#toggift2020

Joe, unsurprisingly, tends to listen to classy music. Old jazz, older classics, instrumentals and orchestras that hold just as much emotion between their notes as the poetry and art he clearly also appreciates.

Nicky plays disco on blast when it's his turn to cook and for a while Nile's not sure if he actually likes it, or if it's just because it makes Joe laugh to hear it, the sound half-despair and half-delight.

She thinks he likes it, Nicky doesn't indulge in things that don't serve a purpose, or bring Joe comfort, but that laugh would probably be enough for him. It's almost enough for her, makes her smile every time.

(She knows he likes it, the afternoon they're stuck in a small hotel in the middle of nowhere, rain pouring down, loud on the roof and windows, and they curl up on one of the double beds and watch Mamma Mia! and Nicky sings along to every damn word. Joe sighs, but he puts down his book and joins them, laughing when he stumbles over the lyrics and Nicky grins at him. Even Andy smiles, her head resting on Joe's shoulder, her eyes blinking slowly near the end of the movie. Nile thinks she doesn't even have any nightmares that night.)

Nile finds herself wondering what sort of music Booker likes, what he used to listen to, what he listens to now, if it soothes him in his exile, or if he finds things to help him wallow in his misery.

She fears it's the latter, sad white-boy emo shit, but she hopes...

She hopes he's healing.

Like Andy is, slow but sure, at last.

She has to hope, for Joe, for Nicky, for Andy. (For herself, and the future that stretches so far before her.) She has to hope—for Booker himself. She remembers how he made Andy laugh in the mine, when Nile had barely ever seen her smile, and she wants to meet that Booker, the one from before and around all the despair and grief, the one who wasn't entirely lost, not yet.

Maybe she will, some day.

She has a lot of days to make it happen.

She doesn't have to worry about the how, not yet.

A hundred years...

Until the night she dreams of him, and she realizes it's going to be a lot less than that.

At first she thinks it's just another nightmare; she has her share of them, even as young as she is in comparison to her new friends, new family. Booker's shoulders are hunched, she can see that tension in his face she'd hoped he'd finally let go...

Only she isn't seeing the Booker she knows, not really, she's seeing him how someone else does, more rage and less regret.

She sees her own hands, not her hands, familiar hands, smooth and soft looking instead of bloody, the air, there's air, warm against her skin.

There's music playing, spilling out an open window, some old lesser-known Spice Girls song Nile can't quite remember the title of, the familiar lilt of that cheeky sense of humor that made them so popular for so long.

She hates it, hates where they came from, hates how blind and selfish they are, how stupid, how little they know about what the world is really like...

Nile wakes, a gasp and a jerk that's familiar, and entirely different than ever before.

She blinks in the darkness, ignores the familiar shift of Andy walking around in the other room, following the path of the fairy lights they'd run along the ceiling and windows, pretending she doesn't know that Nile is having nightmares again.

Nile blinks again.

Quynh hates British pop.

Quynh is free...

Quynh is free and isn't trying to come home, isn't trying to find Andy.

(She might not have been drowning, not anymore, but Nile could still feel it in her thoughts, could still feel the weight of the water, the cold of the iron, the pain and the blood and the endless endless screaming...)

Nile closes her eyes, and considers, for just a moment, not saying anything.

Maybe not ever.

Maybe just not until after Christmas? Not that the holiday means much to the rest of them, but they're going through the motions for Nile, helping her adjust to her new world with this tradition lingering from her old one...

But no.

That way lies madness. The same sort that took out Booker, that may be doing the same to Quynh.

Nile lies back down, blinks at the faint glow of warm white between the top of her door and the edge of the frame; the light from the decorations she'd put up. She could let Joe and Nicky sleep for a little longer, at least, let Andy have one last quiet night.

She'll tell them over breakfast, and then they'll decide what to do next, to rescue their friend, their family, the woman they'd never forgotten, not in five-hundred years.

They'll save her, Nile is sure of it.

Arizona, the United States of America. Axel Safehouse. 2133.

Nicky found his husband on the roof, lounging on the clay tiles with his arms beneath his head. There was a breeze blowing from the west, teasing his curls and tugging at his shirt, and his skin seemed to glow in a way that was almost ethereal by the fading starlight. Beneath the light of the waxing moon, he looked calm—peaceful, even. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling slowly, evenly, and, had Nicky been anyone but himself, he would have assumed he were asleep.

Carefully, he sat down and scooted to sit next to him. Joe smiled and rested a hand lightly on his knee. “Hey, babe.”

Nicky leaned down and pecked him on the forehead. Joe’s other hand came up, winding through his hair and guiding him into another kiss, this time on his mouth. Nicky hummed as Joe scratched idly at his scalp and traced his free hand down his stomach, fingers lingering just above his hip.

Joe reached down, linking their fingers together. “Hey,” he said into Nicky’s cheek, rubbing their joined knuckles over the curve of his ribs. “I’m fine, habibi.”

You are now , Nicky wanted to say. You are now. Not yesterday, when he’d been crushed beneath a falling building. Not that morning, when they’d finally dug him out, not when he’d writhed in Nicky’s arms in the back of the truck, drenched in sweat and tears as his body knit itself back together. Not eight hours ago when he’d held Nicky in a grip that hurt almost too much beneath the spray of the shower. Not twenty minutes ago when he’d kicked aside the sheets and stumbled out of their room. You are now.

He kissed Joe again on the forehead, then on each eyelid, then on his jaw. Joe chuckled and turned his head to press his own lips to Nicky’s wrist.

“I have something for you,” Nicky told him. Joe cracked his eyes open and peered up at him with barely-concealed curiosity.

He let out a groan of mingled delight as Nicky extracted the bottle he’d been hiding from behind his back. “You spoil me, Nicolò,” he said, reaching for it. Nicky tatted and tapped his shoulder until he sat up, rolling his eyes even as he leaned forwards to kiss Nicky again. “What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one?” Nicky asked, swirling the mead around in the bottle. Joe hummed and Nicky twisted his wrist, freeing the cap with a pop .

“Wait.” Joe stilled his hands with his. Nicky smiled and let him take the bottle. “Mm.” He takes a deep whiff from the open neck, face screwed up into a masterful imitation of Andy whenever she’d tasted a new sample of baklava. “Ethiopia?” he guessed, opening one eye and peeking up at Nicky. “Poland,” he corrected, spotting the look on Nicky’s face. “No? New York?”

“You wound me, tesoro,” said Nicky. Joe pouted. He looked unfairly adorable when he did so, and Nicky couldn’t resist leaning forwards and giving him a quick peck on the lips, then his cheek, and then the hollow of his throat. Then, after a half-second of consideration, he blew on his ear.

“Nicky!” Joe laughed. “I’m going to spill it!”

“Don’t you dare,” Nicky growled, nipping at Joe’s neck. “Do you know how hard it was to hide that from Booker? In his own house, no less.”

“A wonder in itself,” Joe agreed, tipping his head back to let Nicky mouth at his throat. Nicky finally chuckled and leaned back, letting Joe take a swig. “Mm.” He smacked his lips, screwing up his eyes.

“Good?”

“Dusty.” Nicky elbowed him lightly and Joe grinned, taking another sip. “Good. Very good.” He held out the bottle and Nicky took a gracious sip of his own.

“Good,” he agreed, licking his lips satisfactorily. Joe leaned back against the roof and, for a while, they simply sat there, trading sips beneath the speckled midnight sky.

“Medovukha!” Joe yelled suddenly, sitting up straight. “Russia, ‘15, you—wait.” He narrowed his eyes and Nicky bit his lip, trying his hardest not to laugh. “ I bought that for you, you little vixen!” he exclaimed. Nicky let out a screech as Joe tackled him across the roof, shaking with laughter as he dug his fingers into his armpits, tickling him mercilessly until he begged him to stop.

(Later, Nicky half-heartedly suggested soaking up the spilled mead with a sponge. Joe tackled him again.)

Otjozondjupa, Namibia. Cave. 1903.

A loud crack reverberated through the cavern as Joseph hit the ground and he swore, grabbing the wall. Booker shot him a glance, one eyebrow raised, and Joseph nodded, jaw clenched. The other man nodded back wearily before vanishing after Andrea into the darkness.

There was a grating screech of metal against stone and Joseph quickly stood, throwing out his arms just in time to catch Nicholas as he skidded down the shaft. “Stupid cave,” he muttered, straightening his husband. “You alright?”

Nicholas nodded, tugging off his cap. “Are you?”

Joseph shrugged. “Ankle.” Nicholas frowned. “It’s fine,” Joseph hastened to add. “Just landed bad, I’m still healing—”

Nicholas tutted and took his hand, maneuvering him to sit against a wall. “Wait,” he ordered, pointing a stern finger when Joseph tried to stand. “Wait,” he repeated, then ducked into the shadows.

Joseph sighed and leaned his head back, stretching his legs out. It was still throbbing, loathe as he was to admit it. He watched with an almost morbid fascination as his foot slowly straightened itself, twisting back into place. He could, if he strained his ears, hear the faint creak of his bones as they realigned themselves. It didn’t even hurt that much.

Nicholas still wasn’t back. Joseph grimaced and began working at the buttons of his coat, a task made significantly more difficult by the blood drying between the clasps. He bit back a gag as he worked the tip of his thumbnail through the plug; neck shots always bled more.

Finally, he managed to more shake than shrug his coat off, wrinkling his nose when it hit the ground as a stiff sheet. What a shame—he’d liked that one.

“Joseph?”

“Hm?” Joseph glanced up. “Yeah, still here.”

Nicholas dropped his bag by Joseph’s feet and sat next to him. He’d shed his own coat, and had what looked like one of Andrea’s old shawls wrapped around his shoulders. There was a smudge of dirt on his face and Joseph reached up, wiping it away with his thumb. Nicholas smiled, letting his cheek linger in Joseph’s palm for a moment before leaning away. “Here.” He pushed a cloth-wrapped bundle into Joseph’s hands.

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you get this from?” he asked as he began peeling back the layers Nicholas had wrapped it in. The scrap linen might once have been white, and was almost tacky with dirt.

“Buried it.”

“When?”

Nicholas shrugged. “‘77, ‘78? I bought it in ‘76.”

Joseph was grinning by the time the bottle finally rolled into his lap. “15?”

Nicholas shook his head. “14.”

Joseph laughed, lifting the bottle to peer at the faded label. He whistled. “Grenache, Nico?”

“Sardinia,” said Nicholas, resting his chin on Joseph’s shoulder. Joseph tilted his head, resting his cheek against his husband’s hair. “I was saving it for a rainy day.”

Joseph ran a hand up and down Nicholas’s arm, stroked his skin through a slit in his sleeve until he felt him relax. “It was a nice villa,” he recalled. Nicholas exhaled slowly, and Joseph pressed his nose into his hair, breathing in deeply. He was coated in a thin layer of dust—the ride over, perhaps, or just the slit of a shaft they called an opening—and his skin was tacky with sweat. The side of his head was matted with blood, his hair dyed the colour of rust, and Joseph leaned down, pressing his mouth to the skin below it. The beat of Nicholas’s pulse fluttered against his lips and he felt Nicholas’s hand encircle his wrist, fingers pressed over his vein.

Finally, Joseph drew away. Nicholas looked at him imploringly and Joseph chuckled, raising the bottle again. “Booker would kill for this, you know.”

“Too bad it is not for him, then,” said Nicholas, lip quirking.

Joseph pressed his lips to his temple, smiling into his hair. “Glasses?”

Nicholas laughed lightly, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder. “Live a little, Joseph.”

Joseph snorted and popped the cork.

The United Reformation, New Caspian Spiral. The Scythian III . 3099.

He heard the creak of metal before the beep and grate of the door sliding open. The ship was not a quiet one, nor was it particularly new.

(It wasn’t their only, of course; he knew Booker and Nils had cruisers stowed in convenient asteroid fields, and he’d eat a wrench if Zyin didn’t have an entire fleet stashed away somewhere. He and Ynko had their own crafts hidden across three systems, and Veyuz suspected he himself had buried enough spare parts across various moons to build them more than a few a liners.)

It wasn’t the first ship they’d shared together, either, nor, judging by the growing frequency of things needing fixing, would it be the last. (“You’re butchering my ship, you old mules,” Zyin had signed furiously the other day after Booker had hit a panel too hard and hurled himself into space. Veyuz had snorted and launched into an eager retelling of London ‘20 while Nils patted Booker’s shoulder until the blue receded from his skin. Ynko had just watched, the smile tugging at his lips turning into a laugh when Zyin firmly declared them all insane and waltzed back off to the cockpit.)

But, still, he held onto it all the same.

(Things grew precious with time, as people grew sacred; the Scythian was not a port in the Maghreb, or an island in the south, but it was home all the same.)

The steps shook faintly as Ynko sat down next to him, a blanket draped over his shoulder. He raised one arm, cocking his head, and Veyuz shuffled closer, letting him drape the rest over his shoulder. It did little against the drafts of the cabin, and Ynko had to hold onto the ends to keep it draped over both of them. It was as close to perfect as he was sure they could get.

Ynko tucked his chin over Veyuz’s shoulder. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

Veyuz gave the globe in his palm a quick spin. It flickered as it turned, the projection flickering and quivering for a moment, like a hologram in one of those old space movies Nils still loved (wonderfully inventful, but not terribly accurate, she’d been disappointed to learn; Veyuz was just glad he’d never have to meet a Gungan). Ynko reached over, dragging the familiar blue ball to a stop with the tip of his finger. Veyuz traced a path from the tip of Africa across the sea and over Israel. The globe jumped at his touch, the shadow of his hand splitting into a many-headed beast across the seven seas for a moment before he closed his fist. The orb vanished.

Ynko covered his hand with his own and brought it to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to his knuckles. Veyuz smiled and cupped his cheek. “You know,” he said, stroking the curve beneath his husband’s eye, “I was just thinking of that time in Malta.”

He felt Ynko smile against his neck. “Which Malta?” he asked, curving closer to him. “I’ve almost forgotten.”

Veyuz gasped in mock affront. “My own husband!” he accused. Ynko laughed and nudged him lightly in the side. Veyuz pressed a hand to his heart. “I don’t think I will ever recover, my once-heart,” he told him.

Ynko tugged at the blanket, and Veyuz whimpered dramatically as it slipped from his shoulders. “I have something for you,” he said, reaching into the bag at his feet that Veyuz had just noticed.

“Is it a sweater?” he asked pitifully. Ynko straightened, and Veyuz’s eyes widened. “ Ynko ,” he breathed. “Does Nils know you have this?” Ynko laughed.

“I have held on to this for too long for Zyin to throw it out of an airlock, my love.”

Veyuz laughed too. “Right.” He turned the jar around, cradled the glass—real, Earth-blown glass —in his hands. The liquor seemed to shimmer between the dim glow of the lights, the surface rippling with every rumble of the ship. The slender metal fixings seal were dull but smooth beneath his fingers, speaking of millennia of care. “How long?” he asked.

Ynko dragged his lips across Veyuz’s jaw. “Do you remember New Orleans?” he asked.

Veyuz couldn’t resist a grin. “Which New Orleans?” he asked. “I can’t seem to recall.”

“Oh?” Ynko asked drily. “Apt.”

Veyuz laughed. “And moonshine on the moon isn’t?”

“Near a moon,” said Ynko. “Near several moons, actually.”

Veyuz could almost see the fumes twisting out of the jar when he cracked the lid open; they danced like fingers of smoke through lifeless air, curling, serpentine, around steel and sterile lights. His throat burned with the first sip, and his eyes with the second. It seared his skin through his chest, leaving behind lashes of past centuries and dragged to his eyes tears shed in a world long gone. Gunpowder and cigarettes and buildings that had touched the earth, not the sky. Forest firefights and granite quarries and brass bands in alleyways. Air sealed with dust that landed, ghostlike, on glass and wood the way fingers do on the skin of lovers, cars that choked on their own rubber, powder burns that vanished and soot-black stains that stayed. Suits and polished tumblers and dresses that flashed like broken diamonds by the light of imported chandeliers. Dancing with Ynko, Nicky, Nicolò by candlelight and under the moon, wiping blood from his cheek under the stars and sweat from his lips beneath the arch of painted ceilings. Chasing the flames on his lips on stainless grates among their former stars, raising his hands, his lips, and falling to his knees in toast and pledge.

1099. 1926. Two thousand years and a hundred times more lifetimes lost and found, and carried after and in between.

“I love you,” he says and said and says again. His hand takes his, thumb caressing the edges of the same silver ring forged so many centuries ago.

When Nicky comes back from the kitchen with his glass of water, Joe is still fast asleep, sprawled out on their bed. It’s dark in these early hours of the morning, but his body is washed in the warm glow of the lights Nile strung up on their window the day before.

I don’t want to lose a single thread

from the intricate brocade of this happiness.

I want to remember everything.

Which is why I’m lying awake, sleepy

but not sleepy enough to give it up.

Just now, a moment from years ago:

the early morning light, the deft, sweet

gesture of your hand

                         reaching for me.

At the time, Nicky frowned a little, but even Andy let her room undergo the 'Christmas treatment' and so he'd let her be. It’s not that they never celebrate Christmas, and he certainly wasn’t going to hamper Nile’s enthusiasm while she adjusted to living with them, but he didn’t quite see what constant illumination of their room was going to do to help them ‘get in the spirit.’

Now, though. Now the light splays over the muscles of Joe’s back, smooths into a shadow at the dip of his hip bone, directing Nicky’s gaze ever so gently to the curve of his ass, the little happy trail leading into his boxers. Oh, yes. Now, Nicky sees.

He leans against the doorframe and takes a sip of his water, thinking not for the first time how unbearably lucky he got all those years ago. Didn’t feel like it at the time, of course. But it’s rung true every time since, and not just because Joe is, what’s that expression Nile uses? Very easy on the eyes.

Joe makes a little snuffling sound and buries his head deeper into the pillow, the hand splayed out in front of him patting the bed in jerky little movements. And it shouldn’t be this endearing, is the thing, that Joe reaches for Nicky even in his sleep, takes less than five minutes to notice he’s gone. It’s not even new information to Nicky at this point, but he can’t help it. Even if Joe wasn’t the most beautiful man in the universe to him, Nicky would still feel that hopeless pull in moments like this, that warmth and longing coursing through his body that he knows will only go away once he’s snuggled up against Joe again.

He’s been standing in the doorway for too long. Nicky pads over to their bed, careful not to make too much noise, and sets his half-empty glass of water down on the nightstand. Slides back under the covers facing Joe, angling his cold feet away from Joe’s thighs where they’re still tucked up to fit against Nicky’s like they were made for it. The thought still makes him giddy sometimes.  

He should turn around, pull the blanket back up to shield them from the cold, but he can’t quite bring himself to look away from the warm swathes of light on Joe’s body yet. He’s beautiful in everything he wears, but never more so than wearing just this. As if sensing that Nicky is back, Joe reaches for his waist, still clumsy in his sleep. Tries to pull Nicky close once he gets his hand on him, nearly making Nicky topple from where he’s propped his head on his arm.

Nicky stifles a chuckle but it’s too late, Joe’s eyelids are already fluttering open. His hand tightens on Nicky’s hip and he’s blinking up at him with wide eyes.

“Babe, why are you staring at me?” His voice is scratchy with sleep and he looks so disoriented Nicky doesn’t know what to do with all the fondness welling in his chest.

“Babe?”

Joe shrugs with sluggish limbs. “It’s modern.”

“Just right for us, I see,” Nicky says, but he can’t help smiling, couldn’t stop if he wanted to. He wonders sometimes if he’d be half in love already, just at the sight of Joe’s curls if they met in an ordinary life, or if it would take until Joe smiled up at him. It can’t be much more than that, if the way the combination of both makes his throat constrict now.

Joe makes a little keening sound, tilts his head in the way that Nicky knows means he’s angling for a kiss. And who is Nicky to deny this man, well—anything, really.

He leans down to press his lips against Joe’s, the hand that’s not holding him up coming to slide over Joe’s torso, cupping his neck, his jaw. It’s a soft kiss, unhurried in the way kisses can only be when they’re traded early in the morning, without direction, to keep warm. There’s no intent behind it either, or at least there isn’t until Joe’s hand slides under Nicky’s t-shirt, holding him close as he turns onto his back, pulling Nicky on top of him. Doesn’t take much from there for the kiss to deepen, grow sloppy with spit and slack jaws as their lips slide against each other. Nicky pushes his tongue into Joe’s mouth once, twice, just to hear the sound Joe makes low in his throat. Feels his hot fingers dig into his back again, hips pushing against Nicky’s in a needy little roll.

Joe seems definitely interested in something more than kissing happening, but when Nicky pulls back to look at his face, his eyes are closed again, his breaths coming slow for all that they hitch when Nicky grinds down on him. Joe makes a growling sound at the loss of contact, his free hand sliding into Nicky’s hair and trying to pull him back down for more kisses. The warm light from the window has rendered Joe’s features both soft and steeped in shadow, and Nicky is smiling despite himself, he can’t help it.

“What do you want, my love?” He noses Joe’s jaw, and Joe’s hold on him grows firm for a moment, then melts back into a tight embrace.

“Just you,” Joe sighs, but his hips have begun rolling, the hard line of his dick pressing against Nicky’s hipbone over and over. It’s slow, and probably really ineffective, angle-wise, but it’s also seriously doing it for Nicky, is the thing. He presses his mouth to the side of Joe’s neck, just under his ear and presses an open-mouthed kiss there.

“Sorry, I should have specified. How do you want me?”

Joe’s sighs under Nicky’s mouth but only turns his head to nuzzle Nicky’s neck, which is nice but unhelpful.

Nicky kisses his neck again. “I’d ride you but I’m worried you’d fall back asleep while I open myself up for you.”

The sound Joe makes at that is more of a whine, the hand on Nicky’s lower back pulling him closer as he rocks up into his hip. “Nicky,” he growls, his voice deep with both sleep and arousal now, and Nicky can feel something hot pool low in his belly, “you can’t just say that and then not follow through.”

Nicky chuckles, but it sounds more like a breathless huff, even to him. “I’d also let you fuck my thighs, but the rhythm you’re setting is more that of a lullaby.”

“Hayati,” Joe complains, flicking his eyes open to glare at Nicky, but it’s ineffective, because then they’re kissing again, and this time they’re not even close to holding back.

“Much better,” Nicky gasps in between kisses, and he’s not sure if he means the term of endearment or the pick-up in pace, Joe’s tongue meeting his own now, Joe’s hands slowly roaming up and down Nicky’s back, sending shivers all over his body. God, but he loves this man.

“I don’t care how I’ll have you,” Joe pants when they’re both catching their breath, “I just want you. Need you.” He punctuates the last sentence with another roll of his hips, but while they were making out the angle changed, and his dick now slides against Nicky’s, separated only by their pyjama bottoms. Nicky hisses at the contact, the sensation travelling straight up his spine until he can feel it tingling at the bottom of his scalp. “Just want to be close to you. Feel your skin on mine.”

“I think we can do that,” Nicky says, and pushes himself up a little to help Joe where he’s pawing at the hem of his t-shirt. Pulls it over his head and drops it over the side of the bed, then dives back in to kiss Joe, slow and lingering, grinding their hips against each other. It’s a languid rhythm that has him almost mad with want in no time at all, Joe reaching down to push his hands into Nicky’s pants, cup his ass, pull him impossibly closer.  

“Touch me,” Nicky gasps, teeth catching on Joe’s lower lip. Joe does.

It’s a miracle, Nicky thinks, that it can still feel like this, after all these years, like it did the first time. All the words they've spoken, all the blows they’ve come to, all the times they’ve fucked each other senseless since. And every time anew, Nicky yearns for Joe’s touch, craves it, feels like he’ll combust if Joe doesn’t get his hands on him right then, right there.

They both wrestle with their pants, struggling them down their legs before kicking them off at the bottom of the bed, which takes longer than it should, but they can’t stop kissing, can’t stop touching each other now.

Joe has his hand around Nicky’s dick, stroking him with the same languid pace Nicky used to kiss him earlier. Makes a sound low in his throat when Nicky wraps his fingers around Joe's own length, and Nicky wants to drink him in, devour him.

“Sure you don’t want to fuck me?” he asks against Joe’s lips, both of them too uncoordinated by now to kiss properly.

“I would,” Joe says, and his eyes are a sight to behold, blown wide and glistening in the light, “but I don’t think I’d last.” He brings the hand he isn’t using to get Nicky off up to his neck and holds Nicky in place to press their foreheads together. “And you’d be a fool to think I’d let you get up now to get the lube when I’ve got you here, like this. So warm, so close. A feast for my eyes, and hands. Mine to touch and mine alone.”

He twists his wrist on the next upstroke and Nicky moans into his mouth. “Always so—hnngg—verbose. Even half asleep.”

“You love it,” Joe whispers, twisting his wrist again as he picks up the pace, and it’s all Nicky can do to hold on to his shoulder, his own strokes getting frantic.

“I do,” Nicky says, so low he’s surprised Joe even hears it, “love it. Love you. Very much.”

“I love you,” Joe says against his skin, “I love you even when you wake me in the middle of the night, I love you even when you’re being deliberately difficult, but I love you the most like this, making those sounds, and your hands, your h—” He cuts himself off, sucking air through his teeth, and Nicky knows he’s close, grips him a little tighter, speeds up. “Nicky, your hands,” Joe half-whispers, half-shouts and then he’s surging forward, kissing Nicky like he wants to drown himself in him, and comes all over Nicky’s hand.

Nicky hums in the back of his throat, stroking Joe through his come-down. His hand is sticky and slippery now, but he doesn’t care. All he feels is warm, and keyed-up, a coil in him strung so tightly he feels like he might be driven out of his body when Joe nips at his lip one final time. Picks up the pace with his hand and says: “That was so good, hayati, I’m going to fuck you so good later, hard and fast, just how you like it.” Nicky closes his eyes, and Joe kisses both of his cheeks. “Maybe in the shower so the others don’t hear you scream when you come,” and Nicky very nearly does just that when Joe twist his wrist around the head of his dick one final time. Has to muffle himself against Joe’s shoulder as his orgasm rolls over and out of him, riding it out against Joe’s body, his hand, his beautiful mouth on Nicky’s temple.

They lie like that for a while afterwards, just breathing against each other. Nicky can feel Joe’s heartbeat all over, and whenever he blinks his eyes open, he just sees their bodies entwined, awash in the golden glow from the lights in their window. Only when he hears Joe’s breathing even out again, on the verge of sleep himself, can he rouse himself to dig around for a tissue on his nightstand.

Joe makes an unhappy sound immediately, reaching for him, and Nicky rolls his eyes, chuckles, as he gives them both a perfunctory wipe down. Drops the tissues somewhere and lets Joe drape himself across his back, snake his arm around Nicky and hold him tight. Nicky sighs as Joe nuzzles into his neck, threads their fingers together and closes his eyes. He can just about press a kiss to Joe’s knuckles before sleep is already tugging at his eyelids.

He is warm. He is content. He is with the love of his long, long life.