#dearpatroclus

A routine done thousands upon thousands of times before and there is no ease in the adjustment of it. Even if firing a gun, or holding his scimitar is done with the same physical memories no more complex at times than holding a fork at dinner, there’s an endless calling of ‘why’ and ‘maybe this time, do not.’ Something to trip him up, something to spark that brief second of hesitation.

There’s smudges and streaks in the small oval shaped bathroom mirror, and Joe stares himself dead in the eye, exhausted and tense, with each piece of clothing he removes while Nicky works to bring the stubborn old pipes to temperature.

Being fast healing, his muscles look little different than they did so many centuries ago, but having more continual nutrition allows a glow to his skin, a shine of health that had never truly been present the first five hundred years of his life.

His hair, though sodden and sticky from dirt and smoke, retains a healthily robust shine that Nicky comments on whenever he has an opportunity. There’s a spark of clarity in his eyes, and blood that flakes from his cheeks and leaves nothing but fresh, perfect skin beneath.

He’d not lived long enough as a mortal to develop the firm, obvious wrinkles he can barely remember his father or grandfathers having had. But there’s a definite crinkle to his forehead and the corners of his eyes where such things had slowly been starting to develop.

Until it was determined he’d be eternally 33.

Nicky would tell him, running his hands over the fuzz of hair against his chest, the looseness of a stomach well fed and unstrained, that nobody who looked to them could possibly guess what they’d been through. How they appeared so often in perfect health, still young and new to the world.

“Are you finished college?” Nicky had heard, more than once. “Have you kids?” Joe had heard to them both. “What do you do for a living? Where are you from? Have you got any plans for the future?”

“They cannot help it.” Nicky told him, curled up together later, “We look just like them. They can’t possibly comprehend.”

But they were just like them. The man Joe stared at in the mirror was him. A human. A human that just happened to heal really fast and could not retain death.

Was that not like them?

He held no super strength, no mystic abilities brought about by some fantasy element. He did not contain secrets. He was human. He just didn’t die.

Nicky didn’t die either. Nicky, who now once again was slowly trying to pull Joe from his thoughts. Nicky, with his careful, penetrating gaze of pure green concern, the vaguely hard, semi-chapped lips Joe so loved to kiss and new so well he could trace their shape in his sleep.

There’s dark black dirt on his cheeks, and ash on his nose. There’s the smell of weakening gunpowder on his fingertips when they run down Joe’s beard. His lips taste like soot when they come to Joe’s, his mouth pliant and willing when Joe pushes for more.

The shower water is hot and won’t be for long, the burning makes Joe yelp when he’s guided inside, slow, sluggish pressure not enough to soothe but good enough for cleaning. Nicky’s strong, sure hands finding soap and massaging into Joe’s hair.

Water turns grey beneath their feet, Joe tries to breathe through exhausted, small tears.

Nicky lets him cry, thumb pads gently pushing them away, encouraging Joe to breathe with him when there’s too many, when he can’t see and his eyelashes cling.

Hummed songs in Italian, gentle whispers in Joe’s ear.

The hands Joe fists into Nicky’s hips that clutch and burn, that bring him closer to himself in the need to know that there is something that stays the same. That there is something in this ever-turbulent world that feels identical. 

The towels are scratchy, the fabric loose, Joe cannot be bothered to find anything more exciting than faded blue boxers, sitting on the bed with Nicky only after he’s dried his own hair of the worst dampness, ancient black sweats loose on his hips.

He’s heavy in Joe’s lap and blissful in his patience.

“Rest,” Nicky says, kind, sweet, nose brushing Joe’s. 

If sleep came now Joe’d only be subjected to terror. Nicky knows and puts a finger to his lips. “Only rest, not sleep. Not until you’re ready.”

Under the blankets, Nicky’s chest is a comforting pillow, Joe’s eyes watching the muted colours of the TV without registering a single thing that happens in the program. 

Joe must fall asleep, for he’s sure he notes the room darkening, the distant television sound ceasing, and Nicky’s sleep-heavy voice in his ear, “Good Night, my love.”