commitment-phobe. Maybe he’d left because this thing between them freaked him out. If that was it, well, fuck him. Uzair would be damned if he let himself be the clingy one.
“What’s wrong with you, man?” Christian asked on Friday morning as they took their seats in Rangi’s class.
“Nothing.”
“You look like shit.”
“Didn’t sleep well,” Uzair muttered, rubbing his eyes. It wasn’t a lie. “I’m just—” He cut himself off, noticing the professor who walked into the classroom.
It wasn’t Rangi.
His heart sank.
Professor Ulfat took the seat behind Rangi’s desk and smiled at the students.
“Good morning,” the woman said cheerfully. “I’ll be substituting for Professor Rangi until further notice.”
A cheer went through the room. Uzair lifted his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Baloch?” Ulfat said.
“Where is Professor Rangi?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t think it’s your concern, but if you must know… Professor Rangi is absent due to family circumstances.”
“Yeah,” the girl sitting on Uzair’s other side murmured. “I’ve seen in the news that he’s marrying some politician’s daughter.”
Uzair stared at her numbly.
Christian put a hand on his shoulder and said something, but he could barely hear it.
Married? Jaskirat?
“It can’t be true,” he whispered, more to himself than to the girl. “He’s gay. And he’s…” Mine.
Except he wasn’t, was he? He didn’t have any right to be angry. They were nothing to each other.
“Are you okay?” Christian said, looking at him with a frown.
Uzair returned home early, dismissed the babysitter, sat on the couch, and watched the twins play.
Their dresses were worn out and too small for them. They needed new clothes.
He closed his eyes and thought of how much that would cost. Christmas wasn’t far away, and Christmas was expensive, so he needed to save money. New clothes for the girls would have to wait until he found a better job.
Uzair sighed, rubbing his face. Yeah. That was what he needed to focus on. No more distractions. The kids depended on him.
The couch dipped as the girls suddenly climbed onto it.
“You’re sad,” Ayla said.
“We don’t like when you’re sad,” Ameena said.
Uzair smiled brightly and wrapped his arms around them, pulling them close. They were warm and smelled of soap and sweets. Of innocence.
“No,” he said. “Of course I’m not sad.”
“When is Mr. Rangi coming back?” Ameena asked once again, her blue eyes wide and glistening with tears. “He promised me a puppy! With a white star on its forehead.”
Ayla sucked on her thumb. “Yeah, when is he coming back?”
Uzair’s heart clenched. At that moment, he hated Jaskirat Singh Rangi more than anything. The girls had no one but Uzair; of course they’d become attached to Jaskirat, since he had Been practically living with them for the last couple of weeks.
Uzair smiled, but it felt like a grimace. “It doesn’t look like he’s coming back, sweetheart.”
Ameena’s brows furrowed. “Why?”
How was he supposed to answer that?
Uzair averted his gaze. “Because he has his own family. And it seems his dad asked him to marry.” At least that was the only explanation he could think of. “He’s going to start a family now.”
“Why?” Ameena said.
Ayla’s lower lip trembled. “Why?”
Uzair looked between them and didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know, baby,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Ayla’s temple and pulling Ameena closer. “I don’t know.”
-----------
Uzair woke up in the middle of the night, shivering.
He burrowed deeper under the covers. The room was cold and damp, as usual, but it was harder to ignore it after weeks of sharing body heat with another person. He missed being warm.
Uzair sighed, turned onto his stomach and hugged his pillow, angry with himself. This was getting out of hand. Enough. Fuck Rangi and fuck his stupid warm body. Fuck him.
But no matter what he told himself, the ache in his stomach was still there. The hunger. The need that went beyond sex. He wanted Rangi’s body next to him, big and warm. He even wanted to hear his scathing remarks, feel his breath against his skin—
Uzair tensed and lifted his head. He could have sworn he heard voices coming from the living room. But the girls couldn’t possibly be awake, right?
Frowning, Uzair climbed out of bed, shivering violently as the cold air hit his skin, and padded towards the door. There was light in the living room, but it meant nothing: he had left the lamp on, because the twins were scared of the dark.
Uzair opened the door quietly and froze.
Rangi was sitting on the floor beside the girls’ bed, one of the twins in his lap.
Uzair’s heart started to thud in his chest.
He was back.
He was back.
“Where were you?” his sister said, rubbing her eyes sleepily with one hand while the other played with Rangi’s tie. It was Ayla, Uzair decided. Rangi seemed to have a bit of a soft spot for Ayla, though it was strange that Rangi was tolerating this even from Ayla.
That was, until Uzair studied Rangi’s face. Even in the dim light of the lamp, his face looked uncharacteristically unguarded and tired.
“I was visiting my family,” Rangi murmured.
Ayla sucked on her thumb. “I remember your family. Your dad didn’t like us very much.”
A strange look crossed Rangi’s face. He said nothing.
“Uzair said you’re getting a new family.”
Rangi stiffened. “Did he?”
Ayla nodded. “He was very sad.”
Uzair felt himself flush. Did she have to tell him that?
Rangi had an odd expression on his face. “Was he?” he murmured.
“I was sad, too,” Ayla said. “I don’t understand. Why do you want a new family? You have us.”
Kids, Uzair thought, biting his lip. They had no fear. In some ways, kids were braver than adults.
Rangi opened his mouth and then closed it. It was the first time Uzair had seen him at a loss for words. Rangi’s throat convulsed before he told Ayla, “Don’t worry, I won’t be getting a new family.”
Uzair breathed out.
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep, midget?”
Ayla studied Rangi seriously with her big blue eyes. “You’re sad, too. Something bad happened?”
A humourless smile twisted Rangi’s lips. “You could say that.”
“When I’m sad, Uzair hugs me and I don’t feel so sad anymore. You want a hug?”
Uzair expected Rangi to reject the offer with a sneer.
He didn’t. He said nothing.
Taking his silence as a yes, Ayla stood up and put her short arms around Rangi’s neck. Rangi had to steady her.
Uzair stared at Rangi’s big hands on his little sister’s back and then at his blank, stoic face.
Quietly, he closed the door and padded back to the bed.
About twenty minutes passed before he heard the door open again. There was a rustle of clothing before the mattress dipped under Rangi’s weight and he slid under the covers next to Uzair.
The speed with which Uzair latched onto him would have Been embarrassing if Uzair could bring himself to care; he didn’t. He just needed to kiss him. Needed to touch him. So he kissed him and Rangi kissed him back just as hungrily, his lips urgent, almost desperate.
Uzair wasn’t sure how many minutes they spent kissing—it felt like hours and seconds at the same time.
When they finally stopped kissing to breathe, Uzair was warm from head to toe. Hooking his leg over Rangi’s hip, he put his head on his chest. Rangi’s heart was beating under his ear, strong and fast.
For a long while, there was only companionable silence.
“He died, didn’t he?” Uzair whispered at last.
He felt Rangi go rigid under him. “Yes.”
Uzair hesitated, unsure what to say. “What happened? Someone said you were getting married.”
Rangi sighed, something Uzair felt more than heard as Rangi’s chest expanded under his cheek. “It was Jaiveer’s manipulations again. I went there because he told me he was on his deathbed. When I arrived, there was a huge gathering.”
“What kind of gathering?” Uzair said, running his fingers on jaskirat’s muscled chest.
“Lots of politicians, rich businessmen and journalists. When I arrived, Jaiveer made an announcement.”
Uzair’s eyes widened. “He actually announced your engagement without asking you? It’s crazy.” Wow. He knew Jaskirat’s father was a despot, but that was ridiculous, even for him.
Rangi seemed to hesitate. “I think… I think he hasn’t Been right in the head lately. And he probably hoped I wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of so many influential people and journalists. He was right—our family would have become a laughing stock if I did that. I took him aside and told him if he didn’t deny his announcement, I would do it myself.” Rangi paused. His voice was flat when he continued, “He got furious and had a heart attack. He was dead by the next morning.”
Uzair closed his eyes. “Did you sort things out before he died?”
Rangi chuckled, the sound harsh and humourless. “No. Even on his deathbed, he called me the biggest disappointment of his life. He tried to manipulate me even as he was struggling to breathe. Threatened to leave everything to Vaneet’s husband if I didn’t marry that girl. Of course he didn’t. He’s—he was too old-fashioned for that.”
Uzair’s lips brushed the warm skin, and he breathed in, feeling the steady beat of Rangi’s heart against his cheek. “He’s… I’m not saying that excuses him, but if he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have Been… I mean, he’s not a villain. When I talked to him, he was an arrogant asshole, but there was something he said… He said you were his son, and you were no fool. I think he’s—he was just too proud to say anything nice, even if he felt differently, you know?”
Rangi sighed. “It doesn’t matter now. I don’t care.”
Liar.
Uzair nuzzled against his skin. “I’m glad you’re back, Jaskirat.”
He felt Rangi’s body stiffen for a moment and then relax against his. A strong arm wrapped around Uzair’s back and pulled him close tightly, almost bruising his ribs.
Uzair didn’t complain. He snuggled closer to Jaskirat’s warmth and fell asleep momentarily.
He slept like a baby, for the first time in a week.
----------
“Jaskirat,” Uzair said, closing the door.
Jaskirat didn’t look up from his computer. “Not now. I’m busy and you’re… you’re too distracting.”
Uzair smiled. “Distracting, huh?”
Jaskirat shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted at best.
“Come on, just tell me already!”
“No special treatment,” Jaskirat said. “You’ll learn your grade when everyone else does. Tomorrow.”
Leaning back against the door, Uzair bit his lip. “Did I fail?”
He wasn’t sure. Jaskirat had helped him a lot lately, explaining a lot of the stuff Uzair had missed at the beginning of the semester. Uzair had thought his understanding of the subject improved and that he’d done pretty well on the exam, but now, looking at Jaskirat’s grim face, he wasn’t sure anymore.
“No,” Jaskirat said. “You didn’t fail.”
Uzair breathed out. “So what did I get? A C, right?”
Jaskirat pursed his lips. “You got a B.”
Uzair’s mouth fell open. “Really? Wait, did you—”
“No, I didn’t give you any special treatment,” Jaskirat said, his tone somewhat defensive. “You did a good job. You’re not unintelligent. If you actually bothered to attend classes, you wouldn’t have had any problems at all.”
Uzair grinned, feeling stupidly warm and giddy. He took a step toward the desk, but Jaskirat snapped, “Don’t.”
“Why?”
Jaskirat fixed his eyes on the screen in front of him, his jaw clenched. “I told you. You’re distracting. I have to work.”
Uzair didn’t want to go. He wanted to hug him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to celebrate with him. “But…”
Jaskirat sighed through his teeth. “Fine. Come here and kiss me. One kiss. Then you will go.”
Uzair went there and kissed him.
And kissed him again.
And again.
And one more time.
When their lips finally parted, Jaskirat brushed his thumb over Uzair’s cheek. “Good job, Mr. Baloch.”
Uzair grinned and pecked him on the lips. “Thanks, Professor.”
A reluctant smile appeared on Jaskirat’s face before he scowled and pushed him off his lap. “Now get out”
-------------
When Uzair opened his eyes the next morning, he found Jaskirat watching him.
“Morning,” Uzair murmured, their faces just inches away on the pillow. It felt unbearably intimate. “Sleep well?”
“No, I didn’t,” Jaskirat said, his arm heavy on Uzair’s back. “Your bed is terrible. I almost fell off twice.”
Uzair smiled lazily. “No one’s forcing you to sleep here.”
Jaskirat drew his lips into a thin line and averted his gaze for a moment before looking back. “It will be much more convenient if we use the bed in my house.”
Uzair blinked. “You know I can’t leave the kids on their own.”
“I have a spare bedroom for them.”
Uzair stared at him. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”
Jaskirat’s face was blank. “It would be convenient.”
“Convenient?”
“Yes, convenient.”
Pressing his lips together to keep himself from laughing, Uzair nodded solemnly. “Very convenient.”
“Shut up, uzair” Jaskirat said.
Uzair grinned slowly and looped his arms around Jaskirat’s neck.
They looked each other in the eye for a long moment, and Uzair felt something tighten in his chest. He said softly, “I love you, too, Jaskirat.”
Jaskirat stared at him for what felt like an eternity before he said, a little breathlessly, “Yes.”
Uzair laughed. “Okay, we’ll have to work on that—”
Jaskirat shut him up with a kiss.
Uzair pretended not to hear the ‘I love you’ whispered in his hair after he passed out on top of professor Rangi.
i'm not even a hardcore hamzair shipper most of the time
but
even rehman's closest men address uzair as 'bhai' throughout the film (donga to uzair when rehman gets kidnapped: bhai, wo rehman bhai ko mai kolachi pul se pakad kar le gaye hai!)
even though they've known uzair for years atp and donga is definitely older than him
but hamza
within like weeks of getting into the gang, the fresh new recruit is familiar and comfortable enough addressing uzair as tu (hamza while otw to attack babu dakait: bhai ko bol jaldi cheel chowk pahunche)
so what magic spell did hamza cast on uzair is my question
A.N. Based on this request by dear Anon. I know this might be not what the Anon had been asking for. But I could only come up with this. @chaotickittydreamer helped me out with the plot and the pictures for the moodboard. Story is in 3 parts. Btw Rehman's gangster operation is based in India. He is not the same Rehman Dakait.
Chapter 1
The Extraction
The whiskey was the expensive kind. He only drank the expensive ones right after the record label deal with Sony Music India.
That does not mean he liked it.
Hamza turned the glass on the marble and watched the amber bubbles climb the sides. His brain was practically empty, not a single thought swirling around his skull.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, Lucknow lay under the haze of warm lights and exhaust. A city with rich enough history and culture, Hamza had sold out the Ekana stadium in nine minutes.
"You're brooding, Hamza!" Yalina said, without looking up from her phone. "Don't brood, alright? It will perpetually stick on your ugly face. And a brooding face photographs as arrogance and arrogance is a Q4 problem."
"I'm just sitting here, Yalina."
"And your ‘just sitting’ is aggressive."
She was on the other sofa with two phones and a tablet arranged in front of her like surgical instruments. She had not made eye contact with him in roughly an hour, not that Hamza cared.
In her days as an artist manager, Yalina Jamali only made eye contact just for outcomes. Hamza was a product she had been managing since before he could afford her, and somewhere in the climb from a Youtube channel to a stadium tour she had stopped seeing his face and started seeing his metrics, and honestly, he envied her the clarity.
"Soundcheck was clean," she said. "Don't change the second-half setlist again, the lighting boys want to file a complaint to God. You ate?"
"Yeah—"
"What did you eat?"
He looked at the room service trolley, where a club sandwich sat under a silver dome, untouched. "Everything—" he answered.
Yalina glanced up for exactly one second, clocked the lie, decided it was below her pay grade and went back to the phone. "There's a meet-and-greet add-on after the show. The label wants it. Roughly fifteen people, ninety seconds each. Smile, sign, don't hug the ones who cry, legal hates those ones."
"They all cry." Hamza clicked his tongue.
"Then sign fast." She thumbed through something. "Oh, and a kid at soundcheck got through the barrier— security has her, she's fine, she was just holding a CD and shaking. You waved at her perhaps. It's already a clip— four lakh views, caption is ‘he SAW me he WAVED at me I am DECEASED’. Doing good numbers. Do that more."
"Do what more?"
"The thing where you make them feel seen." Yalina said gathering a charger. "It converts."
Hamza turned the untouched whiskey a quarter turn on the marble.
And when did I last feel seen?
Hamza wanted to bite back.
He chose to remain silent.
Or Yalina would have written it down as a wellness flag and scheduled him a massage.
Yalina gathered her instruments, and stood up on her red bottoms. As she could get out of the door, she called out, "Hamza—" she said gently, "Big show tomorrow. Sleep now."
The door clicked shut behind the room that costed more per night than the flat he grew up in.
Hamza found himself alone— a state he found himself regularly these days in.
And this honestly freaked him out a little.
Sitting on the sofa in the dark room, Hamza’s mind wandered to his concerts, the people, crowd, the same routine setlist, same fan service— all these things were drowning Hamza in, and Hamza could not breathe. The same dull performance of life every fucking day was slowly suffocating him with the world’s most beige pillow.
Somebody help him, he could not breathe.
Wait, he really could not breathe!
Alone in the room, Hamza was so far gone in his thoughts, he did not even notice that when three men in dark clothes had come through the suite door at one in the morning without making a sound.
Hamza’s very first feeling before the fear was something almost like relief that something was finally happening.
Then the bag went over his head, and the fear arrived on schedule.
❖
Seven kilometres away, in the part of the old city where the lanes and buildings had a different story and history altogether, a different crisis was destroying a different household.
"He's not eating again—" Ulfat announced, coming down the haveli stairs with a food laden plate held out in front of her as evidence. "Three days! He had half a Marie biscuit this morning and then he saw the man's face on it."
"On the biscuit?" Rehman lifted a brow.
"On his phone, Rehman, not on the biscuit!" She set the plate on the table in the baithak, where four of the most dangerous men in the city were sitting very still and trying not to be noticed in front the ultimate boss. "I made kheer. And you know how much he likes kheer. He licks the bowl clean everytime like a cat. But what did he today? He looked at it and went back to stuff his face in his pillow and started sniffling. Who does that?"
Rehman Baloch, urf Rehman Dakait, whom three police thanas referred to in writing only as "the subject", whom the neighbourhood called ‘Sher’ to his face, sat at the head of the table with a glass of warm milk. A man so powerful was watching all this unfolding in front of him as if rains had come in over his crop and he could not save it.
Upstairs, faintly through a ceiling, came the sound of his baby brother sobbing.
"Siyahi?" Rehman called for his henchman.
"Bhai"
"What is the situation?"
Siyahi, expert in handling various situations around the Baloch house, consulted a mental checklist he wished he did not have. "The situation is that the concert is tomorrow. Chhote sahab has had the ticket since September. Front section, he showed everyone, he even laminated it." Siyahi paused with a great dramatic huff, "Then the stairs—"
Everyone at the table observed a moment of silence for the stairs. And sheeshed under their breathe.
Three days ago, Uzair had been carrying a limited-edition vinyl up to his room, both hands occupied, eyes on the gatefold sleeve instead of his feet— and then— and then he had gone down the last six steps that the family doctor had described as "comprehensive."
The tibia was in a cast.
The vinyl had survived though. Uzair had made sure of that, had begun crying which the doctor noted was "not medically concerning but socially alarming."
"He can't go, you know that!" Ulfat shrieked out. "The doctor said no. And now he's up there with the cast and the posters, considering us as mortal enemies and saying goodbye to the ticket."
"Saying goodbye to the ticket?" Rehman repeated. He cannot do this anymore.
"He laminated it, Rehman. You don't laminate something and then throw it away. He's grieving!" Ulfat’s additional teary eyes were not helping at all as well.
From the corner, Donga built like a refrigerator with a bald head and had personally ended at least four regional disputes with his hands, made a small wounded noise. Everyone looked at him.
"It's just," Donga said, going red. "The new album really hits, though. Objectively speaking."
"Nobody asked." huffed Babla.
"I'm providing context."
"You're a grown man using a country-made pistol on a daily basis and you have a favourite track of a popstar!"
"It's track six and yes I do, and if you'd listen to track six instead of running your mouth, you'd have a favourite track too, Babla, you'd have feelings!!"
"Why are four-armed men crying about a singer at midnight," a new voice cut in from the stairs, bored and unimpressed, belonging to a lean serious young man who had his father's quietness and none of his patience. This was Naieem, the elder son of the Baloch family, seventeen and already carrying himself like a man controlling the room.
His voice was serious, "We have a reputation. Somewhere out there a rival is planning something and our war heads is debating track six."
"Track six is excellent, though." said his younger brother.
Faizal was fourteen, sprawled upside down over an armchair with his phone held above his face, and was the only person in the room entirely unafraid and unbothered of anything happening in the house.
"Donga is not wrong— the new album's a serve! Uzair chachu has been gatekeeping this guy since before he was famous, which, respect” Faizal pointed his finger up, “that's real fan behaviour, the rest of you are fake fans who got here on the algorithm." He tilted his head at his father, upside down. "Abbu, if you're actually doing something about it, can I come? I want to see his face. Reaction content. I'll go viral."
"You will go to bed." said Rehman.
The kid stuck his tongue out and went back to his game.
Naieem pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture he had inherited from his mother. "I'm surrounded by clowns!" he informed the ceiling, and went to make sure at least the perimeter was guarded with the house dogs and two other men, because somebody in this family had to be normal and it had fallen, tragically on the teenager.
Rehman raised one finger.
The table went silent.
Upstairs, the sobbing hitched, paused, and resumed.
Rehman had enough of his dear brother crying. He set down the milk.
"Show me," he said. "Show me this man."
❖
Uzair Baloch's room was the only soft thing in a house full of hard men, and it promised this from the doorway.
The walls were a pale lavender. There was a string of fairy lights, a shelf of CDs and books in chronological order, a small battalion of plush pandas arranged by size, and one entire wall given over to a single face: Hamza Ali Mazari.
The musician was put up in a dozen printed forms, the early grainy ones from the YouTube days right up to the glossy tour poster with the green eyes catching the light. Beneath it all, on the bed, under a panda-print duvet, with one leg in a cast propped on a tower of pillows, lay the tallest and softest Baloch, holding a laminated ticket to his chest and leaking salty tears steadily onto it.
"Uzair?" Rehman probed from the doorway, in the voice he used for no one else.
"Bhai I'm fine!" said Uzair, in the universal tone of not being fine. He scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand and sat up too fast and winced. "I'm literally fine, it's not even a big deal. It's just a concert, people miss concerts every day— it's giving a main-character to even be sad about it, I'm being so cringe, ignore me."
Rehman understanding approximately sixty percent of that sentence, came and sat on the edge of the bed, which creaked an objection.
"You laminated the ticket I see." he mumbled.
"I peaked too early emotionally, yes."
"Tell me about him."
Uzair went still. He looked at his brother with a deep suspicion like a young person being asked about their interests by an elder who had never once asked before. "You don't care about this—"
"I care about the things that you care about." Rehman said carefully.
Of course he did not care about this apparently famous singer. No body can beat Kishore Kumar.
"Tell me."
And because he was twenty-two with a fractured leg and heart and his enormous frightening brother was sitting on his panda duvet asking him an actual question, Uzair told him.
He told him about being Faizal’s age and lonely and finding a video with four hundred views— a man with a guitar and a cheap mic singing qawwali like it was rap and rap like it was prayer.
He told him about track six, which Donga was right about, although he would never give Donga the satisfaction.
About the 2 A.M. lives when Hamza had maybe forty people watching and would read out names. Uzair's name had been read out once six years ago, and he had screen-recorded it and still keeping it.
(Of course, Uzair had not rambled about the thousand other things Uzair had done for Hamza through the screen— sending gifts and donations, letters and operating a fan club for a brief span of a year, and hell, writing self-insert fanfictions when he was 16.)
He told Rehman, the man had been with him, through everything, in the lowest hours, a voice in the dark that asked for nothing. And the one time Uzair could finally give something back, could finally be in the same room and clap for him, his stupid body had thrown itself down the stairs.
"His music was there when no one was—" Uzair said very quietly, to the ticket clutched like prayer beads in his hands. "Oh god! That's so embarrassing to say out loud. Please pull it out from the other ear."
Rehman did not pull it from his ear.
The older brother sat in the lavender painted room under the wall of Hamza Ali Mazari posters and he heard clearly the one thing in the world he could not stand, which was his baby brother believing that the thing he loved would never be in the room with him.
He stood up as the bed creaked in relief.
"Sleep—" he said pulling the panda duvet up over the cast with a gentleness that did not match his hands or his work. "Eat something tomorrow, okay? You're upsetting your bhabhi. I have some work."
"Bhai, where are you going?"
"To handle a situation."
"It's one at night?"
"Some situations," said Rehman, "have their own hours."
❖
Back in the baithak, Rehman put on his jacket. The four men read the silent instruction like sailors reading the sky.
"Siyahi?"
"Bhai."
"The man is in the city, right, for the concert? Where does a man like that stay?"
Siyahi took exactly twenty minutes to extract the information. He did not need the internet for this. Some phone calls around the town was enough.
"Gomti Nagar Taj. Top floor in the west wing, big suite. We will get to know the room number soon. He came in this evening, soundcheck till nine."
Siyahi looked up slowly, and a thin understanding crept across his face. He had worked for Rehman Baloch long enough to know where a sentence is going several seconds before it gets there. "Bhai—"
"Say it Siyahi."
"You want me to acquire the singer?"
"I want you to invite him," Rehman said with dignity. "Warmly."
"Now, at night? From a sealed suite, in the most under surveillance hotel in the city?"
"You're the one always saying you're bored."
Babla had stood up. Donga had also stood up, but for emotionally compromised reasons.
"Bhai, with respect," Babla said, "we are talking about this superstar singer. This is not a builder who didn't pay or a councillor who got greedy, this man is on like every hoarding in the country. The whole country watches him. If he goes missing the heat will be—"
"There will be no heat!" Rehman said with a certain finality, "because there will be no ransom, no note, no demand, and no harm. We are not taking anything from anyone. We are simply moving a man from one room to another where someone will be very happy to see him." He considered this. "It is practically charity. We could get a receipt."
As if this made any fucking sense!
"That's not how kidnapping works, bhai."
"Everything works if you do it correctly. Siyahi! Can it be done clean? No damage, no noise, no marks on the man. He is a gift. A gift is not to be dented!"
Siyahi was already somewhere else, already three floors up a building he had not yet entered, already counting cameras, shift changes and the service elevator that the staff used and the guests don’t.
This was the thing about Siyahi. He found the question boring and the answers beautiful.
"The hotel uses an outside contractor for the elevators," he said, mostly to himself. "Maintenance lanyards. The contractor is Sharma, of course.” He was already scrolling, already dialling. "Give me twenty minutes and a small amount of money and I will be the elevator contractor. I will have a real lanyard. I believe in committing to a premise."
"You're enjoying this!" Babla accused.
"Sshhh— Rehman bhai needs a gift for Chote sahab. Let me do this."
"Electronic bypass on the suite."
"We don't break the door.”
“Soft bag, no zip ties, we're not monsters, we'll do a sedative wrap, he wakes up annoyed not injured.”
“Two minutes inside, out through service, the PR people sleep in the next room and never feel the floor move."
"Babla and Donga on the vehicle. Me inside."
"Do I need to go?" Rehman already knew the answer. It was more like I trust you boys do the work!
"No bhai, we are all set! Donga—" Siyahi added, "if you ask the unconscious man to sign your CD I will leave you on the highway."
Donga, who had absolutely been thinking about it, said nothing, with great injury to his heart.
❖
They went in like a small breeze.
The service corridor of the Taj at half past two was a country with no citizens, with three men in the wrong uniforms. Siyahi had a lanyard that said he was from the elevator maintenance contractor which was real. He had acquired the contract that evening through a cousin just before entering the hotel.
The suite lock took eleven seconds.
Inside, the famous man was on the sofa in the dark and awake, staring at the city with a full glass of whiskey.
For a brief moment Siyahi felt a flicker of pity, looking at the most envied man in the country sitting alone 2:30 A.M. looking like he had been waiting his whole life to be interrupted.
Then the man's head moved a bit and Siyahi stopped having feelings and started having a job.
"Sir—" Siyahi shrieked out with genuine courtesy. "I'm very sorry about this" as he wrapped a black bag around the head.
Two rooms away Yalina Jamali slept on, dreaming of engagement rates, while her client was carried out past the laundry like a very expensive rolled carpet, loaded into an SUV with tinted windows, and driven at a sedate and legal speed into the night mist of the city.
No alarm rang, no camera held a usable frame, the whiskey glass sat on the marble in the empty suite peacefully half drunk.
❖
Hamza came back to the world in stages.
First the smell which distinctly did not belong to the suite but it should have been. This new air smelled very faintly of fresh paint and something floral and synthetic that he could not place instantly and that turned out, much later, to be panda-shaped room freshener, rose scented.
Then a sound.
A voice— young male, climbing octaves.
"Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God oh my God oh my God why is he? BHAIYA WHY IS HE ON THE FLOOR? what did you? what is HAPPENING??!!"
Then as the wrap came away from his face, the light came up lavender and warm at sight.
Hamza Ali Mazari, who had played for forty thousand people in Dubai, seen every crowd imaginable, opened his green eyes on a panda.
A large plush panda, regarding him with sewn serenity from the opposite side of the wall.
He turned his head.
More pandas.
A wall of fairy lights.
A shelf of CDs that he recognised with a slow lurch, as his own discography in order.
Above it all, enormous tour poster of his own face looking down at him with statue intensity.
And on the bed, sat frozen, one leg in a cast, wearing panda-print pyjamas and an expression of pure undiluted apocalyptic horror, was the most beautiful outrageous disaster Hamza had ever seen in his life.
The boy was tall even when folded up against the headboard— long-limbed and lean, with a soft startled face gone completely white. He had a half-eaten packet of chips clutched in one hand.
He was staring at Hamza as if looking at a god who has fallen through their ceiling and landed in the room.
The door was open. In it stood a mountain of a man with a grey-flecked beard, arms folded, surveying the scene with the deep satisfaction of a job well done.
"I got you the one from the posters!" the leader of the mountain pack announced, pride in his voice.
Then he left.
There was a silence Hamza had never experienced.
Even the pandas seemed to be holding their breath.
"I am going to kill him—" the boy whispered to no one. "I'm going to actually murder my own brother. Bhai! BHAI!"
He scrambled half upright, then remembered the cast, yelped, and gave up.
His his eyes snapped back to Hamza on the floor and the full horror reloaded across his face. "You're— oh my God! You're— you're real! You're here! You're on my carpet! Why are you on my carpet? You can't be on my carpet!! This is, oh my God! Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they hurt you? I'll kill them— I can't kill them they're armed, can I get you water?"
"Water—" Hamza croaked out. His voice came out gravelly.
He was still lying down. He decided for now, to keep lying down, because the floor was warm and clean and the situation was frankly, the most fascinating thing that had happened to him in four years.
"Water, yes, water, I have water!" The boy lunged for a bottle on the nightstand, knocked over two pandas and a CD case, caught the water, fumbled it, caught it again, and then could not work out how to deliver it to the man on the floor across the room with a broken leg. He held it out at arm's length, twelve feet from its target, his whole face a prayer for the bottle to simply teleport. "I can't— the leg, I can't get up, oh my God I'm so sorry! I'm the worst host, you've been kidnapped and I can't even—"
"It's okay!"
"It is NOT okay, you've been KIDNAPPED, by my BROTHER, who is a— he's a— he has a whole, you know what he is, everyone knows what he is, oh my God you probably think we're, this is so, I send you donations!!!" the boy wailed, the sentence escaping before he could stop it, "I'm so normal about you, I'm a completely normal person and now you're on my CARPET and I'm in PANDA PYJAMAS!!!"
And then, having achieved a level of mortification incompatible with continued consciousness, Uzair Jan Baloch pulled the panda duvet fully over his own head and went silent.
From under the duvet, muffled, came the small sound of furious typing.
uzair → bhaiya (3:42 AM)
WHAT DID YOU DO?
WHAT DID YOU DOOOO???
BHAIYA THERE IS A FELONY ON MY CARPET
bhaiya → uzair (3:43 AM)
he eats at home now. tell ulfat. milk also.
uzair → bhaiya
THATS NOT A SENTENCE A NORMAL PERSON SENDS
bhaiya → uzair
stop crying. you wanted him. there he is. be nice.
❖
Hamza from the floor, looked at the lump of duvet that contained a weeping boy, at the wall of his own faces, at the careful chronological CDs, and something happened in his brain in a very long time, something with no PR value whatsoever.
He laughed with his heart out!
Not the camera laugh, mind you, the one that tested at ninety-one percent. This was a real one, rusty from disuse, that surprised him more than it surprised the duvet.
The duvet lump went still. Then slowly, a single wary eye appeared at its edge.
"Why are you laughing?" Uzair said, deeply suspicious and wet. "You should be calling the police. Or crying! Or both?! Why are you laughing?"
"Because—" Hamza muttered as he sat up at last slowly, working a crick out of his neck, taking a swipe of glance around the lavender room. the panda freshener and the boy whose entire face was a celeb-crush confession, "in five years, you are the first person who's looked at me and not done the calculation first."
Uzair blinked dubiously. "The what?"
"The calculations, as in the maths. What I'm worth? What I can do for them? What the angle is?" Hamza tipped his head at the room, the shrine, the open-hearted devotional disaster, and smiled pursing his lips. "You're terrible at this you know? You're the worst kind of a brother of a kidnapper I can imagine. You apologised to me. You offered me water from across a room. You're crying harder about this than I am, and it's my kidnapping."
Hamza laughed again, softer. "It's the most authentic thing anyone's done in front of me in years. And you’re doing it very cutely. I don't know what to do with it."
"That's—" Uzair emerged a little further from the duvet, because the voice that had sang through his worst nights was now narrating in his actual room, "that's such a sad thing to say, oh my God, you can't just say that, I'm already emotionally handicapped!"
Hamza ignored the yet again emotional outburst. Something old him there would be more bursts of emotions like this.
"You have my whole discography, I see?"
Uzair shot up straight, cast be damned, mortification spiking into the red. "In— okay— in chronological order, yes! It's a curation thing! It's not weird, it's—"
"You have the EP, the first one. I had pulled it off offline." Hamza was looking at the shelf now with something careful in his face.
Almost no one had his first EP. He had buried it years ago. Granted, it was the rawest thing he had ever made but he had killed it at three hundred listens. "How do you have the EP?"
There was a pause. The boy in the duvet went pink to the ears.
"I had bought it then" Uzair said very small, the bravado gone, just the truth left. "When it came out. I was among your early listeners."
And Hamza Ali Mazari, now kidnapped, sitting on a stranger's panda carpet at almost four in the morning, looked at this tall soft weepy boy and felt the floor of his heavily curated life tilt very slightly towards something real.
Hmm.. an actual fan then!
"Okay—" he said settling back against the foot of the bed getting comfortable like it was his own room, "Two things now. One, your brother is genuinely terrifying but I'd like to thank him properly later." He nodded at the wifi-router, a panda sticker stuck on it, at the corner of the wall, "Two, what's the wifi password?"
Uzair stared at him, his mouth a little apart, "You've been kidnapped!"
"And the internet," said Hamza with the first genuine peace he had felt in years, "is about to lose its entire mind. I'm not missing that on mobile data. Come on, tell me what is it?"
❖
The wifi password as it turned out was hamzaalimazari1979, all lowercase, no spaces.
Hamza stared at it for a long moment.
"It's not weird!" Uzair outrageous on his own behalf said it immediately, from the bed. "It was already my password from before. I'm not going to change it now obviously because that would be admitting— you know what? I'm going back under the duvet—"
"Don't!" Hamza said out, a little surprised by how much he meant it.
He should have been doing something— calling someone, or negotiating, plotting, whatever. Instead, he settled more comfortably against the foot of the bed, a kidnapped man with no apparent interest in being un-kidnapped.
"You should take the bed," Uzair blurted out after a while. "You're a guest. A— a hostage. A guest-hostage?! You can't sleep on the floor, it's— my brother would be horrified, take the bed, I'll, I can sleep in the—"
"You have a broken leg."
"I'll sleep in the chair"
"You'll sleep in your bed," Hamza said in a tone that gave out final instruction to his crew for no further arguments. Uzair shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked and went a colour that even the low light could not disguise. The reaction did not go unnoticed on Hamza.
"Can I ask you something," Hamza asked, "but you don't combust, okay?"
"No promises, but go."
"Why'd you buy the EP? I took it down for a reason. It was too raw, unpolished. Everyone forgot it existed in a week."
Uzair was quiet for so long that Hamza thought he had finally short-circuited for good. Then, in the smallest voice yet he answered, "Because it sounded like you'd written it for a version of yourself who thought nobody was listening to him. And I was the version of me that nobody was listening to also. So— it found me. It found me when I needed it and I was never going to let it go."
Hamza was too struck to answer anything for a while.
When he finally did, his voice had changed, "Nobody was supposed to hear what that song was about." he said.
"I know." Mumbled Uzair a little shyly, "I think that's why I heard it."
Above them the green eyes on the poster gazed down, manufactured and enormous, and below it the actual man sat in the feeling, for the first time in four years, not watched but heard.
"Go to sleep," Hamza said gruffly, "It's late."
"I literally cannot sleep, you're here, my heart rate is a war crime!"
"Sleep—", Hamza stopped.
He did not even know the boy’s name.
Uzair seem to catch on it. He averted his eyes, his cheeks now perpetually red, “Uzair. Uzair Jan Baloch.”
Hamza’s lips curled. His eyes going a little predatory, “Uzair—”
A shiver ran through Uzair’s entire body.
“Go to sleep Uzair. I’ll be here when you wake up sweetie—”
A small panda plushie promptly landed on his face and Hamza laughed out again.
❖
Hamza was right.
At 6:04 the next morning, a junior member of the touring crew knocked on the suite door with a call sheet and when received no answer used the spare key only to a find a perfect undisturbed world-class hotel room containing one full glass of room-temperature whiskey and no Hamza Ali Mazari at all.
By 6:31, Yalina Jamali had stopped breathing in any sustainable rhythm.
By 7:00, it was everywhere.
X — trending in India, 7:14 AM
1. #WhereIsHamza — 482K posts
2. Hamza Ali Mazari
3. #FindHamza
4. Taj Lucknow
5. track six
@mazaristan_fancam · 7:18 AM
a disturbing timeline. a thread. 🧵👇
1/47 so at 9PM he finishes soundcheck looking FINE looking HEALTHY looking like that. by 6AM he is GONE. According to reports full glass of whiskey on the table. our boy does NOT waste good scotch. something is deeply wrong bestie i am not okay
14.2K reposts · 51K likes
@delulu4hamza · 7:33 AM
it's giving kidnapping. it's giving jealous ex. it's giving the label silenced him before he could leave. CALLING IT NOW screenshot this
(they were, by total accident, exactly one-third correct)
r/IndieIndia · pinned · 2.1k comments
[MEGATHREAD] Hamza Ali Mazari disappearance — keep all speculation here
top comment: ok i slowed down his last IG story 0.25x and there's a reflection in his sunglasses that is DEFINITELY a mountain range. iceland? norway? why is he in Scandinavia? Himalayas? wake up.
reply: that's the minibar
reply: ^ had been located at 4 different places after posting this. interesting.
❖
Yalina Jamali stood at the centre of a suite that now contained eleven panicking people, three laptops, a label lawyer on speaker, and a hotel manager whose career was visibly leaving his body, and she was doing the hardest thing in crisis communications— holding her face completely still.
"Footage?" she said.
"There's no footage," said the head of security, for the fourth time. "The service corridor cameras show a maintenance contractor. The man is real. However he is not findable."
"A maintenance contractor walked Hamza Ali Mazari out of a sealed suite and you have nothing?"
"We have a lanyard number."
Yalina closed her eyes. On the speaker, the lawyer was saying the words "proof of life" a phrase Yalina had hoped to go her entire career without hearing applied to a man whose biggest prior crisis had been a leaked photo of him vaping.
Her phone was the unbroken scream of notifications. The label wanted a statement. The promoter wanted a refund policy. His mother wanted a call. The internet wanted blood, content, and closure.
She opened her eyes.
"Draft" she commanded, and an intern began to type. "Hamza Ali Mazari is currently— No. The artist is— No—" She pressed two fingers to her temple. "We are aware of your concern regarding Hamza's whereabouts. We are working closely with authorities. We ask for privacy and patience at this. Delete patience, nobody on the internet knows that word. We ask for privacy at this sensitive time. Send it to legal, then to me. The second we post it the theory becomes a confirmation and the confirmation becomes a documentary."
"A documentary?" said the intern.
"There is always," huffed Yalina "a fucking documentary."
🔴 LIVE · prime-time Hindi news, 9:00 AM
chyron, flashing red: SINGER LAAPATA — DESH POOCH RAHA HAI: HAMZA KAHAN HAI?
(SINGER MISSING — THE NATION ASKS: WHERE IS HAMZA?)
ANCHOR (shouting, six guests on split-screen): Ek superstar, ek sealed kamra, aur ZERO footage. Yeh saazish hai ya stunt? Aaj hum nahin sehenge, hum poochhenge, hum CHILLAYENGE!
PANEL ASTROLOGER (calm, devastating): See, Mercury is in retrograde. Main pehle hi bata chuka tha.
ANCHOR: TOH AAP KEH RAHE HAIN GRAHON NE UTHAYA?
ASTROLOGER: Main keh raha hoon Budh ko nazarandaaz mat kijiye.
In the baithak, Rehman Baloch watched the exact broadcast with a glass of warm milk, breakfast spread before him. He set down the glass, looked at Siyahi, and asked very quietly, "This is the country we live in now? A man on the television blamed the planets."
"Yes, bhai. This is what happens."
"And people believe him?"
"Two hundred thousand of them has already signed a petition asking the government to send the army," Siyahi reported, reading his phone. "To find one singer. The army!"
Rehman tried to understand the whole situation. Somewhere around the house, the singer in question was being scolded by a fourteen- years-old for losing at carrom.
"Good," he said finally. "Let them blame whoever they want, as long as its not us."
FILMI WEEKLY · online exclusive · 11:40 AM
EXCLUSIVE: “I SERVED HIM RAJMA” — Manali dhaba owner claims missing star ate at his counter HOURS before vanishing
Mr. Thakur, 54, told our reporter the singer seemed “quiet, spiritual, asked for extra ghee.” Filmi Weekly cannot independently verify this account.
The Manali story was picked up by seventeen channels before lunch. Hamza had never been to Manali.
At the hour Mr. Thakur swore he was ladling rajma into the nation's most wanted man, that man had finally rested on a panda carpet only seven kilometres from the hotel he vanished from. While Yalina Jamali spent four hours of her one wild life officially denying a plate of rajma story to a press corps that did not want the denial because the rajma was somehow a better story.
❖
Inside the room seven kilometres away, the most wanted missing person in the country lay on his stomach on the panda carpet he had come to like now, propped on his elbows, scrolling a borrowed phone and wheezed.
"They think I am in Iceland. And some think, I am in Manali." he told the room delightfully.
The door opened without a knock and the matriarch of the household came in with a tray, a frown, and a fully formed plan. Ulfat had been briefed at dawn by her husband in a few words— "the boy's singer is here. He is staying, feed him."
She had decided promptly, lighting the stove, that the moral and legal complexities of the situation were considerably less urgent than the fact that the singer was visibly thin.
She set the tray down, looked at Hamza lying on her brother-in-law's carpet, and put her hands on her hips. "When did you last eat properly? And don't say a sandwich. I can see a sandwich answer forming."
Hamza opened his mouth.
"That's what I thought," Ulfat huffed. "Sit up. Both legs crossed, you'll digest better. Uzair, why is he on the floor? Why did you have a guest on the floor all night? I raised you better." She was already plating and pressing a steel tumbler of something warm into Hamza's hands. "You'll eat all of this. I don’t want to see a single scrap left."
Hamza looked down at the food, then up at this fierce matriarch who had decided his entire crisis was a nutritional one, and felt his throat do something inconvenient.
The label paid a team of nine people to manage his wellbeing. Not one of them had ever told him to sit up straight so he would digest better.
"Thank you—" he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Ulfat's frown softened, "Eat!" she said, and to Uzair on her way out, "Stop looking at him like that, you'll burn his paratha from across the house." And she was gone before her brother-in-law's hostage could see Uzair achieve a brand-new shade of red.
Donga, who had carried Ulfat's tray up the stairs and then manufactured a series of reasons in his brain not to leave, edged back in from the doorway. He hovered a little and slowly slowly redder.
And then the thing he had been holding in since 3 a.m. burst out of him. "Hamza bhai, I'm so sorry! I know this is a whole situation. But track six! Track six!! I just need you to know that one man in this house apart from Uzair bhai understood track six"
"DONGA!" came a roar from somewhere below.
"I'M PROVIDING CONTEXT!" Donga roared back, and fled.
The door he fled through was immediately filled by Faizal who had been waiting in the corridor patiently holding his phone already at recording angle. "Hi! Yeah, hello, don't mind me," he jumped in, lining up the shot, getting both himself and a startled Hamza in frame. "I'm just gonna need one, this is going to absolutely end three of my group chats, the comments are gonna be feral!!!"
"Faizal!" said Uzair, scandalised. "He's a guest! BEHAVE!"
"He's a hostage brought for you, chachu, let's be accurate! And a hostage selfie is a different genre entirely, this is basically photojournalism!" Faizal got the shot and beamed at it. "Oh no! I can't post it. If I post it the army comes to our house." He pocketed the phone, devastated. "This is the worst day of my life and also the best. I contain multitudes!!"
Naieem appeared in the doorway behind him and took in the entire tableau— the missing kidnapped celebrity on the floor, his uncle glowing pink behind a panda plushie, his little brother committing felonies for clout, and aged approximately a year. "I want it on record," he said to the room, "that I was against this."
He looked at Hamza, the only perceived adult in the perimeter, "You seem reasonable. Tell them this is insane!"
Hamza considered the question, now surrounded by pandas and parathas and a family that had stolen him and was now feeding him, "It's completely insane." he agreed.
Naieem nodded, vindicated at last.
"I'm not going anywhere, though," Hamza admitted quickly, quietly enough that even Naieem paused on his way back to being the only sane person in the building.
It was Uzair who found it first, thumbing through his own phone with the cast propped up and a panda under his arm.
"They cancelled the show." Uzair said looking at the screen.
"Obviously! The headliner's been kidnapped." Hamza nudged a plush panda with his foot. "By you, technically!"
“For me!”, Uzair turned the phone around.
The venue had posted the notice an hour ago, all caps, deeply apologetic, full refunds, circumstances beyond our control.
Beneath it, forty thousand replies of pure devastation, candle emojis, fancams, a boy somewhere livestreaming himself crying in the empty parking lot of the arena.
"Nobody gets the concert now. Not just me. Everybody." Uzair looked up. "I was so sad I'd miss it. And now I'm the reason it's gone. I ruined the concert for the whole country."
@mazaristan_fancam · just now
THE SHOW IS CANCELLED. i am in the venue parking lot. i drove four hours. i am not leaving. hamza PLEASE we are RIGHT HERE 😭😭
reply: bestie he is not in the parking lot
reply: HOW DO YOU KNOW? were YOU at soundcheck? didn't think so.
"Okay, first—" Hamza said, taking the phone gently out of Uzair's hands before the boy could spiral all the way down, "you didn't break anything. Your terrifying brother committed a national crime, which is his problem, not yours. Second," He paused, and the deflection-instinct lost a quiet battle inside him to something more honest. "I've played a hundred of those shows. Forty thousand people who paid to watch a version of me that PR built. You're sitting here knowing me from a song I deleted because it was too real to keep up." He handed the phone back. "Trust me. The country lost the worse concert."
Uzair stared at him with his entire heart in his face, which was quickly becoming a certain kind of problem of Hamza.
Hamza looked at the breakfast, the chai, and the boy on the bed who had finally against every instinct, started to smile at him from behind a panda. And the singer thought about the empty suite, the costly disgusting whiskey and the eleven approved questions put out by the woman who managed his outcomes, and he made a decision we would find out in the next two chapters.
"The concert can go to hell! I’m perfectly fine here, in your panda plushies." he threw a smirk at the cute adorable guy in the cast.
*Sirius chasing James after finding out about Jegulus*
Sirius: YOU’RE DATING MY FUCKING BROTHER??
James: ITS TRUE ITS TRUE! AND THE OTHER THING IS. MY SISTER HAD A BABY AND I TOOK IT OVER BECAUSE SHE PASSED IT OVER AND THEN THE BABY LOST ITS LEGS AND ITS ARMS AND NOW ITS NOTHING BUT A STUMP. BUT I TAKE CARE OF IT WITH MY BOYFRIEND AND ITS GROWING AND ITS FAIRLY HAPPY BUT ITS DIFFICULT BECAUSE IVE BEEN WORKING A SECOND SHIFT AT THE FACTORY TO PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE. BUT ALL THE LOVE THAT I SEE IN THAT LITTLE GUYS FACE MAKES IT ALL WORTH IT IN THE END.
