j/n fluff with some immortal family feels for @ournextdoorneighbor who deserves all the fluff in the world!!! <333
Nicky hefts the laundry basket higher in his arms and wanders past the kitchen, breathing in deep as the spices Joe is cooking with drift out into the hallway.
He means to walk to the living room and set the basket down, but the sight of Joe stirring at a pan in front of the stove stops Nicky in his tracks.
Joe is wearing what would look like a randomly cozy assortment of clothing if Nicky didn’t know better. The gray oversized hoodie, hem hanging down past his hips and sleeves scrunched up to his elbows is Booker’s. The sweat-shorts are most certainly Andy’s, recognizable by the fraying at the bottom where Andy had taken a pair of scissors to them the last time they were all at this house.
Joe must’ve dug through Andy and Booker’s closets for them, which means he’s missing them more than he’s let on. They’ve all been apart for 6 months now, and though they’ve gone much longer without seeing each other, Joe had taken it hard when neither Andy nor Booker had been eager to set a reunion date. Nicky understands— neither of them have handled long periods apart as well as they did before Quynh.
He doesn’t seem too upset right now though, a slight sway in his hips as he moves to the tune he’s humming. Nicky’s heart beats a little faster, watching the evening sun glint through his curls and the muscles shift in his thighs.
Nicky sets the basket down by the kitchen door. “Do you need any help, my heart?”
“Hm?” Joe clicks the burner off and turns, smiling when he sees Nicky. “Oh, yes please, Nicolò. Will you come taste this?”
Nicky smiles back instinctively. “Of course.”
But when Nicky comes up to take a bite of the baby carrot he’s offering, Joe’s smile turns mischievous and he quickly takes the bite himself, holding the carrot between his teeth with one end sticking out.
Joe tilts his head expectantly, smirking around the carrot.
Nicky huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Joe only has to pout dramatically for a second before Nicky relents, and leans in to take a bite. As soon as he’s close enough, Joe’s hands find their ways to Nicky’s hips, tugging him close for a messy, closed-mouth kiss.
They’re both smiling too much for it to be much of a kiss at all but Nicky leans into it, slipping his hands under Joe’s sweater, just happy to have Joe warm, playful, and close. Eventually, they each take half of the carrot for themselves and Joe leans back, chewing his bite with a twinkle in his eye.
“Good?”
Nicky finishes chewing too. He tastes the warmth of cumin, the bite of chillies, and the familiar sweetness of Joe’s lips. He brushes their noses together, then kisses the freckle that adorns the apple of Joe’s cheek. “Good.”
Mischievous expression softening, Joe smiles then hugs Nicky close, rubbing his nose against Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky holds him as tightly as he can, rucking up his hoodie as he strokes the warm skin of Joe’s back.
“Will you get the plates, darling?”
Nicky nuzzles his cheek against Joe’s curls. “Of course.”
They separate and set the table in tandem, comfortable silence filling in the empty space of the room. By the time they sit down, the sun has sunk heavy and low, dark enough that they have to turn the dining room lights on.
Their meal is silent too, just the clink of silverware on their plates, their glasses knocking against the wood of the table. The stir-fry and jasmine rice that Joe had whipped up is perfect for this kind of night. Flavourful, filling and comforting.
Though they don’t speak, they wordlessly move their chairs closer together so that their knees stay pressed together throughout the meal. Nicky can’t help but be watchful of Joe’s expressions, of his body language, vigilant for a turn for the melancholy but it never comes. Joe’s soft smiles remain whenever he catches Nicky’s eye and he even has second helpings.
When they’ve cleaned up as much as either of them are willing to on a quiet night like this, Joe pulls out his little basket of crochet materials and Nicky pulls out a book he’s been finding dense but compelling.
They settle in on the couch for the evening with their respective entertainment but, as it has been true for hundreds of years, Nicky soon finds himself distracted by Joe. Distracted by Joe’s hands, specifically: the quick, nimble movements of his elegant fingers, the graceful turn of his wrist as he loops the thread into an easy pattern. Joe makes it look easy anyway.
Nicky gives up on the book completely, leaning against Joe’s shoulder instead and indulging in a favorite past-time: staring at Joe. He’s soothed by Joe’s repetitive movement and the warm press of Joe’s body against his.
Without ceasing his crocheting, Joe twists his head to drop a sweet, smacking kiss on Nicky’s head.
Nicky turns his face into Joe’s arm, breathing in the scent of mothballs and Booker’s preferred cigarettes clinging to the borrowed sweater.
“What are you making?”
“A scarf. For Andromache.”
Nicky lifts in an eyebrow. “Bright purple?”
“That part is for me.” Joe says, “I like to see her in color.”
Nicky snuggles in a little closer and hums in agreement.
“She told me once,” Joe continues, taking on that particular storytelling cadence that sends Nicky back to cold dusty night, spent around a fire when they were still learning each other, “that even though she thinks all of her earliest memories must be dreams by this point, that she trusts her touch-memories the most. One of those earliest ones is mending and weaving fabric.” The fondness Joe reserves for their little family is present in his tone, in the soft expression gracing his handsome features. His hands never stop moving. “She remembers it being impossibly soft. She didn’t say the material — maybe wool?— but it made me want to make her something soft, as well.”
Nicky’s heart aches with love— for his sweet, thoughtful Yusuf, for their family, for this small moment right here. He reaches out to touch one of the finished parts of the scarf as gently as he can. The threads are plush and downy. “It is soft. Impossibly so.”
Joe’s hands stop moving. He turns to face Nicky. The hint of vulnerability in those big, brown eyes makes Nicky’s heart skip a beat.
“Will she like it, Nicolo?”
“I know she will.” He waits until Joe’s smile returns and starts crocheting again before adding, “What color is Booker’s going to be?”
“Who said I’m making Booker one?” Nicky waits him out, hiding his own smile against Joe’s arm. Only a few moments pass before Joe gives in, “I was thinking of a forest green. What do you think?”
“Hm. I think that’s perfect, my heart.” Nicky closes his eyes, letting the whisper of looping yarn lull him. “Perfect.”
