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Roasted ground beans scooped from a paper bag and dumped into the press. Spoon tapped on the side of the lip to dislodge any stubborn granules. Joe pours hot water over it, slowly, water tumbling into the container, disrupting the state of the coffee, all of it rupturing into a hickory, burnt umber colour. Steam rises from the top. Joe breathes it in, lets the sharp, nutty aroma comfort him with its familiarity.
He slowly descends the plunger into the coffee, line of steam following the movement downward. The carton of milk beside him has already begun to sweat a little in the heat of the mornings. A drop of condensation runs over his finger when he picks it up. As he leans to the side to grab the jar of sugar, a plant hanging from the shelf above him caresses his ear, saying hello. As he shifts to place the milk back in the fridge, the floorboards creak a little to acknowledge his presence.
The coffee table, with its clutter of half-read books and unopened mail and discarded paint-water mugs. The doorframe’s cracked paint, the draped curtains over the wide windows he adores, the peek of the world coming in through the dirty glass.
The flower petals on the kitchen table, the clementine nestled in its bowl. The recess of the stainless steel sink, holding two bowls from last night’s dinner. The faint yellow light from the morning sun coating every room in warmth. His reading glasses lying atop his laptop in the study. His rings clattered on his bedside table next to an old glass of water.
Joe catalogues every part of what he’s feeling. Takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. These are the imprints of his existence in the world; this is the evidence of his life here.
There’s also this: the discarded bag on the counter. The extra pair of shoes at the door. The second mug in Joe’s hand.
There’s Nicky.
Nicky is cooking dinner for him at his apartment. It’s their third date, having successfully made it through the slight awkwardness of the first and laughing through their second. By now, he knows that Nicky is working through his doctorate, that he reads Yoko Ogawa and Jemisin and that Frankenstein in Baghdad broke his heart with satire, that he prefers Vandermeer’s absurdity over Murakami’s, that A Little Life has been sitting on his shelf, barely touched, for three years.
He hates peppermint, a character flaw that Joe is willing to overlook, because he brought Joe a houseplant instead of flowers for their second date (Joe lent him a copy of Emezi’s Freshwater, throat tight at the annotations he knows are scrawled on the margins). He didn’t bat an eye when Joe mentioned his surgery scars, as he recounted a tale of the poem tattooed on his left rib, four hours into their first conversation, and when he kissed Joe in greeting, close-mouthed and gentle, when he answered the door tonight, Joe had to fight the urge to just drag him into the bedroom.
“It’s a cliché,” Nicky tells him now, as he takes out the pasta from the cotton bag he’d brought with him, “but one I’m willing to indulge in with you.”
Joe pretends his heart doesn’t stutter a little, at that.
He takes up a seat across the bench from Nicky and watches him crush garlic under his knife, peel the skin and then finely slice the cloves. He chops an onion with intimidating efficiency, followed by a small red chilli pepper. Joe knows how to cook, of course, he’s an adult – but the way Nicky moves, knife held confidently in deft hands speaks to an experience and a passion that goes beyond what Joe has ever had for the act.
“You have a lovely home. The space-” Nicky cuts himself off, looking around at the art pieces that Joe has hanging on the walls, “-becomes you, if that makes sense. I’m grateful to be allowed to inside it.”
Joe stares at him for a moment, tongue too swollen with emotion to speak, thinking about houses as bodies and love as a kind of home, before clearing his throat. “Thank you.”
He has to ask Joe where he keeps his strainer, and his bowls. Watching Nicky learn to navigate his kitchen, pausing, reaching, turning to Joe for directions – it fills him with the best kind of ache. The kind he could live in.
An opened bottle of wine. A squeezed shoulder, fingers stroking his hand as he walks past to grab the glass – just one, as Joe explains to him when he reaches for it, because he doesn’t drink. A glance across the space between them that lingers for a second too long to be casual. Fuck casual, Joe thinks vehemently, longing eyes settling on Nicky’s mouth briefly before meeting his gaze again.
Joe watches him pour the red liquid into the glass, barely halfway, watches the line of his elbow, his brows pinched a little in concentration. Watches him add smoked paprika and dried oregano to the hot pan, and a pinch more salt. Some grains of it stick to his thumb, which he licks off before returning to stirring.
Joe wants to ask him where he learned to cook, but his family is a strained subject; he knows Nicky still speaks to his nonna, and that she taught him how to make the focaccia bread they ate on their second date, in response to Joe telling him about his own grandmother, teaching him all he knows about what one can do with flour and eggs and leftovers.
Joe can’t help but linger on Nicky’s broad shoulders a little later on, much like the first time he saw Nicky, hunched a little over his bowl, fork in one hand, twirling up some pasta. He glances up at Joe, catches him already looking, and quirks a smile. Joe is grateful that it’s hard to tell when he’s blushing. His face feels warm, cheeks burning as he tries to recover from having those stunning eyes levelled at him.
He wants to ask Nicky how he feels about god, and afternoon thunderstorms, what his favourite recent films are. Wants to hear his opinion on current events over coffee, phone scrolling through twitter, to joke with him while thumbing the navel of an orange, waiting in line at the grocery store. Wants to share his incredibly specific playlists with him, to ask Nicky if he’s got any regrets, if they use the same phone chargers, if he thinks Joe is beautiful; if he would tell Joe if he did.
Mostly, he wants to ask Nicky to stay the night.
He’s people watching and practicing profiles in his local café when he sees Nicky for the first time. Joe comes here when he’s under stimulated by the quiet of his apartment, when putting on loud music and a tv show isn’t enough to occupy his brain so he can focus on his art. The bustling of the café, the conversations, the movement around him, the aching lyrics crooning in one earbud; it never fails to help him concentrate. To slip into the creative flow that’s proved elusive the last few days.
Nicky, as he would come to call him, is two booths down from him, reading. Joe can’t see what book he’s reading (which is probably for the best; Joe is horrifically judgmental of other people’s taste in books, which Andy teases him relentlessly over) but the angle of his head, prominent nose buried in the pages, is too compelling for Joe to ignore.
Joe studies his hands, one spreading the spine of the book over the table, the other resting on his mouth. His palms are wide, fingers long but not slender. His knuckles shift as he turns a page. Mostly, they look sturdy, but gentle. Like they’d make Joe feel held, like they’d spread wide in offering and allow Joe to hold him in return.
The cut of his shirt draped across his shoulders draws attention to their breadth. Joe swallows around nothing as he recreates them on the page. It’s the complete unselfconsciousness that keeps Joe drawn to him, even as other patrons come and go in his field of vision. His hair sticks out a little where he’s obviously run his hand through it, and Joe is struck with wanting to know if it’s a habit, or something he does when he’s stressed.
There’s a half-filled mug next to him, coffee foam stain clinging around the lip of it. It’s mid-afternoon, and the sun is behind him coming through the front of the café, framing his body, making him all goldenrod and so, so beautiful, that Joe wishes he had brought his watercolours with him.
Joe fills a page of rough sketches, and all the while the stranger doesn’t look up once from his book. Occasionally, his thumb presses further into his bottom lip, and at point he slips it around the back of his neck to rub the muscles there, presumedly a little sore from hanging down for too long, before returning to hold his chin. There’s a red mark on the skin there from the imprint of his hand, which endears Joe to no end.
Then he looks up. And he immediately locks eyes with Joe. Green-blue against brown; seafoam meets riverbank.
Amongst the whirling mess in Joe’s brain, most of them incoherent, is the repeated thought that he really should’ve brought his watercolours.
Nicky returns Freshwater to him about a week after Joe gives it to him, along with a battered copy of On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Joe’s read it before of course, has his own dog-eared version, but he finds himself wanting to look through Nicky’s copy, to hold it in his hands as Nicky did, to re-read it with the knowledge of Nicky in his mind.
“Perhaps another cliché, but-” Nicky shrugs, then he pauses. “Do your parents speak English, Joe?”
Joe nods; English was his third language, before Dutch and Tunisian, “Yours?”
Nicky nods, but soon drops his gaze to the book currently cradled between them. “My nonna, though. Not her.”
Joe thinks about the conversation they’d had on a late night last a few days prior, of Nicky’s theology studies, his questions, doubts, curiosities. That he’d found god as a child in his nonna’s hands at the kitchen bench, pure creation in motion. Joe knows why he doesn’t wear a cross anymore, about the references to Hozier and Hafez in his thesis, about growing up gay and catholic; all these parts of himself that he’s worked hard to reconcile; he thinks about the soft smile Nicky gave him while on the phone to her just a few days ago, measured syllables rolling off his tongue in a language Joe has yet to learn, thumb brushing over Joe’s ankle bone where his foot rested in Nicky’s lap.
Here and now, Joe nods in understanding. He places his hand over Nicky’s and promises he’ll take care of it. The quick smile Nicky gives as he replies I know you will, might just be the most briefly gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.
Joe hasn’t yet told Nicky why certain words sound better in his mouth than others, about the old wounds in him that never healed properly, about the friends he hasn’t spoken to in years. How he’s followed spirals to their bottomless depths and then dragged himself out of it, that he still can’t speak about himself in his mother tongue without flinching from it, the sound entirely too close for him to bear uttering aloud.
That he can’t stop himself from taking things too personally; that sometimes he feels so magnificently fragile he could fall apart from a glance, split down the middle on an all-too-sharp look alone, without uttering a single word.
But a few months into knowing him, Joe fell into a rough patch. Couldn’t bring himself to cancel his date with Nicky but also couldn’t quite get himself together enough by the time he came around to Joe’s apartment to not set off Nicky’s apparently superhuman awareness of Joe’s emotional state the second he walked through the door.
(“I just keep wondering- does everyone else feel like this?” Joe had asked him, sitting across from Nicky at his small dining table, trying not to lose his nerve, “as if they’re constantly having to swallow down their emotions, and like everything is just brimming under the surface-” a deep, shuddering breath, “-or am I completely alone?”
He’s drawing and redrawing patterns on the underside of his palm, wincing at the sound of his own voice; rough and quaking under the surface, syllables shifting apart as it leaves his chest, ready to crack at a moment’s notice.
Nicky puts his hand over Joe’s, threads their fingers together. Joe glances up to meet his gaze, eyes burning, not quite able to swallow the lump forming in his throat-
-and the way Nicky looks at him, like he’s unravelling the erratic pulse along Joe’s neck, worrying the bared nerves tenderly-
“You’re not alone, Joe.”
-the sob wrenches free.)
And maybe Joe notices that A Little Life has moved off Nicky’s to-read pile the next time he comes around, and that Nicky never once treats him any differently after he told him about the times in his life when the world seems hazy and lifeless, except to hold Joe a little tighter against him on the days that Joe is tired no matter how much sleep he gets, or made Joe instant coffee after nights when he can’t sleep at all, and maybe that’s all that love is (enduring through holding; hands in the kitchen, stirring warmth; creation), and maybe that’s all that Joe’s ever wanted from someone who loves him, anyway.
Joe will eventually tell Nicky about the times when he could only worship god in the abstract, when he had to slip through the gaps of three languages in order to find the words to deconstruct creation, and selfhood, and has found himself here, half a decade into his transition, well-used prayer mat rolled up underneath his bed, a man shaped from the clay of god by his own hands. That this was the way he loved himself best. For now, he lets himself be held.
Joe works out regularly; it helps him feel at home in his body, and despite the fact that he hates when Andy is right, it does make him feel better to exercise when he’s going through a particularly rough patch. Depression is a motherfucker, and lifting weights doesn’t make it disappear by any means, but it feels a hell of a lot better than lying on his couch.
So he’s developed a pretty good routine, at this point. And he’s never been more comfortable with his figure, and he preens when Nicky eyes him hungrily after coming back from a run, shirt pulled tight over his pecs, sweat between his shoulder blades (he preens just as much as Nicky nuzzles his full stomach after Nicky stuffs him with carbs, happy and warm and so in love he can barely breathe for it). But that’s not the point. The point is that Joe’s had to spend more time than ever working on his glutes and his core because Nicky is insatiable when he’s fucked, and Joe doesn’t let up until he’s wrung at least two orgasms from him every time.
Nicky’s hands are gripping at Joe, fingers slipping past the straps over Joe’s hips to caress his skin in a way that makes Joe shiver and fuck in a little harder. Nicky’s all pink, pink, pink, everywhere, and Joe fucking loves it, loves the way his skin flushes high on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, down his throat to his chest, mottled skin and harsh panting among his moans, because of Joe. Because Joe’s giving it to him so good he can barely get ahold of himself.
“Are you gonna come for me again, babe?” Joe murmurs, can’t help but grin as Nicky whimpers in response.
A glance down at Nicky’s cock tells Joe all he needs to know, just as pink as the rest of him, swollen and sore and mouth-wateringly wet at the tip. Nicky’s hand finds the curls at the base of Joe’s neck to tug at the strands, and Joe retaliates by changing his grip on Nicky’s thigh, moving it that much more up and out, swivelling his hips to nail his prostate.
Nicky keens, throws his head back, exposing the tantalising column of his throat. Joe pushes past his own exertion to hold Nicky against his dick while moving to lean over him. Joe’s necklace falls a bit further up his neck, pendant dangling between their bodies. It brushes Nicky’s adam’s apple, which bobs with the choked noise Nicky makes as Joe thrusts in again.
Nicky lifts his head enough to catch it between his teeth, which is enough to make Joe wild with want, so much that he’s moaning with it, eyes fixed on Nicky’s mouth until he leans down to kiss the corner of it, sloppy because fucking someone through two orgasms is as tiring as it is hot, and he’s not sure he has the coordination to kiss him properly right now. Nicky seem to take pity on him, letting the necklace fall from his lips to bring Joe into a kiss, tongue running along his teeth, the roof of his mouth in a way that has Joe fighting a whine this time, cupping Nicky’s jaw, helpless with desire.
“So good to me,” Nicky praises when he lets go of Joe, and Joe can’t stop the moan that he lets out at Nicky’s words against his skin, “always so good, Joe, you’re gonna make me come again-”
It makes Joe redouble his efforts, snaking a hand between them to grip Nicky’s cock, fist it the way he’s learned Nicky likes best, just this side of too tight, thumb rubbing over that spot at the head as he moves. The effect is immediate and orgasm-worthy in of itself; Nicky cries out, grip on Joe going rough for a moment before releasing just as quick, hips trying to fuck up into Joe’s hand, mouth going slack while his eyes screw shut. Joe loves this moment, with Nicky right on the precipice, loves watching as he tumbles over while underneath Joe, at his touch.
He drops his hand to the base of Nicky’s cock when he comes, to massage it out and avoid getting come all over his fingers (it’s a bitch to clean out of the hair on his knuckles, and he needs the use of the fingers on both his hands as soon as he’s done), utterly enraptured and endlessly turned on by the shuddering movements of Nicky’s body against his own.
As soon as Nicky starts to soften, smiling lazy and sated but no less hungrily at Joe, he works himself out of Nicky’s body. A synthetic dick up one’s ass is not fun to feel after two orgasms, Joe knows from intimate experience, so he’s efficient with pulling out, undoing the straps at his sides, sliding one out completely so he doesn’t have to step out of it (he’ll complain later when he’s trying to do it up again in his eagerness, but for now, he only cares about getting close to Nicky as soon as possible), before sidling up next to Nicky and allowing himself to be pulled in for one of Nicky’s deep, thorough, post-orgasm kisses.
It never fails to make Joe whimper, the way he kisses, open-mouthed, nose pressed against his cheek and blocking off one nostril with how he’s set on devouring Joe up with his kiss, and no sooner does he make the noise that Nicky’s thigh comes up between Joe’s legs, pressing up just right-
“Oh- fuck, Nicky,” Joe groans, unable to resist rutting down, doesn’t even care that Nicky’s got dried come over his stomach that’s surely getting everywhere - they can just shower after this, Joe’s got a waterproof vibrator he wouldn’t mind spending an afternoon trying out with Nicky.
“You want my fingers?” Nicky asks, direct and to the point and no less hot for it as always, hooded gaze flickering between Joe’s lips and his eyes, hands resting at Joe’s sides, thumbs rubbing little circles into his skin in that way that drives Joe nuts.
Joe nods, already approaching the point of no return on verbalising anything, because the soft hair on Nicky’s thigh is rubbing against his own and his body is warm and solid and pushed against him in all the right places, and he’s looking at Joe like he’s the best thing Nicky’s ever seen. He lifts himself up a bit with his hands on Nicky’s shoulders, hooking his chin over Nicky’s shoulder so he can press their bodies together.
One hand leaves Joe’s side, brushing the wiry hair of Joe’s pubes, and the sound Nicky makes when he slides his fingers over Joe’s dick and feels how wet he’s gotten already, throbbing and swollen, is enough to make Joe want to stay inside this moment forever.
“Love how turned on you get when you fuck me,” Nicky says breathlessly, smile evident in his voice, “love how much you love making me feel good, love how you fuck me better than anyone else, love doing this for you-” he cuts himself off with a pleasant shudder as his fingers slip inside Joe, so easy that Joe would be embarrassed except he’s too busy feeling fucking incredible and held and loved, all by Nicky.
“Fucking love you,” Joe murmurs for good measure when he can gather his thoughts enough to think straight, but that’s soon surrendered up again as Nicky crooks his fingers, and it feels so good Joe lets out a gurgle of disbelieving laughter, though that’s quickly choked into a helpless moan when Nicky does it again, but harder.
“Nicky, Nicky-” Joe cuts himself off to circle his hips with a desperate cry, he’s so fucking close, he just needs-
“Need me to touch your cock, baby? Or do you wanna get off on my palm yourself?” Nicky asks, because he’s a bastard who catalogued every single one of Joe’s kinks in the first month of them sleeping together and he wields that knowledge like a fucking weapon.
“Yes- that, please,” Joe begs, all hitched hips and breathing and pinched brows as the feeling in him rises and rises and rises with every stroke of Nicky’s perfect fingers.
Nicky only has to shift his hand, press it up along Joe’s dick, and Joe’s already so close to the edge that he only gets as far as rubbing against the firm mound of Nicky’s palm twice before the pressure against his slit causes him to seize up, clenching tight around Nicky’s fingers, throbbing and trembling through that aching peak, mouth open, muscles spasming. He rides that orgasm for far longer than he usually would, every movement seemingly prolonging the feeling, until Nicky’s thumb swipes over the head of his oversensitive cock and he has to jerk back a little. Nicky shushes him apologetically, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth as Joe finally calms down.
Nicky wipes his fingers against Joe’s thigh before cupping his jaw to trade slower kisses, not as deep as before but just as nice, warm breaths puffing out against each other’s face, eyes half-lidded like they don’t quite want to take their eyes off each other. Joe’s clingy after sex (not that Nicky would let him call himself that), seeks out as much physical touch that he can get, nuzzling against Nicky’s neck, pulling Nicky in by one ass cheek until he gets the hint and hooks his leg over Joe’s, feet brushing Joe’s ankle, calves pressed together. Nicky traces a line from his tattoo along his ribs to his pecs, making Joe shiver and kiss him again.
“Love you too,” Nicky sighs when they part, intimate in how casually he speaks it into existence. It doesn’t matter how many times he says it though, Joe can’t stop the swell of affection that rises in him at hearing it.
They’re in the MET, standing in front of one of his favourite paintings (Pygmalion and Galatea, by Gérôme), fingers linked together, when he tells Nicky he loves him the first time. It’s September, and they’re keeping themselves warm with each other.
“I just- like the way he holds her,” Joe explains quietly, feeling oddly vulnerable, after Nicky asked him why he liked it so much (he’d wrinkled his nose reading the didactics, clearly discomforted by the original story).
Nicky’s eyes soften at that, taking Joe’s hand before turning back to the painting. Joe follows his eyeline, trying to view it through his eyes, as if for the first time. He can’t help but be drawn to his upturned face, his arms around her waist, reaching up with his entire body to reach her. And her, reaching down to meet him. Something about the way his hand fit around her body, the movement, the softness- call him a sap, but he’s never been able to resist the longing that claws its way out of him staring at this painting. To love something so much you bring it to life; love as an act of creation.
And then he looks back at Nicky, stunning in the bright, warm lights of the gallery, a solid mass in a mostly empty room, and he looks down at their joined hands, and he can feel how warm Nicky is, where his hand has slipped into Joe’s, where his thumb is swiping over the thin skin of his pulse, and he thinks of reaching for more of him, of tipping his head back to the lights, but before he can, Nicky turns back to smile at him.
(He had to let Nicky know, as Autumn arrived, that winter can be a little difficult for him, with its short days and cold mornings making it harder for Joe to get up during the worst of it, but he’s been getting better at not beating himself up over it, over missing prayer and deadlines when he needs time. Nicky had listened patiently, and confessed to Joe that he too has trouble getting up unless it’s to the sun, and said maybe they can help each other through the winter months, almost shy about it.
It’s the nicest idea Joe’s heard in quite some time, and it took him a whole day before he collapsed into terror at the thought of Nicky seeing Joe at his worst, unable to fathom crawling out of bed to shower, about Nicky seeing the thing inside him that’s ugly and awful and unlovable, throat closing up with grief at the thought of losing Nicky to something that’s supposed to be exciting. He had to call Quynh with shaking hands to help calm him down, desperately trying to breathe through his mouth because his nose stuffed from crying. There’s nothing unlovable about you, she had told him, so softly even through the crackle of the phone, that he’d sobbed harder for it. He’d agreed to let her know when his next therapy session was, and gently nudged him to speak to Nicky about it. You know he’d want you to tell him / I know.)
“I can see why you like it,” Nicky whispers, almost conspiratorially, nodding to the painting, “I like it too.”
And just like that, for no reason that he can discern, Joe says it to him. On an early Fall day, in front of his favourite painting, wearing a sweater that’s seen better days, curls still unkempt from the night before, Joe says it: I love you. It’s as easy as breathing, as a tree exhaling its crisp orange leaves onto the sidewalk outside.
The smile that crinkles the corners of Nicky’s eyes, and the way he holds Joe close as he kisses him tells Joe all he needs to know, even before he can say I love you in return.
Joe rinses the bowls in the sink as Nicky screws a metal cork into the wine bottle and slots it into Joe’s fridge (he’s not thinking about how it might mean Nicky intends to come back sometime soon to finish it off, he’s not). After he dries his hands on a tea towel and discards it on the bench, he turns to face Nicky. The tension that’s been building, steady and heady throughout dinner, is reaching a tipping point. He could tell Nicky it’s been a good night, thank him for the food, and kiss him at the door.
Then he remembers a conversation they’d had on their first date about Normal People, and asking for what you want. How Nicky said he likes it when his partners are direct with him about their needs, because he likes giving it to them.
“Would you like to stay here, tonight?” It’s not quite the question he really wants to ask Nicky, but it is the one he wants an answer to at this moment.
Nicky’s shoulders drop out of a strained posture that Joe didn’t notice was there until it was gone. He nods, reaching for him. “I would love to. I’m glad you asked.”
Joe reaches too, sliding his hands to the back of Nicky’s head and pulling him in for a kiss. He tastes like wine, and a bit like the pasta they just ate. Nicky’s fingers are a little cold where they’re holding Joe’s biceps, and it makes Joe shiver as one hand pushes underneath Joe’s shirt to rest on his side and tug him closer.
A broken-loose Spring is making its way out of the ground, in the cracks of the pavement Joe walks along. Wildflowers curve toward the ever-present threads of silked sunlight in the city. It’s warm, and bright, and Joe is in love.
He’s also incredibly irritated.
He’d forgotten to eat before dawn this morning, distracted by an incredibly sweet-looking Nicky curled up in his sheets. It’s not even a rare occurrence; they’ve been living together for months. But the white sheet they’d discarded through the night was all tangled up in his legs, over his hip, and his nose was pressed up against Joe’s pillow because he’d migrated over in the morning for cuddles. It was far too easy to stay in bed, weighed down by that lingering pressure of winter on his shoulders; how was Joe supposed to do anything but stare at Nicky for the next twenty minutes, when it’s so much easier to look at him than it is to face the world, with all its expectations and its demands of him?
He’d completely forgotten why he set an alarm that early, like an idiot, and now it’s late in the afternoon, right when Joe should be preparing for iftar and instead he’s hunting down a café that might still be open. Joe thinks he might finally understand why his mother always told him that dating a white boy was only going to bring him trouble (in her defence, said white boy of the time was trouble, but like he’d ever tell her she was right).
His stomach rumbles, as if mocking him.
The worst part is, he and Nicky have both been cooped up at home between Nicky in the final weeks of his thesis and Joe preparing for a show, and he can’t afford to visit his family in Belgium to celebrate Ramadan, so he was already upset about being a terrible son before he forgot to eat and then he snapped at Nicky earlier over shutting the microwave door too loudly, and now he feels like a dick.
So he’s (finally, after the fifth place he tries – why is it so hard to find Italian desserts in this city?) got an armful of struffoli, like this is some ironic cautionary tale about patience, and it smells amazing. He hopes he can bring it back to Nicky in one piece, with both his insanity and piety intact, trying not to let the errant worry of Nicky leaving him over a stupid spat spiral out of control in his mind.
The goddamn door sticks because of course it fucking does, and Joe’s about two seconds away from bursting into tears trying to get it to budge between the pastries piled in his arms, when it swings open. Nicky’s on the other side, head cocked ever so slightly as he takes in Joe’s (likely dishevelled, defeated) appearance.
He can smell something delicious cooking on the stove, which means Nicky’s been cooking for him. Because Nicky knows what time of year it is, and he’s lovely, and Joe doesn’t deserve him, and-h
The crying is not a surprise; he’s hungry and far too tired to be worrying about every aspect of his life alongside an upcoming exhibition. He’s still a little embarrassed at how easy his depression can kick the shit out of him when he’s not looking, even though he’s been doing a lot better at being open about it with Nicky, which is why Nicky just takes the oversized bag from him and pulls Joe into a tight hug.
“I got you struffoli,” Joe croaks, laughing a little when Nicky snorts.
“I love you,” is all Nicky murmurs in reply against his neck, before pulling away to wipe under Joe’s eyes. “Go run yourself a bath, and by the time you get out, it’ll be time for iftar.”
The world is significantly easier to bear when his stomach is full and his family are smiling at him over facetime. It’s even easier when Nicky gets up with him the next day before dawn, sleepy-eyed and warm in the kitchen light and just as beautiful as when Joe first saw him, as the sun filters in through the open window.
Joe brings the coffee back to bed.
The sunlight is shining in Nicky’s eyes, making him squint adorably. His hair is mussed from sleep, pillow creases on his cheek that shift as he glances between the mugs in Joe’s hands and his face before smiling at him. And Joe knows in that moment that he loves him. Loves him, loves him, loves him.
Doesn’t care that it’s too soon, that he doesn’t know if Nicky prefers space or comfort when he’s overwhelmed or irritated (the former until he can figure out what he’s feeling, then the latter until he’s calm again), or if he believes in astrology (less so a lack of belief than understanding, it turns out, he’s quite confused by the concept of rising and falling signs), or if he’s the type of person to only skim over didactics at art galleries (he’ll stand in front of an artwork, head tilted, for as long as it takes for some people to traverse a whole exhibition) - just that he wants to know.
Wants to know everything, how to take care of him, how to love him best, because Joe’s never done things in halves and he’s not about to start now, cracked down the middle with this feeling in the warm light of morning, fingers brushing Nicky’s as he passes the cup over to him, kissing his forehead and receiving a grateful, if lazy, nudge against his shoulders in return as he settles onto the bed.
The displeased look on Nicky’s face that he’s trying - and failing - to hide at the instant coffee only makes Joe fall harder.
He thinks more about the spaces in his house. The rim of the bathtub where he’d stripped off to take his T injection, only dimly aware of Nicky leaning against the frame (the cracked frame that still takes his weight steadily); the rim of the abandoned wine glass on the counter (Nicky had asked him the night before, about the wine. No judgment in his voice, just curiosity. Joe had told him about keeping halal, keeping the faith, keeping his head clear); thinks about the gaps in his bookshelf.
Joe wants to mix up all their belongings and their curiosities until he forgets what belonged to who, only that they belonged to each other.
“Tell me what you like,” Nicky asks against his mouth, earnest and pitched low, stoking the desire in Joe’s belly.
They’re both down to their briefs, kissing in Joe’s bed. Following a previous conversation on boundaries, and preferences (I like topping and bottoming, Joe had said, watching Nicky lick his lips reflexively. But I don’t usually do either until I’ve known someone for a while. That okay? / More than okay. Can I suck you off? I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you since I walked through the door tonight), Joe is hot all over, getting hotter still at the press of Nicky’s erection against his thigh.
“I like being kissed,” Joe says, only half-joking, groaning when he receives another fully bodied press of lips to his from Nicky. He’s a fantastic kisser; Joe’s half-drunk alone on the way he throws himself into it each time.
Nicky hums when he’s done with a “hmm, I noticed,” and Joe feels his smile through the next kiss, more chaste than the other ones, widening to a grin when Joe tries to follow his mouth as he pulls away, “I meant more along the lines of pace, and roughness. You want me to go slow? Finger you deep, or just suck the tip of your cock so gently you can barely stand it?”
Joe blinks, tries to remember how to describe actions when he can feel himself throbbing up to his stomach at those words, sure he’s gone dumb with it, sure that it shows on his face the way Nicky’s already ruining him and he hasn’t even started yet-
“I like it deep,” Joe explains finally when he gets himself back under control, swallowing at the rush of heat that licks up his spine because his body is preparing to get exactly what it’s been aching for, and he’s so excited that he’s dizzy with it, “only need two fingers, usually. I just need consistency, and I’ll be a puddle in no time.”
Nicky kisses him again, mutters a quiet thank you for telling me, like he did when Joe asked for what he wanted earlier in the night, before making his way down Joe’s body. Nicky kisses along his tattoo, other hand splayed along his ribcage, fingertips just brushing the healed line under his pecs, and everything in Joe shutters apart and comes together at those gentle touches.
Further down, Nicky gets himself between Joe’s legs, spreader bar shoulders pushing his thighs out wide, exposing everything for Nicky’s hungry gaze. Joe’s the one that gets to mess up his hair now, gripping it just tight enough to encourage Nicky onward, and before he knows it Nicky’s mouth is on him, tongue licking at his opening before moving up to his dick, swirling around the tip, making Joe clench around his head that much more.
“Yess,” Joe hisses as Nicky sinks two fingers inside him, “like that, just like that Nicky,” and fuck, Nicky’s fingers reach in deep, deeper than his own can, and he finds that spot that makes Joe cry out, and he doesn’t let up, rubs over it just firm enough to keep Joe breathless, tongue moving in tandem in a steady rhythm that’s going to wreck Joe in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
“Shit, oh Nicky, that’s- that’s perfect, fuck, keep going-”
Nicky groans against him, and Joe makes a mental note to add good at following instructions to the ever-growing list of reasons that Joe is falling for him. (Not that love demands reason; in fact, he’s sure he’s going to love Nicky quite beyond any measure of it.) He’s certainly being robbed entirely of it from Nicky’s talented mouth and clever fingers right now.
Nicky’s other hand finds his thigh, rubs the crease along his opening, and Joe sobs. It’s like Nicky’s clocked onto every sensitive point he has and has decided to tenderly trace each one, rub along them mercilessly until Joe’s an incoherent mess. He’s all heat and high ragged sounds, too far gone to claw his way back out again.
“So good, Nicky, oohfuck-”
His orgasm is quite literally tugged out of him, hooked out by Nicky’s fingers and coaxed the rest of the way by his tongue. Joe pushes against Nicky’s face, holds him close, every muscle in his legs bunching up as it lays waste to every nerve in his body. He feels it in his fingers, for fuck’s sake, shaking from the adrenaline even as Nicky starts pulling away.
“Good?” Nicky asks, so sincerely that Joe guffaws, can’t resist yanking him down to kiss him, pulling him against Joe’s body.
“Good,” Joe repeats back, then laughs again, because good is a fucking understatement, but he honestly can’t remember any words other than the ones that Nicky is giving him.
As such, he asks Nicky the same question as before: tell me what you like, which is really teach me how to love you, or: will you allow me to love you, and Nicky takes Joe’s hand and brings it to his cock, and together they work something out that has Nicky going an endearing shade of pink, pausing only to grab some lube before he’s got Nicky fucking up into his hand and panting into his mouth.
“Do you want to finish in my mouth?” Joe asks, grinning at the way Nicky’s eyes slam shut and his hips jump up at that.
“Yes, yes, please,” Nicky whines, one hand finding Joe’s to intertwine their sweaty fingers together, gripping tightly.
His other hand ends up cradling the nape of Joe’s neck as he takes Nicky into his mouth. He’s got a lovely cock, uncircumcised, not too thick or long to be uncomfortable for Joe when he’s sliding his tongue down to the base. Joe mostly focuses on the head, not too keen on tasting the lube that’s over the rest of him. He moans at the pre-come beading at the head, salty and musky but not overpowering. He deeply appreciates the way Nicky’s hips have gone still despite how close Nicky must be, and he files that lovely display of restraint away for another time.
When Nicky is about to tumble over, he warns Joe by making a garbled sound followed by Joe’s name over and over and over, which is enough to have Joe wanting to go again, to have this man under him, over him, in any way he can get. He swallows it all down as Nicky comes, happy it’s not going to get all over the sheets this way, with a bone deep satisfaction at the low moans he’s dragging out of Nicky as he continues to massage his balls and suck at the head, stopping when they turn into hisses of oversensitivity.
He’s about to take the silence as an opportunity to ask Nicky if that was good, but before he can, Nicky tugs him up by his ears and kisses him deeply.
“Joe,” he whispers, like it’s a joy just to say his name, like his name is synonymous with praise and devotion, and Joe’s got no words at all now but his own name, spoken like a prayer.
“Okay, okay. What about a popular book that you don’t like?” Joe asks.
The café must be closing soon on account of how low the light is; Nicky’s coffee is cold, Joe’s sketchbook is closed. They’ve moved to one booth, knees occasionally knocking in the cramped space.
Joe’s just spent the last twenty minutes ranting about Donna Tartt, and Nicky’s not once looked like he was anything other than enraptured, but at Joe’s question he looks almost…shy. It spikes Joe’s curiosity.
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” Nicky starts cautiously, and Joe’s vibrating at the tease he has lined up for whatever the title is, until: “but- A Little Life has been abandoned on my shelf since I tried to read it a few years ago.”
It’s not the answer Joe was expecting; it sobers him enough to blurt out a clumsy, “Why?”
Nicky blushes, runs his hand through his hair (a nervous tic, it turns out), before flattening his palms on the table and looking down at his own splayed fingers.
“I’ve heard of how it ends, and- I just…don’t know if I need to hold another ending like that in my heart. I’d rather find something happier.”
Joe has to swallow, because it’s shockingly similar to something Andy had told him when she’d finally taken his copy (falling apart from use, spine ruined with how Joe had clutched it to himself) off of him during a particularly bad spiral. Read something else, Joe. Find a different ending.
Nicky must take his silence for judgment, because he rushes to add, “I know that must seem silly-”
“No,” Joe says, interrupting him by putting a hand over Nicky’s on the table without thinking. Nicky looks down at their hands, but he doesn’t move to pull away.
With his heart catching on the setting sun behind Nicky, Joe repeats, “No, I don’t think that’s silly at all.”