#i wrote something nickyjoe

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

Joe has been waiting in this coffee shop line for no less than ten minutes, but he doesn’t mind because he’s spent that long looking at the man in front of him. The line of those shoulders and the curve of that long neck reminds Joe of someone he can’t place. Still, he’s almost positive that he knows this man. A memory, somewhere, sits in the back of his mind, itchy.

When the man turns, chin to shoulder, and gifts Joe his profile, the sight of a prominent nose is enough.

“Nicolò!”

It’s been years, but Joe would never forget his childhood friend. As neighbors who went to different schools, they were inseparable in the evenings. For summers, they were practically attached at the hip.

Nicky has grown since then, filling out his lean frame. Lanky limbs are now solid mass. And those shoulders. Shoulders that tense up as Joe watches, until Nicky looks like a rubber band pulled too tightly, ready to snap.

Sighing, he half-turns toward Joe, though his gaze remains elsewhere. “Did you want a selfie together? Or an autograph?”

Joe frowns. He’s heard from his mother that Nicky is doing well for himself - she’s seen him on television. But Joe doesn’t watch television. Maybe he’s been afraid to. Maybe he wants the past ten years back, to stand once more under that tree in Nicky’s backyard where they said goodbye, and actually kiss him this time.

Joe said Nicky’s name on reflex. Perhaps he should have let the past live in the past.

“No,” Joe says. “Sorry.”

Joe ducks his head, but he still feels the moment Nicky sets his eyes on him. He hears the soft intake of breath. He watches Nicky’s shoes as those feet twist further until Nicky is entirely facing him.

“Yusuf?”

Joe tries for a smile. “It’s me.” He looks up and finds himself in a blue-green ocean. Nicky’s face does not so much as twitch, but those eyes always give him away. “Hello, Nicky.”

Nicky steps toward him. “Joe, I -”

“It’s okay,” Joe says.

“No, I -”

“You don’t have to -”

A stranger’s voice calls out, from further down the line. “Is that Nicolò di Genova?”

Nicky’s mouth snaps closed. His back straightens.

“It is!” says someone else. In a matter of moments, Nicky is swarmed with fans. He’s patient with them, taking pictures and signing autographs, but Joe can see the tense line of his body and the tightness in his smile.

Ahead of Nicky, the line has dwindled. The cashier calls out for the next customer, but Nicky is buried in fans. Joe steps around the crowd and takes Nicky’s place. He has no idea what Nicky is drinking but he guesses a coffee and orders another for himself.

Drinks in hand, Joe turns to find fresh faces surrounding Nicky, and decides to step in. “Okay! Alright! Thank you all, but Mr. di Genova must be moving on now. He’s on a tight schedule, you know.” He passes the coffee to Nicky, then places his free hand on the small of Nicky’s back. “Please excuse us.” Cutting through the crowd, he leads Nicky toward the exit and around the building toward the back parking lot.

Once they are out of sight, Nicky slumps against the wall. “Thank you.”

“It was my fault for calling you out.” Joe hums. “You must be very famous.”

“You haven’t seen the show?”

Joe doesn’t want to hurt him, but he doesn’t want to lie, either. “No.” Even thinking of Nicky, of what could of been, has been so painful. How could Joe bear to see him? To know how beautiful he’s become? To know all that he’s missing?

“Good,” Nicky says, kicking off the wall. “It’s terrible.”

Startled, Joe laughs.

Nicky looks at him again, and his eyes sparkle in the same mischievous kind of way they used to before he suggested something that always got them both in trouble.

“Joe,” Nicky says. “If I asked you to take a ride with me, would you?”

Joe wonders, even with ten years separating their last day together and today, how Nicky could ever think the answer might be no. “Nicky, I’d follow you anywhere.”

Nicky dips his head, and his lips curl up into a gentle, easy smile. Softly, he says, “I missed you.”

Joe forgets how to breathe.

“Come on.” Nicky walks past him and into the parking lot. Without a word, Joe follows. Ten years wasted. Ten years too long.

Nicky stops at the side of a red Ferrari. Joe finds his breath again just to laugh. For such an unassuming man - even now he wears jeans and a t-shirt - he would have the flashiest car in the lot.

Joe has learned long ago to never place presumptions on Nicolò di Genova.

“You don’t like it?” Nicky asks. He’s still smiling, there’s no hurt in it.

“It’s perfect, Nicky.” Just like you.

Joe opens the passenger side door and slides inside, as Nicky does the same behind the wheel. Nicky turns the key and the Ferrari roars to life. That look of mischief returns to Nicky’s face.

Joe’s heart flip-flops in his chest.

Without another word, Nicky touches the gas pedal and they jolt forward. He veers around the corner, then onto the road, the highway, and out to the country. He drives fast, but danger never registers for Joe. Nicky’s eyes do not  leave the road. His hands stay fixed on the wheel at ten and two.

Only when he drives to the edge of an orchard, on the side of a tall, grassy hill, and stops, does Nicky lower his hands. With the car in park, he turns off the ignition and gets out. Joe follows, walking behind him to the edge of the treeline. They’re fruit-bearing trees, not unlike the one in Nicky’s backyard all those years ago. The one they climbed. And fell from. The one they used as protection for water balloon fights, and home base for games of tag. The one Joe leaned on when he told Nicky his family was moving. The one Nicky hid his face against when Joe walked away for the last time.

“Nicolò.” Joe wants to fix it. They tried to stay in touch for a while. But days turned to weeks turned to months, and before long, Joe’s best friend and secret crush was someone he hadn’t talked to in years. He had no idea how to bridge that gap then.

But now, with Nicky right here.

“Nicky, I -”

In the shadow of a tree, Nicky cups Joe’s face in his hands and kisses him quiet. It’s soft and sweet and world shattering. Joe grabs at Nicky’s wide shoulders and holds on for dear life, else he might fling straight into the sun.

When it’s over, Nicky presses his forehead to Joe’s.

Joe’s hands shake. His breath is uneven.

“Ten years,” Nicky says, closing his eyes. “Every day for ten years, I regretted not doing that.”

One hand still clawing at Nicky’s shoulder, Joe lifts his other to brush the line of Nicky’s jaw and bury his fingertips into the short hairs at the back of Nicky’s neck.

“Yusuf,” Nicky says, a plea in his voice. “I have thought of you so many times. Please. Tell me I was not alone.”

A warmth rushes through Joe’s body, starting from deep in his chest. For a moment he thinks he has never been this happy before in his whole life, but then he realizes he is mistaken. It’s just been ten years.

“We said goodbye ten years ago,” Joe says, “But my heart has never strayed from your side.”

Nicky’s eyes snap open. How can he possibly be surprised?

“Kiss me again, Nicky,” Joe says. “We have ten years to make up for.”

And Nicky wastes no more time.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #joenicky #kaysonova #childhood friends au #famous actor nicky #au #i could perhaps be talked into writing more of this but i'm not sure yet #friends to lovers

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

They’ve formed an uneasy truce, a frayed fragile trust that rests on a knife’s edge. They travel together, bound by this strange undeath that they share, but rarely turn their backs to each other. Even at night, they sleep on opposite sides of their campfire, glaring at each other through the flames. When they fight, they always keep the other in view, just in case.

But, once, after many months of this, they are driven by bandits into an abandoned shack. They heave in breaths, clutching their swords as they slump together against the single door, holding it closed while the enemy pounds on the other side.

Blood splatter covers most of Nicolò’s face, his clothes, his sword. His eyes are wild and he looks like a madman. Yusuf knows he must look the same.

Yusuf tries to crack a smile, to lighten the mood of certain doom that permeates the air as bitingly as the iron scent of blood. “Not sure we’ll get out of this one alive.”

Nicolò casts him a withering look, which makes the joke worth it. Yusuf feels a little crazed in the face of such danger. He wants to laugh. Almost does, until Nicolò says, “They might separate us.”

Yusuf’s body clams up suddenly, like whiplash, entirely rejecting the words. “They can try.” He can’t help his growl.

Nicolò’s face, impossibly, softens.

Outside the bandits pound on the door. Soon, surely, one of them will think to just burn the shack down. This is not the ideal place for a step forward, for budding kindness, for maybe more... yet, they are here just the same.

Yusuf’s heart stirs. Is this man not his longtime enemy? Yet here on the edge, Yusuf would crawl from his own grave with his bare hands to keep them together. “They will not take you from me.”

“You’ll be dead,” Nicolò says, brow pinched like the words pain him. 

“Death will not stop me.” Yusuf clutches Nicolò’s arm, clawing through the blood.

“Yusuf.” Desperation tightens Nicolò’s voice, and Yusuf has never heard his name said so sweetly.

Yusuf drops his head back against the door. The pounding has subsided, and, as he suspected it might, a hint of smoke fills the air.

“Terrible time to fall in love,” Yusuf mutters to himself, but Nicolò must hear, because his bright eyes widen further and snap to Yusuf’s face. But Yusuf  returns the gaze with no embarrassment. Maybe he wanted Nicolò to know, for him to truly understand the lengths Yusuf would go for him. For them.

Nicolò swallows hard. “I will go first and draw their attention to me.” It’s not the exact words, I love you too, but no less a declaration of such.

“You will not,” Yusuf says.

“While they kill me, you must kill them, Yusuf. All of them.”

“You aren’t listening -”

“If they take you, I swear I...” He licks his lips, takes a strong breath. Smoke wisps between the boards of the ceiling. They haven’t much time. “I will find you. I will never stop searching.”

What a foolish man, to think Yusuf will let him fall first. “Nicolò -”

Nicolò dips forward and presses their foreheads together. His eyes close. It is the gentlest touch they have yet shared and steals the air from Yusuf’s lungs.

Too soon, it is gone. Too soon, Nicolò moves away and reaches for the door. Too soon, he throws it open and Yusuf chases after him into danger.

They were strong warriors before, but in always keeping each other in their line of sight, they limited themselves, stretching themselves too thin, expecting betrayal from every angle.

Now, with trust strengthened and love blooming, they only fight outwards, not within. Nicolò turns his back to Yusuf, and Yusuf to Nicolò. They are two swords, one being, and cut through their enemies with a relentless fierceness that only comes from the desperation to protect.

The last enemy falls. Tall flames swallow the shack. A billowing smoke cloud plumes into the air.

Yusuf looks at Nicolò, and Nicolò looks at Yusuf.

They are alive. They are safe.

Everything has changed.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #joe x nicky #joenicky #nicky x joe #kaysonova #violence cw #blood cw #love confessions #historical handwaving #protective!joe #protective!nicky

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

soulmate/modern au

Nicky has a nervousness about him that he’s never been able to explain. He keeps feeling like something’s missing. Like he’s forgotten the name of an important thing and it’s sitting, impatient, at the tip of his tongue. He can’t recall. Or he doesn’t know. It’s all terribly confusing, and so, so frustrating.

He’ll walk down the street, see a family of duckings that makes him smile, and turn to his right to tell... someone. No one’s there.

Sometimes, when he’s tired, he’ll order two coffees at the shop on the corner, making one much sweeter than he likes it. Only when he walks away does he remember he’s alone.

When his friends encourage him, he goes to bars. He meets men, and occasionally he will let them touch his arm or his shoulder or his thigh from the bar stool beside his. Sometimes, he lets them kiss him. Never, is he able to ignore the feeling of wrong that prickles over his skin and twists in his stomach. Always, he leaves without them. If he has their number, he will delete it before he gets home.

Tonight, he cooks at the stove. He doesn’t realize he’s made any mistakes until, holding two plates, he thinks of something Booker said at work and turns, ready to share. There are two chairs at Nicky’s table. Both are empty. Nicky looks at his hands, and cursing, leaves one plate on the counter and takes the other into the living room. He sits on the couch, plate on his lap, and turns up the sound on the tv until he forgets that he’s forgotten.

The next morning, on his way to work, he sees a selection of sketchpads in an art store window. He buys one, and a set of charcoals. He carries the bag proudly until he gets to the office, to the cubicle he shares with Booker, and realizes with a deep sigh and heavy frown that he does not draw.

Booker looks at the bag, then at him. He lifts one lone brow. “You start taking art classes?”

Groaning, Nicky throws the bag under the desk and collapses into the chair. Whatever this is, it’s getting worse. What started as tri-monthly slip-ups are turning into daily routines. “Maybe I should see a doctor,” Nicky says.

“Maybe.” Booker scratches his chin. Behind him, on his computer screen, a game of solitaire is opened over the report he is supposed to be writing. “Or it could just be what it obviously is.”

“Don’t start.”

“Soulmates, Nicky,” Booker says.

Nicky rolls his eyes. “Be serious.”

Booker swivels his chair the whole way toward Nicky and leans forward. “I am serious.” He’s not smirking. That is his serious face.

But soulmates?

“I’d have better odds at the lottery,” Nicky says. He’s seen thousands of soulbonds... in movies. To find one in real life is a one in a billion chance. More, perhaps. Nicky is just a regular guy with a bachelor’s degree in philosophy he doesn’t use, a desk job that he hates, and a caffeine addiction. Normal. Boring. Not near special enough to catch the attention of another person’s soul.

“Maybe you should play the numbers, then.” Booker twists his chair back toward his desk.

“Soulmates,” Nicky huffs. He shucks off his coat and starts his computer. “Ridiculous.”

*

Across town, Joe has purchased two coffees, one much too bitter for him. When he realizes, he’s so excited, he nearly drops them both. He stops on the street, places both coffees on the ledge of a windowsill, and opens his phone.

“Nile,” he says before she even finishes saying, “Hello?”

“It happened again.” Joe can’t stop laughing. “That makes everyday this week!”

“That’s great, Joe.”

“Do you think I’ll meet him soon?” Joe bounces on his feet. “If it’s happening everyday, then surely -”

“Maybe? I mean, who knows? There’s not a lot of concrete info on this stuff,” Nile says. There’s a yawn in her voice. He woke her - again. They go to the same college - Nile for the first time, Joe for the second - but their shared classes aren’t until the afternoon. He feels a little bad about it now. It dampens his spirits somewhat. “Except movies, but who knows if those are right.”

Joe tries to reel in his excitement. “Right. Of course.”

Nile must be able to tell, because she immediately perks, brightening her voice. “But, Joe. If it takes a little time, it will be worth it, right? He’s out there. You just have to find him.”

“Thank you, Nile.” Joe’s smile presses his cheek tightly to his phone. “I am sorry I woke you.”

“Swing by, bring me that coffee, and we’ll call it even.”

“I promise.” Joe hangs up.

He thinks of the groceries that stock his cabinets at home. More pasta than he’s ever needed before.

He thinks of the book of Roman philosophers that he purchased that now sits on his coffee table, waiting.

He smiles at a family of ducklings he sees by a pond, and turns, ready to tell the person beside him. No one is there.

Yet.

“Soulmates,” Joe tells the ducks. “Amazing.”

*

The following day, it’s raining when Nicky leaves the office. He doesn’t have an umbrella, so with a lengthy sigh, he hunches his shoulders and presses forward. The rain is cold on the back of his neck and he shivers. But once you are wet, you can’t be more wet, so there is some comfort in that.

He makes it to the bus stop and sneezes.

“Bless you,” says the man already there, standing beside the soaked bench. He has a blue umbrella open, hiding his face, and another, this one green, closed, tucked under his arm.

“Grazie,” Nicky says and wipes his nose with his sleeve. It’s damp, but so is everything.

The blue umbrella shifts up a little. Nicky looks the other way, down the street, for the bus. Something nudges him in the side. He looks, and it’s the handle of the spare, green umbrella.

“May I tell you a story,” the man offering it says. Nicky looks up into a pair of warm brown eyes and with a wide, welcoming smile. Soft-looking curls cover his head, and a well-groomed beard rounds his face. He’s wearing a leather jacket with a t-shirt underneath. Paint splotches cover both, in a rainbow of colors.

Nicky, stunned by this man’s beauty, can only nod. The man moves the umbrella, poking him again, and Nicky takes it. He doesn’t open it, though, he can’t get his hands to cooperate.

“I saw the weather report this morning,” the man says, voice so bright and happy, it warms Nicky up from the inside out. “And I grabbed two umbrellas before I left the house. Two. I didn’t even think about it until I walked into the studio and my friend noticed.”

He’s looking at Nicky and Nicky should say something. He tries, “That’s interesting.”

The man looks at the umbrella in Nicky’s hands, at the way he’s clutching it and not opening it. He takes a step closer, so that his open blue umbrella covers them both.

This close, Nicky can only see freckles.

“I have a question to ask,” the man says, “and I really hope the answer is yes.”

Nicky swallows hard. He nods.

“Do you like bitter coffee, pasta, and philosophy?”

Nicky’s breath catches in his throat. It cannot be possible, but... if it is. And if it is this man... Nicky’s heart leaps out of his chest with hope.

He clears his throat, he must find words now. “Do you...” Nicky stops and tries again. “Are you an artist, do you like things too sweet, and do you notice the ducklings?”

If Nicky thought this man’s smile was bright before, he was mistaken. For now, it is a beaming sun, pushing back all the gray.

“I love the ducklings,” the man says.

Any moment now, Nicky will awake, having fallen asleep at his desk, and Booker will mock him.

Instead, the voice in Nicky’s heart whispers, This one, and he knows.

The man reaches out a hand and places it on Nicky’s chest. Nicky must look like hell, drenched in rain, but this man stares at him with open reverence like he can see the moon in his eyes.

“Hello, my heart,” the man says. “I have been looking for you.”

Nicky’s having trouble with full sentences again, so he takes a step closer instead.

“My shared soul,” the man continues, speaking for them both now. He knows the words Nicky’s heart whispers. “My light. My warmth.”

He motions to himself, then. “Joe.”

Nicky does the same. “Nicky.”

“Nicky,” Joe repeats, and it takes all Nicky has not to melt into a puddle on the sidewalk, ready to be washed away with the rain.

“Joe,” Nicky says, and it’s sudden relief. The word he could never quite remember right there on the tip of his tongue. He says it again, loving the feel of it in his mouth. “Joe.”

It’s perfect. It’s everything.

Later, Nicky will cook the pasta in Joe’s cabinets, and Joe will sketch Nicky with the charcoal.

For now, Nicky places his hand over Joe’s on his chest and knows he’s home.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #nicky x joe #soulmate au #modern au #artist joe #finding each other :) #two halves of a whole #fluff #this is really only fluff lol #booker is here and so is nile

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

(modern au)

Nicky takes the train to work every morning. He sits in the window seat and stares out at the passing trees and buildings and life outside. He goes to work, he goes home, he goes to sleep. Everyday, the same routine.

He doesn’t smile much anymore. Or talk, except when his bosses ask him questions. He watches the news on low every night and falls asleep on the couch to the sound of late night talk show hosts sharing laughs with their guests.

The view through the train window starts to make him sad, so he brings books to read instead.

One day, he finishes a book of fiction on the way to work, so he stops by the nearby bookstore on his lunch hour to pick up something for the ride home. He stares at the stacked bookcases labeled fiction, unsure where even to begin, when one of the employees directs him toward a different shelf, this one reading local authors. Nicky’s so surprised to be talked to that he follows the employee without question. He decides to buy the first book she puts in his hands.

It’s poetry. He almost puts it back but the title stops him.

Relief for a Lonely Heart by Yusuf al-Kaysani

He buys the book. He reads it, and falls in love.

In the following weeks, he buys all of al-Kaysani’s collection. His copies become well-worn and well-loved. He takes them on the train with him often, whenever he feels sad, and they help. These words, so close to the longing of his own heart, ease his loneliness in a way he never thought possible.

He’s nose deep in his favorite poem one morning, so lost among the pages that he misses when someone speaks to him, until they do so again.

It’s a man across the aisle, leaning over it, pointing. “Do you like that book?” He has soft brown eyes and a head of curls, with a full beard. He’s wearing a suit, sans tie, with the top top buttons open. He’s movie star handsome, and Nicky, though he heard him this time, has to make sure.

“Pardon?”

“That book you are reading,” the man says. “Do you like it?”

“It’s my favorite,” Nicky tells him. It’s different to talk to a stranger, but when lines crinkle beside the man’s eyes when he smiles, Nicky can’t help but be charmed.

“I like it, too,” the man says. “You know he’s a local author?”

“I do.”

“Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?” the man asks.

Nicky lowers the book. “You know Mr. al-Kaysani?”

The man’s smile grows impossible wider. Nicky’s certain they could use that smile to power the train. “Call me Joe.”

“I’m Nicky.”

Joe holds his hand out across the aisle. Nicky reaches and takes it. The handshake is firm. Joe doesn’t let go right away, so Nicky doesn’t either. He can’t remember the last time he’s had eye contact this long.

The thought startles and embarrasses Nicky, so he glances down and withdraws his hand. “You were saying you knew Mr. al-Kaysani?”

“Um,” Joe says. “Yes, that’s true.” He motions to the open seat beside Nicky. “Do you mind if I join you there? I feel very far.”

“Of course,” Nicky says and moves his bag to the floor to give Joe room.

“Thank you.” Joe rises and crosses the aisle. He sits to Nicky’s right, so close their elbows brush on the armrest. Nicky thinks to move, but doesn’t. Joe leans closer, lining their arms from elbow to shoulder. He’s so warm and solid, and this close, Nicky can see the kindness in those eyes and the freckles on his nose.

“Breathtaking,” Joe says, stealing the word straight from Nicky’s thoughts, but he’s looking at Nicky. He means it for Nicky.

Joe clears his throat. “Tell me your favorite poem.”

“Only if you tell me yours after,” Nicky says.

Joe nods. “Of course.”

Nicky still has his thumb in the page. He lifts the book and shows Joe. It’s a melancholy poem that compares loneliness to sitting on the side of the road, watching the cars go by. You can see the people but they move too fast. If they see you, they are gone before they can speak. It’s a poem that whispers to Nicky’s very bones, though admittedly less so, since Joe sat beside him.

“This is your favorite?” Joe says. “Not one of his love poems?”

“The love poems are wonderful,” Nicky tells him, “But...” He doesn’t know how much to share with this stranger, not wanting to offend him.

“Go on,” Joe says. “I’m so curious to know your thoughts.”

“They don’t feel as genuine,” Nicky says. “I believe Mr. al-Kaysani loves the idea of love, but I’m unsure if... Well. Or perhaps the fault lies with me.”

His elbow still on the armrest, Joe lifts his hand and drops his chin into his palm. He’s even closer now, watching Nicky with a curious expression. He doesn’t seem offended, more intrigued, and the look gives Nicky the courage to continue.

“I’ve never been in love. Not really. I thought I was at the time, of course, but... in hindsight.” Nicky shakes his head. “No, the poems of loss and longing, they feel more real. The love poems are told from a distance. These here...” Nicky points to the poem on the next page, the one that longs for a home that either no longer exists or never existed. “These strike the soul.”

Joe’s smile is soft. His eyes are warm and welcoming.

“It’s your turn,” Nicky says with a shy smile of his own.

“Ah.” Joe lifts his head from his hand and lets his hand drop. He straightens against the seat, and Nicky instantly regrets the distance he’s placed between them.

“Joe, you don’t have to -”

“My favorite is the one I’m writing right now,” Joe says.

Nicky snaps his mouth closed.

“Your eyes are a most unusual color. Difficult to put into words,” Joe says. He taps a finger to his cheek, just above the edge of his beard. “I wonder if I’ll struggle forever.”

“You...”

“Forgive me for not telling you,” Joe tilts his head down, and looks up at Nicky through his eyelashes. Nicky knows he would forgive this man anything, with that look. “I was about to, but then... Well, it was so refreshing to know what you think.”

Oh, God. Mortification rushes through Nicky’s blood hot and fast. “Joe, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No, no.” Joe places his hand on Nicky’s arm on the armrest, just above his elbow. “Don’t misunderstand. You are right.” He looks away a moment. “My publishers insist I write the love poems. They sell. I do love love, as you said, but you are also correct that I... I have struggled to find the other half of my heart.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says, though he’s no longer sure what he’s apologizing for.

“Nicky.” Joe glances back to him, and Nicky couldn’t look away if the train derailed. It already did, for all he knows. “You see the longing.”

“I share it,” Nicky says.

Joe nods. “What if... That is... Perhaps...”

Nicky surprises himself, with a small laugh.

Joe’s eyes widen. His mouth falls open. Nicky would be embarrassed but Joe’s expression is one of wonderment, not humor. Nicky wants to give him more.

“You are a master wordsmith, Yusuf al-Kaysani,” Nicky says, amazed by his own boldness. He has been alone for far too long. With Joe, he feels as if he is finding himself again. “What could possibly have rendered you speechless?”

“You,” Joe says.

Warmth takes root in Nicky’s heart and blossoms outwards until he is nearly set ablaze.

“Have dinner with me,” Joe says.

“Yes.” Nicky lowers his hand to find and connect with Joe’s. “No more lonely poems.”

Joe smiles wide. “The next love poem I write will be genuine,” he says, “Because, Nicky, it will be for you.”

A year later, Joe gifts Nicky an entire book of poems. Nicky, in return, gifts Joe a ring.

“A lifetime of poetry,” Joe offers.

Nicky kisses him and corrects, “A lifetime of love.”

“My heart,” Joe laughs against Nicky’s cheek. “Ever since I met you, those have been one and the same.”

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #modern au #poet joe #lonely nicky #happy ending #meet cute #getting together #fan nicky #i guess?? #a lack of actual poetry #i could write you a world of prose but lol no one wants to see me write poetry pls

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

"fuck you" and one of them replying "fuck me yourself you coward"

They’ve only been traveling together a dozen years or so, barely any time at all, and Yusuf is still fairly confident that he hates this man beside him.

Andromache, when she finds them, insists that they are no longer enemies. That they are now as good as family. But she hasn’t known Nicolo as long as Yusuf. She couldn’t possibly understand how insufferable he is. How he carries himself all holier-than-thou, standing tall, chin raised, with his hand loosely draped over the hilt of his sword. How he speaks in clipped, measured sentences even when Yusuf attempts to engage with him in his native tongue. And how he stares, won’t stop staring even after Yusuf catches him.

Andromache leaves them, but only after making them each promise aloud, “I will not kill him.”

Shortly after she is gone, they are accosted by bandits on the road.

Yusuf stands at Nicolo’s back. He may hate this man but he has resolved that he will never abandon or betray him. Together, moving as if of one arm, one body, they cut down their enemies.

As they stand among the corpses, heaving from the strain of the fight, they glance at each other. A moment passes. Yusuf looks away, looks back. Nicolo continues to stare.

He hasn’t lowered his sword.

“Do you wish to fight me, Nicolo?”

“Do you?” Nicolo says.

Yusuf hasn’t lowered his scimitar, either. “You first.”

Nicolo narrows his eyes. For a moment he stands still as a statue, and Yusuf thinks he might have to kill him again, despite his promise to Andromache. But then, slowly, he lowers his longsword.

A flash of black and a blade appears behind Nicolo. Had he not downed them all? Had he not checked?

Yusuf cannot think. His body moves on its own, driven by an impulse he didn’t know he had. Protect Nicolo. Always protect Nicolo.

He lifts his scimitar, pouncing forward. Nicolo makes a gasp of alarm and raises his sword.

It stabs straight through Yusuf’s chest. But Yusuf lets it. Only this way can he reach behind Nicolo in time. Swinging around him, he removes the attacker’s head from his shoulders.

Nicolo’s eyes are on him again, wide with worry. They are the last thing Yusuf sees as he coughs blood and slumps forward.

Nicolo catches him and he dies.

When he wakes again, he is sitting upright against a tree. Nicolo kneels beside him. His hand is warm on the side of Yusuf’s face though his gaze is elsewhere.

“I apologize,” Nicolo says. “I should have...” A breath. “I reacted poorly.”

“You killed me.”

“Yes.” Nicolo is looking at the dirt, and Yusuf hates that. How often he gives eye contact, except now, when delivering an apology.

Yusuf bats his hand away. He’s irrationally angry, ready to punch Nicolo straight in the face, but it takes him a few breaths to fully understand why. It’s not that Nicolo killed him. He jumped first. It was an accident of misguided self-defense.

“You did not check that they were dead.”

Nicolo blinks. “What?”

“Those bandits. If you had checked.” Yusuf shoves himself to his feet. Irritation floods out of him. “How easily you could have been killed for such a stupid mistake!”

Nicolo pushes himself to his feet. For the first time, the priestly veneer over his face cracks. He’s not so high-and-mighty with a crumpled brow and a deep frown.

“How you managed to survive for as long as you have is a mystery!” Yusuf continues, unable to stop himself now. Flashes of Nicolo being killed are behind his eyelids. He tries to keep his eyes open instead, but they sting. “You are like a newborn with a blade!”

“Since when,” Nicolo says - more measured words that infuriate Yusuf so much he must step away, only to immediately return, “do you care about my well being?”

The words scratch over Yusuf’s skin, prickling all his nerves. He lifts a finger, points it right at Nicolo’s chest. “Oh, fuck you.” Did he not just die for this man? Did he not -

“Fuck me yourself, you coward.”

Yusuf’s thoughts scramble to a halt. He’s still holding his finger up, still pointing. Slowly, he lowers it. “What did you say?”

Nicolo is a tower of righteous fury. It burns in his eyes and his voice as he says again, a pause between each word, “Fuck. Me. Yourself.”

What he feels for this man is not hate, Yusuf realizes, as suddenly and fully as if he has been struck by lightning where he stands. Maybe he has. Something sparks between them, flickering dangerously even as Nicolo’s frown softens and his fiery gaze lowers to Yusuf’s mouth.

Yusuf shoves Nicolo up against the tree and presses their lips together. Nicolo’s fingers bury into his hair. He’s holding Yusuf trapped, lips to lips. Yusuf is a willing prisoner and licks into Nicolo’s mouth.

Their movements are a blur. Gasps and cries born in pleasure are swallowed by the trees. They move together, bodies forming one, and Yusuf knows, it’s not hate. Not at all. In fact, it might be love.

They fall to the ground, a heap of limbs and sweat. Their fire burns hot and swallows them both.

Only later - much, much later - when they are too tired to continue, they place their foreheads together and breathe. Their kisses now are soft, less for urgency and lust, and more for comfort. For hope. Like making a promise that might one day, so easily, bring love.

“That was not how I envisioned this,” Nicolo admits under the blanket of darkness.

“You envisioned this?”

Nicolo presses his lips to Yusuf’s ear. “Many, many times.”

Yusuf has to laugh. If only he had known the thoughts behind those bright eyes, each time they stared at him.

“And you?” Nicolo asks.

Yusuf finds Nicolo’s hand and links their fingers together. “I did not understand then,” he says. “But I promise to start envisioning now.”

Nicolo smiles against his ear, and Yusuf turns to kiss him.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #nickyjoe #joenicky #a touch spicy but fades to black #anger leads to making out #early relationship #like WAY EARLY #thank you for the prompt anon i hope you like #temporary character death cw #fighting #soft ending #enemies to lovers

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

At the sound of a laugh – boisterous and jovial – Nicky’s fingers still on the keyboard. A hundred n’s cross his screen before he notices he’s still holding down the key. He curses softly, careful to be quiet even in his self-anger.

The laughter continues, undisturbed.

Nicky lifts his hands from the keyboard and places them on the edge of his desk. Slowly, carefully, he presses back in his chair. The wheels nudge precious inches, enough, just enough, to see around the wall of cubicle.

The water cooler stands as a social oasis at the edge of the hallway between the administration people in cubicles and the ‘talent’ in the set of offices beyond. Beside it, Joe leans against the wall, paper cup in hand, smile wide as the last throes of laughter shake through him.

He’s as tall as Nicky, not as broad but more muscled, yet he curls up like a child when he laughs, shoulders shrinking inwards. He hides his smile behind the cup before he downs the water inside.

“It was a pleasure,” he says to whoever he’s talking to. Nicky’s heart flutters in his chest. Someday, maybe, Joe will say those words to him. “As always.”

Foolish, Nicky condemns himself, to be daydreaming about a co-worker when there is a sea of n’s to be deleted. A co-worker he’s spoken to exactly once, when Joe was coming out of the bathroom and Nicky was going in. Joe held open the door for him.

“Grazie,” Nicky said.

“Prego.” Eyes glued to his phone, Joe didn’t even look up.

Nicky holds down ‘backspace’ and deletes all the n’s, even the one he needs, and a few letters besides. He curses again, louder, as Joe’s voice disappears toward the offices.

*

The copier, Nicky decides as he tugs at the spreadsheet that juts half-in half-out of the output tray, deserves its own special circle in hell. When he pulls too hard and rips his spreadsheet in two, he’s about to send it there himself.

He subdues his anger only by the constant awareness of the opened door beside the copier, and the office beyond. Of Joe, sitting at his desk, back to the hallway, looking between three different monitors. He’s entirely engrossed, and good at what he does. The star of the agency, Joe has designed and sold more advertisements than the rest of talent pool combined. Nicky knows; crunching the numbers is his job.

Yet with that big office comes pressure, personified no doubt, by their boss, Steven Merrick, who, despite his short and slim stature, walks with the unearned towering confidence of a man born with everything.

He points at Nicky. “Break that copier, and it’s out of your pay.”

“Yes, Mr. Merrick,” Nicky replies, but Merrick has already moved on, into Joe’s office.

“Where are we on the Pharmaceutical ad?” Merrick asks from inside, in the same sharp tone.

“Getting closer –”

“That’s not good enough.”

Nicky tries not to listen. He lifts the lid of the tray and sees the other half of his report buried beneath the rollers. He won’t be able to reach it with his fingers. Fortunately he brought a pencil.

“The timeline gives me another week,” Joe says.

“The timeline? Do you hear yourself?”

The pencil is long enough to tap the edge of the paper, but Nicky’s only succeeding in jabbing it in further. He has half a mind to leave it there – Merrick would have to actually learn his name to find his paycheck - but he’d hate for this to be left for the next person.

“Is that all we strive for here? Mediocrity?” Merrick’s voice lifts, shrill near the end. “Don’t we strive for excellence, Mr. al-Kaysani? Don’t we want to be better than average?”

“It was an agreed upon date.” Joe’s voice is smaller than Nicky’s ever heard it, barely a shadow of the booming happiness at the water cooler. Nicky’s nerves itch. He brings the pencil out too fast. It catches in the rollers and snaps. The eraser end clinks and clatters down into the bowels of the machine.

“We dazzle our clients here,” Merrick says. “We don’t just meet their expectations, we exceed them. I would have hoped you learned that by now.”

When Joe speaks again, it is a defeated whisper that Nicky strains to hear. “Yes, sir.”

Merrick appears in the hallway again. He doesn’t so much as glance at Nicky as he struts down the hall toward the executive elevator. His office is on the floor above.

Nicky scribbles ‘out of order’ on the back of his shredded spreadsheet with his broken pencil and sticks it on top of the copier.

In his office, Joe holds his face in his hands. Elbows on his knees, he’s slumped forward on the chair. With the blinds drawn, it’s far too dark in the room.

Nicky should mind his own business. He should go back to his cubicle and call the copier technician. And he will. He will.

After.

He steps into Joe’s doorway. “He’s posturing.”

“What?” Joe looks through his fingers before lowering his hands. The bags beneath his eyes catch shadows.

“He’s intimidated by your success,” Nicky says. “He knows you are better than him. Better than this place.” He waves his hand toward the door, toward the damn copier that juts out, taunting him even from here. “He’s trying to keep you down so you won’t want to leave.”

Joe leans back in his chair. The light from the hallway catches his face, brightening it, and while he’s not the sunshine from the water cooler, he’s no longer the pit of despair. “You think so?”

At Nicky’s nod, Joe starts to smile. It’s a soft, fragile thing that has Nicky’s heart swelling, too big for his chest.

Nicky turns toward the door.

“Grazie, Nicky,” Joe says behind him.

Nicky pauses.

“Prego.”

Nicky walks past the copier, past the water cooler, and into his cubicle. He sits down, stares at the blank computer screen, and wonders, when did Joe learn his name?

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #hey how about an office au lol idk man #au #advertising agency au #merrick cw #no powers au #let me know if i should write more or just let this one go lol

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

They’ve had countless mornings like this. Nicky, leaning in the door frame, both hands curled around his coffee mug, watching the love of his life stretched out on his stomach on the bed. Joe’s rolled entirely onto Nicky’s side, nose buried in Nicky’s pillow.

The gentle breeze pushes against the soft linen curtains at the window above the bed, enough for beams of dawn light to flicker over the wide, strong plains of Joe’s naked body.

Nicky loves these mornings, these moments, when he can watch his husband and allow all the love he fills for this man to overflow through him without worry of darkened corners or dangerous shadows. For now, for a time, nothing exists beyond this room. Only them. Only their love.

Joe turns his head enough to reveal his smile. His eyes stay closed as he mumbles, dream-soaked, “I can feel your eyes on me.”

“Mmm.” Nicky is 800 years past denying these things.

“I think, perhaps,” Joe says, sinking back into the pillow, “that you should place your hands on me, too.”

“In a moment, my love.” Nicky waits, not for any lack of desire, his hands never tire of holding his beloved. No, he waits because...

Joe begins to softly snore.

Nicky glances at the clock on the nightstand. Joe will be more awake in five to ten minutes. Enough time for Nicky to finish his coffee. Never enough for his eyes to take their fill.

In six minutes, Joe reaches for him. Nicky places his empty mug on the nightstand, hiding the numbers. Time doesn’t matter in this place. Not today. Not now.

He falls into Joe’s waiting arms and surrenders to the warmth of the morning sun through the curtains and the rainfall of Joe’s kisses.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #i was in a mood for softness so here we are

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

Joe is a movie star, and Nicky is his longtime non-famous husband.

Presently, Nicky’s on the red carpet following along behind Joe, watching Joe do some interviews and solo shots for the cameras. Joe keeps looking back like he’s making sure Nicky’s still there, though Nicky knows it’s more a call for comfort. So he gives their secret smile each time, and hopes he reassures.

While Nicky mostly blends into the background, sometimes he is recognized and pulled aside for a question from some celebrity gossip reporter, usually something invasive that he will pretend he can’t hear or understand.

This time, the reporter asks him, “Do you ever get jealous watching your husband kiss all these gorgeous actors on screen?”

Caught off guard, Nicky can’t stop himself from laughing.

He thinks back to all the hours upon hours he has practiced lines with Joe. Each romantic word in the script is first promised to Nicky one hundred times over. Each kiss is practiced too, often more than needed.

He thinks of all the phone calls, when Joe has sat alone in his trailer and complained, “Would it be rude of me to offer them a mint?”

Sometimes, early on, Joe had felt as if he needed to placate Nicky, and tell him things like, “I wish it was you.”

Nicky told him, “If it was us, my heart, they would not be able to show it in these kind of theaters.”

Joe laughed.

Nicky had always trusted Joe. Eventually Joe came to realize it.

And now, standing on the red carpet, watching Joe give the cameras his “showtime” smile and not the one he keeps for Nicky, Nicky leans toward the reporter’s microphone and says, decidedly, “No.”

The reporter slumps, clearly having wanted more.

Nicky shrugs. “Spiacente.”

Joe finds him not longer after. He holds out a hand which Nicky eagerly takes. Their fingers lace together.

“Everything alright?” Joe asks.

“They want me to be jealous.”

Joe looks back at him, and there - on his lips, bright as the sun, is the smile he gives only to Nicky.

“Are you?” Joe already knows the answer. He just wants to hear Nicky say it.

Nicky’s more than happy to oblige him. He tugs Joe, bringing him closer. Lips to Joe’s ear, because this is for him alone and no other, Nicky says, “Why would I be jealous? You are mine and I am yours.”

Joe’s smile outshines the camera flashes as he lifts Nicky’s hand and presses it to his mouth. “I am yours,” he says to Nicky’s skin.

The next day, it’s a photo of that moment that makes the top of the gossip sites. The comments are full of key smashes and crying emotes.

True love, someone writes.

Nicky knows, true love is not enough. It’s that, and it’s more.

It’s everything.

“What are you smiling at?” Joe asks from the bed. He has a book open in his lap but he’s watching Nicky.

Nicky closes the laptop and places it aside. He crosses the room and kisses his husband full on the mouth.

“I am happy,” Nicky tells him, when they break. Their foreheads rest together. Joe cups Nicky’s cheek with his palm.

Mischief alights in Joe’s dark eyes. “Not jealous?”

Nicky rolls his eyes and tries to kiss him silent.

Instead, Joe grips him by the shoulder and pulls him onto the bed. He shoves him to the mattress and hovers over him, lips close but not touching, even when Nicky lifts his head to chase them.

“I pity them,” Joe says, voice breathy and low. “If they knew how much I loved you, they would be jealous for eternity.”

“Joe.”

“They turn their cameras toward me, but it is you they should hope to capture. If they could know the depths of your kindness. If they could see the devastation of your beauty.”

“You are impossible,” Nicky says, though he burns with the warmth of Joe’s words.

“They will never know you as I do,” Joe says, setting fires in Nicky’s heart. “For that, I pity them and their ignorance. But not near as much as I cherish the knowledge.”

Nicky licks his lips and then Joe is there to claim them.

“I am yours,” Nicky says.

Joe tells him, “We are one.”

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #joenicky #nickyjoe #au #movie star joe #non famous nicky #hey look who learned the italian word for sorry ;) #i would put a jealousy tag here but its kind of the opposite of jealousy lol #nickys like lol no #although there maybe is a touch of #possessiveness cw #but like.... in a not bad kind of way? #like mutual consensual possessiveness

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

(blind date au)

Nicky is fifteen minutes late. His own fault, he spent twenty minutes sitting in his car in the parking lot, thinking he should just go home and forget this whole thing. As the seconds ticked by, he became more and more certain. He’d be doing himself a favor, he reasoned, before the guilt set in.

His date was in there, and Nicky was the jerk making him wait. So he pulled himself together, left the safety of his car, and walked through the door of the restaurant.

Now, after a quick scan of checkerboard tablecloths and neon beer signs, Nicky spots only one table with a single occupant. Nicky sees a head full of curls and wide shoulders. The guy’s face is hidden behind his phone, and renewed self-hatred flares as Nicky storms across the room and takes the open seat.

“I deeply apologize,” Nicky says, head bowed. He tries to think of a lie for his lateness, but it sticks in the back of his throat. He’s already running late, now he’s going to lie, too? Doesn’t this guy deserve something? “I wasn’t sure if... I...”

The guy lowers his phone. Nicky looks up. And the world goes still.

Nicky has seen attractive guys before, sure, but not like this. This guy has kind eyes and a warm, growing smile. He has a full beard, well-groomed and attractive, and those curls are even fluffier and curlier up close.

Nicky’s entirely blindsided. It’s like staring into the sun.

“I’m Nicky,” he says, and at this point, even remembering his own name feels like a victory.

That smile is wide and easy, and so comfortable on his perfect face. “I’m Joe.”

Joe? Okay, that’s not the name he was given. But Keane sounds like a last name anyway.

“Joe,” Nicky says, trying out the name. He likes it, it’s round and warm.

Joe leans forward, forearm across the edge of the table near a plate of half-eaten salad.

“I’m so sorry,” Nicky starts again, guilt renewed. Joe’s already started eating.

“Don’t.” Joe waves away the apology. “I am always pleased to have company.”

Nicky wants to say, Yes, but that company shouldn’t be so late, but Joe continues before he can.

“You should order something,” Joe says, and tries flagging down their waiter.

Nicky orders a chicken salad and Joe politely doesn’t finish his until after Nicky’s arrives. They talk about everything. Joe asks him questions. “Where do you work?” strikes Nicky as strange. After all, Keane is friends with Nicky’s weaselly co-worker Merrick, who arranged this whole thing. It seems odd Joe wouldn’t know. Although, Merrick is a slime most of the time, so possibly he gave Joe as little info about Nicky as he gave Nicky about Joe.

So Nicky asks, “How do you know Merrick?”

Joe blinks once, twice. He tilts his head a little and asks, “Who?”

“Stephen Merrick?” Nicky tries. Maybe Merrick never gave his last name to Joe? But Joe’s brows pull together, only looking more confused.

“You’re not Keane,” Nicky says to Joe.

Joe shakes his head, no.

“I’m terribly sorry, Joe,” Nicky says, voice as tight as his shoulders and his arms and his hands forming fists in his lap. “I thought you were my date.”

He looks around the restaurant, but there are no other single dinners. Perhaps after fifteen minutes, his date decided to leave. Nicky’s going to hear all about it from Merrick on Monday, he’s sure.

Nicky ducks his head. “Let me pay for my half of the bill and I’ll get going.”

“Get... going?”

“I’m sorry.” Nicky retrieves his wallet from his back pocket. “I’m sorry that I ruined your evening.”

“Ruined?”

“I can’t imagine...” Nicky’s mortified. “You were just sitting here and I imposed myself and -”

“Nicky, please. Look at me.”

Nicky pauses. He looks up and into Joe’s soft gaze.

“An angel sat at my table when I expected to spend another evening alone,” Joe says, and his smile returns with full wattage. “He is handsome and charming, and if I let him walk out of my life without asking for a second date, I will never forgive myself.”

“Joe...?”

“I want to see you again.” Joe lays his hand flat, palm up, at the center of the table, between the garlic bread and the salt and pepper shakers. “Would you be interested?”

“But we... Are you sure?”

Joe nods.

Nicky feels light all over as he places his hand in Joe’s, as Joe’s touch whispers across his skin.

“Okay?” Joe asks.

“Okay,” Nicky tells him.

On Monday, Merrick laughs at him. He wants to know all the details about how long Nicky waited for Keane to never arrive. It had been a joke the whole time.

Nicky doesn’t tell him about Joe. He lets Merrick have his joke. When he gets home, he quietly applies to different jobs.

Later, after Nicky’s moved on with his job and in with Joe - when people ask them how they met, Joe tells them, “It was the best blind date I didn’t know I was on.”

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #modern au #blind date au #i got rid of the drama so its all fluff now #i feel better about it #fluff #merrick is a jerk mentioned cw #keane also mentioned not present

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

They had split just a year ago to the day, for the first time since destiny had tied them together on the battlefield. On this same dock, Yusuf had taken Nicolò’s hand, sparking the embers of this new thing between them, and promised, “I will return.”

I could go with you, Nicolò had wanted to say, but struggled with voicing his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to burden Yusuf with his growing infatuation. And too often, the words he meant to say came out twisted, misunderstood in Yusuf’s language or his own. Instead, he’d learned to embrace silence.

So Nicolò had stood as a statue on the dock and watched his friend, his companion, his secret love sail away.

Now, Nicolò waited on the same dock, expecting Yusuf’s return. He worried his hands together, nerves on a static edge, watching ship after ship pull into the harbor and not one bearing Yusuf.

As the morning drew to afternoon to evening, his pacing wore a groove in the wooden boards. Nearby sailors called him Watchman, and laughed as he circled round again, for the thousandth time. Some offered food, which Nicolò refused. When Yusuf arrived, he would no doubt be hungry. Nicolò had supplies at his rented house for a feast to share. He would not waste his appetite. If he had one.

No. Food, he refused. With the way his stomach tumbled, he doubted he could keep it down anyway.

Next, they offered alcohol. They meant to calm him, and Nicolò thanked them for it. But, no. He needed his wits. If Yusuf did not arrive… If Nicolò was alone… Then, perhaps… But, no. Yusuf was coming. He had promised. Nicolò would not muddle their reunion with drink.

He met the edge of the dock and turned once more. A new ship was pulling into harbor, a fishing boat with discolored, patched sails. The men aboard each had thick beards and wild hair, but Nicolò spotted Yusuf easily. Beard or no beard. Hair in curls or shorn short. Nicolò would know the shape of his love from any distance. Wide shoulders. Easy smile. Kind eyes.

Nicolò moved without knowing it, legs bringing him to the end of the lowered gangplank. He earned sideways looks from a few older fishermen as they departed. But then Yusuf was there. Yusuf was stepping onto the gangplank and the dock. Those kind eyes found Nicolò, and Nicolò was whole again.

But then, the easy smile Yusuf held for the fishermen slipped from his handsome face. He stared at Nicolò, searching. Nicolò had shaven that morning, in anticipation, and cut his hair. He wanted to look much the same as when Yusuf left. He hadn’t wanted Yusuf to know how wretched he was without him. How for months, he had let his hair and beard grow. The days between baths had stretched long. He had still eaten fine. Still fought as they always had, traveling long roads and protecting innocents. Each night, he had stared at the stars and thought of Yusuf.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said, in a dull uncaring tone that he had not used even in the very beginning when they were still turning their swords onto each other.

“Yusuf.” Yet as Nicolò’s heart sank from Yusuf’s coldness, he could not keep the tiny smile from his own lips. Here was his love again, before him. After a year of solitude, Yusuf was once again at his side.

Yusuf’s attention snapped to Nicolò’s lips, no doubt seeing that smile, that joy. His brows lifted and his lips parted as if for a breath.

Words, Nicolò reminded himself. Before Yusuf left, Nicolò had embraced silence. Since his absence, he had learned to hate it.

“I have missed you,” Nicolò said, in Yusuf’s native language. He had been practicing, when he could.

Yusuf’s eyes widened, as if the words surprised him. “You have?” he asked back, in Nicolò’s language.

Nicolò thought he might have made an error, so he said again, in his own language this time, “I have missed you, Yusuf.”

Yusuf looked no less flabbergasted.

Nicolò’s nerves, ebbed in the moment of their reunion, returned tenfold now in Yusuf’s lingering silence. They itched like spiders crawling under is skin, and he wanted to scratch and scream and jump into the harbor – whatever would get Yusuf to tell him what was so shocking about his affection.

“Is that,” Nicolò swallowed, “unwelcomed?”

Finally, blessedly, Yusuf’s face relaxed. His eyes were still guarded, his mouth a tight line, but no longer a frown.

“Nicolò. Before I left, you had not spoken more than my name for six months.”

Nicolò’s lips pulled downward.

“You must admit that the air between was not… comfortable,” Yusuf said.

Nicolò’s heart dropped down into the dark, damp pit of his stomach. “I… made you uncomfortable?”

“You must have felt it too.”

Nicolò lowered his gaze to his boots. He’d cleaned away the dust and dirt of his travels before coming to the docks. They shined now, in the setting sun, a stark contrast to the weather-worn wooden beams of the dock. He should have left them dirty. He should not have come today at all.

“Nicolò?” Yusuf asked, inching closer. Yusuf’s boots were layered with sea-salt. “Have I said something wrong?”

Nicolò shook his head. “I am sorry that I make you uncomfortable.”

“No. I must be saying it wrong,” Yusuf said, speaking quicker now. “I meant in the past. Not now. I am comfortable now.”

No, Yusuf didn’t understand. Nicolò, still avoiding Yusuf’s eyes, tried in his language. “I will make you uncomfortable again.”

“But you are speaking to me now,” Yusuf said, again in Nicolò’s language.

Nicolò was going to have to say it, to get Yusuf to truly comprehend. “Yusuf.”

“If we keep talking,” Yusuf went on, “then I don’t see why we would –”

“I still love you,” Nicolò interrupted him. He lifted his gaze to Yusuf’s once more, in time to see him stunned into silence. His eyes widened again. His brows nearly touched his hairline. “As before. That hasn’t changed.” Nicolò waited, but Yusuf only stared. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, with no sound coming out. “So I will make you uncomfortable again.”

Yusuf blinked once, twice. “You love me?”

In Yusuf’s language, Nicolò said again, “I love you.”

Yusuf’s brow lowered. His eyes softened, impossibly fond, and sparkling in the nearing twilight. He looked at Nicolò like a precious thing. Then, he laughed, not unkindly, and Nicolò missed the sound so much, he gasped.

“Nicolò.” Yusuf stepped closer. He reached and placed his hand at the corner of Nicolò’s jawline, finger and thumb on Nicolò’s cheek and the rest warm on his neck. “My Nicolò.”

Nicolò’s heart returned to life, soaring high with the overhead birds heading out to sea. “Yusuf?” Did this mean…? Could Nicolò’s feelings not be so one-sided after all?

Yusuf leaned forward, light and promise in his gaze. “Nicolò, I…” He stopped himself, looking past Nicolò, over his left shoulder.

Nicolò looked too.

They had gained an audience of fishermen and sailors. Many, smiling. A few, cheering. Most, drinking.

“I have a house,” Nicolò said, voice low, for Yusuf alone.

Yusuf brushed his thumb along Nicolò’s cheekbone. “Take me there.”

Nicolò took Yusuf by the hand and led him from the docks. They walked along the streets of the city as night set in and the moon rose high.

Behind the closed door of Nicolò’s rented house, Yusuf pushed Nicolò against the wall, combed his fingers through Nicolò’s hair, and said, “I love you.” Then he claimed Nicolò’s lips. He’d already claimed his heart long ago.

He smelled of fish and the sea. His clothes were damp with ocean spray. His lips were chapped from the sun.

But he was perfect, and lovely, and for the first time since they parted, Nicolò was home again.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #misunderstandings cw #reunion #first kiss #love confession

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

(modern au)

Joe sees him across the room. Through the flickering lights and beyond the haze of the fog machine. Past the swaying, sweaty bodies on the dance floor.

Tall and thin, with wide shoulders. He’s sitting in a corner booth, elbow on the table beside an open book. Chin in his hand, he’s looking down - reading.

He’s at a dance club. It’s crowded, near midnight, and he’s reading.

Joe is half in love with him already.

So Joe crosses the room, weaving through dancers. He holds his glass of water high, not wanting to spill it.

A few dancers try to stop him, a touch to his shoulder here, or a tap to his hip there, but he just smiles, shrugs off their hands and keeps walking. He likes to dance, doesn’t mind the attention, but tonight, he’d much rather talk to the most interesting man in the room.

The most beautiful, too, Joe realizes, as he draws closer. Joe takes a drink of his water, to quench some of that rising thirst.

When he reaches the booth, he throws on his most confident smile, leans against the back of the bench, and says, “Do you come here often?”

The guy doesn’t even look up.

It’s only a slight gut punch. After all, it is loud, and maybe the book is good. Joe glances, and notices the words are in Italian.

He has to take another drink of water.

New plan, he decides, and leans on the table instead. He places his hand very near the edge of the book.

The guy sees it. He traces the arm up to Joe’s face.

Even with the shadows in the booth and the flashing lights of the club, those eyes are pale, and so expressive, as he looks at Joe with a mix of curiosity and irritation.

Joe supposes a guy who brings a book to a club probably doesn’t want to be interrupted. But he’s already come this far. Might as well strike out fully.

Clearing his throat, Joe tries again, louder. “Vieni qui spesso?” He tries to keep the confident smile, but it gets harder to hold the longer the guy keeps looking at him. Joe hasn’t spoken Italian in a while but he’s sure that he -

The guy narrows his gaze. He shakes his head. He opens his mouth and says something that is entirely swallowed in the music.

“What?” Joe says.

“No!” the guy says, louder. Joe can just barely hear it, if he concentrates. It’s easier when he leans over the table, closer. “I don’t.” The guy is still watching him, though Joe doesn’t miss the way that gaze dips down the length of Joe’s neck to his shoulders to his arms, where Joe is maybe or maybe not flexing a little more than he needs to hold himself over the table.

Whatever irritation that was in those bright eyes entirely vanishes now, and they seem a shade or two darker. A trick of the light, most likely.

“D-do you?” the guy asks. His gaze darts to Joe’s face again. His cheeks are turning pink. “Come here often?”

“Not really.” Joe places his water glass on the table, a safe distance from the book. “I came with friends.”

“Me too,” the man dips his head toward the dance floor. Joe glances but he can’t discern which of the wall of dancing bodies are this guy’s friends. He lost his own half-hour ago, though he suspects he’d find Booker at the bar if he looked.

Joe motions to space across the table from the guy. “May I join you?”

The guy nods, yet before Joe can slip into the spot he indicated, the guy shuffles inward so that Joe can sit beside him. Joe’s not about to turn that down and slides into the offered spot.

The guy smiles, a tiny, fragile thing, and says, “It’s easier to hear you from here.”

Joe’s brain screeches to a halt. That smile is the most precious thing he has ever been given. He’s ready to write sonnets. “I’m Joe,” he says, before he can say anything else and embarrass himself.

“Nicky.”

“Nicky,” Joe says, smiling wide, wider when it makes Nicky blush. “Tell me what you’re reading.”

Nicky does. It’s homework, he explains, for his theology class. He’s a student at the nearby university. He talks with his hands, slipping from English to Italian the more animated he gets.

Joe’s more than half in love, now. He’s a full three-quarters.

“Spiacente,” Nicky says as he winds down. A new song has started. Nicky looks around like he only now remembers where they are. “I’m sure you didn’t approach me for a lesson.”

Joe laughs at how wrong he is. “Are you kidding? Keep talking.”

Nicky presses his lips into a hard line. He glances at the dance floor then back at Joe. “Wouldn’t you rather be dancing?” It doesn’t sound like he’s offering.

So Joe says, “No.” When Nicky keeps waiting, like he’s expecting something else, Joe adds, “I would rather be wherever you are.”

Nicky lifts one brow, but his jaw isn’t so clenched anymore. “Even if that is reading a theology book in a corner of the club at one in the morning.”

Nicky’s hand rests on the booth seat between them. It’s nothing for Joe to take it in his own.

“Especially then,” Joe says.

Nicky looks at their hands, fingers curling around each other, and smiles.

“I had not expected you tonight,” Nicky says.

“That makes two of us,” Joe says. He squeezes Nicky’s hand. “Regrets?”

Nicky gives him a flat look. “I would have brought a sexier book.”

Joe laughs. Nicky does too, Joe thinks, but it’s soft and gets swallowed by the music.

“Next time, perhaps,” Joe says.

“Next time?”

Humming, Joe leans closer, brushing his nose to Nicky’s ear, and tells him, “You could read the phone book and I’d find it sexy.”

Red dusts Nicky’s cheeks. Joe can see it for sure, from this close.

“I can do better than that,” Nicky says, turning into Joe, and kisses him.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #nicky x joe #modern au #meet cute #college student nicky #alcohol cw mentioned #i wanted to find a plot but i couldn't so just have some fluff hah #fluff

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

Everyone thinks we’re already dating, but we’re just best friends- oh wait (from this prompt list); modern au

Nicky doesn’t have a lot of experience dating, and why would he need it? Ever since secondary school he’s had Joe at his side. His best friend. And they’ve been roommates since they graduated.

When Nicky comes home from work, it’s Joe he wants to see, not some stranger. When a new movie comes out, Nicky wants to go with Joe, to smile when Joe leans over to him in the middle of the film to give a harrowing critique of the poor writing. Or to hear Joe laugh when a joke hits just right. To hold his hand if it gets too sad. To let Joe grab his arm if it’s scary.

So Nicky has never thought about dating, never needed to. But it still strikes him as odd when, while Booker and Andy are over visiting, Booker tries to talk Andy into making a dating profile and does not do the same to Nicky or Joe. Joe especially has a lot of love to give. Nicky knows. He’s been selfishly hoarding it for years.

“I have a girlfriend,” Andy tells him. “We’re long distance.”

“The mysterious Quynh,” Booker says like he doesn’t believe it.

“She’s real.” Joe stretches his arm around the back of the couch behind Nicky. “Nicky and I have met her.”

Andy gestures toward them. “See?”

“You can’t be serious,” Booker says, slumping in the chair. His laptop’s open on the coffee table, but he ignores it and stares at the ceiling instead. “How am I the only single one in this group?”

Nicky blinks. He looks at Joe, and Joe smiles back at him.

Nicky is not dating anyone. Maybe Booker didn’t know.

But... Does that mean... Is Joe seeing someone?

When would he have the time? Every hour they are not working is spent together. Surely whomever Joe is with would not approve of seeing or talking so infrequently. Nicky himself craves Joe’s nearness, even as good friends.

A pain shoots straight through his heart.

Joe’s smile falters, and Nicky, knowing he is the cause, glances away.

Andy reaches over and pats Booker on the knee. “You’ll be okay, Book.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

No one is correcting him. Even if Joe is seeing someone - there’s that sharp pain again - Nicky isn’t.

And if Joe has someone, then well... Maybe Nicky should stop being so selfish.

“Booker,” Nicky says. When all eyes on the room find him, he hesitates, not used to being the center of attention. He clears his throat, gathering his strength. If Joe has someone else, Nicky’s only choice is to give him the space he deserves to be happy. “I would like to set up a profile, too.”

Booker groans, “That’s not funny.”

At the same time, Joe laughs, “For who?”

Only Andy stays silent, watching. From this angle, Joe can’t see Nicky’s face.

Nicky swallows. Why is this so hard? “For me, Joe.”

Joe abruptly stops laughing. “What?” Nicky hasn’t the courage to face him. Nicky loves how things are now, but if Joe... if he needs the space to be in his relationship...

Andy says slowly, “What exactly are you saying, Nicky?”

“You mean to humiliate me further.” Nicky drops his face to his hands. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You’re going to have to say it,” Andy says.

Nicky tugs at his hair. “I’m single. You know this.”

“I do?” Andy says.

“You guys break up?” Booker asks.

Nicky lowers his elbows to his knees and his hands to the space between them.

Booker is looking between Nicky and Joe. “Why didn’t you say something? Here I am, the asshole, talking about dating sites when you guys -”

“Wait.” Andy sits back. She’s glancing between them, too. “I don’t believe this.” She stops on Nicky. “You really don’t know.”

Nicky shrugs, entirely helpless.

To Booker, “Get your stuff. We’re going.” She pulls his arm.

“Yeah, okay.” Booker closes his laptop and slips it into his bag. As they head for the door, he calls back, “Sorry.”

“They’ll be fine,” Andy says from the hall.

Nicky stands up when they do but doesn’t leave his spot. When they’re gone out the door, he sits back down.

Finally, he looks at Joe.

The arm that was behind Nicky has moved away. He’s covering the lower half of his face with a hand, and his eyes are closed. Yet even hiding as he is, Nicky can tell something is very wrong.

Nicky places his palm flat on Joe’s shoulder, offering what comfort he can. He’s missing something crucial, he knows, but he can’t imagine what it might be. Apparently there is much he’s missing, if he didn’t know Joe had someone else in his life.

“Nicky.” Joe lowers his hand from his mouth, revealing his deep-set frown. He doesn’t say anything else, and Nicky can’t stand the tension in his shoulders and his face, and in the air between them.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had someone?” Nicky says. He feels the world’s biggest fool. “I would have given you... distance, if that’s what you needed.”

Joe goes very still

Nicky lowers his hand, taking one of Joe’s and holding it. “I would do anything for you. You know this.”

For too long a moment, Joe says nothing. The longer he stays silent, the more Nicky’s worry grows. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? He never meant to ruin things as he has.

But then Joe looks up at him. His features aren’t as heavy with despair now. They crumple up in confusion instead. He curls his fingers around Nicky’s, and says, “Nicky, you have not been making much sense.”

“Booker said he was the only single one,” Nicky tells him.

“Yes, that’s true.”

“So you must be dating someone.”

Joe opens his mouth. Closes it again. Opens once more. “I love you, Nicky.”

“I love you, too.” What did that have to do with anything?

“We share a bed,” Joe says.

“We’re very good friends.”

“We spoon.”

“We share a bed,” Nicky says with a shrug. “It saves space.” Plus, sometimes he would have nightmares and having Joe there with him when he woke up immediately calmed him. And then there were the nights they never talked about after, when quietly, in the dark, Nicky would reach out and Joe would - oh.

Oh.

“We share a bed,” Nicky says the same but means it differently.

The confusion slowly seeps from Joe’s face. He starts to smile. “Nicolo. My heart.”

The world’s biggest fool, indeed.

“I never dated anyone before,” Nicky says in his defense. Though as the fear of losing Joe diminishes, humiliation does too. Who has time for it, when hope is shining so blindingly? “This means you’re mine.”

“Nicky.” Joe’s smile is as bright as the sun. It’s everything Nicky’s ever needed, and all he wants. “I’ve always been yours.”

Nicky leans forward, emboldened, and kisses him, not fumbling in darkness but with purpose in daylight.

“Marry me,” Nicky says, when they part.

Joe laughs. “You’ve only thought us dating five minutes.”

“Too long.” Nicky drops soft kisses all over Joe’s face. So many things he’s wanted to do. So many he didn’t know he could.

Joe’s fingers tangle in Nicky’s hair. He leads Nicky’s mouth back to his, and whispers there, “My heart. My love. You might need more than a moment.”

“I’ve wasted too many already.”

“On that, we can agree.”

In the morning, Nicky will go to the store. He’ll buy a ring, and ask again. He will prove to Joe how serious he is. For now, he is content with the feel of this man beneath him, and the pieces of his heart finally sliding into place.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #misunderstandings cw #LIKE BIG TIME lol #modern au #roommates au #oblivious nicky #hes just innocent about dating thats all he didn't know #background andy x quynh #andy and booker make appearances! #angst with a happy ending #friends to lovers #but really #lovers to lovers #for srs mind that misunderstandings cw if that ain't your jam #proposal fic too why not lol

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

Fic request?? Nicky finds out he has lost his immortality, and Yusuf almost goes crazy trying to keep him safe from everything, because the idea that Nicky is now mortal terrifies him more than he thought it would.

Nicky cuts himself shaving. It’s a tiny nick at the edge of his jaw. A wound that small will heal in seconds, so he ignores it. Only when a bead of blood breaks and slides down his neck does Nicky give pause. Look closer.

Slowly, he lowers the razor down to the lip of the sink. Then he reaches up, as if in a trance, and swipes at the blood with the pad of his middle finger. It streaks across his skin. Another bead emerges, following the path of the first.

It’s not healing.

He’s not...

“Nicky?” Joe calls from the bedroom. “Have you seen my cell phone?”

Nicky hesitates. How will he ever tell Joe? “Uh, no. No, I haven’t seen it.”

“You sound suspicious, my heart. Are you hiding it?” Joe appears in the doorway, mischievous smile on his face. Through the mirror, Joe looks at Nicky and Nicky watches. Joe’s brow pulls together in confusion when he sees Nicky’s face. His smile slips clean off when he sees the blood. “Nicolo.”

Joe moves at once. He takes Nicky’s shoulders and turns him to face him. Then his hands are there, at the cut, gently probing. Nicky winces, and Joe’s face pales.

He pulls away and snatches the razor off the sink.

“Joe, wait!”

Joe slashes a thin slice across his forearm. Nicky holds his breath, waiting.

The wound closes.

“No,” Joe’s voice breaks. “No.” He throws the razor into the sink, then shoves both hands into his hair, tugging. Tears well in his eyes, then spill, leaving wet tracks down his cheeks. “Nicolo.”

“Shhh.” Nicky takes Joe’s face in his hands and wipes at the tears with his thumbs. “Yusuf. I am here.”

“We must... Together, we...”

“My love.” Nicky’s heart splinters at the sight of Joe so utterly broken, at the way he trembles beneath Nicky’s hands. How often has his love strung beautiful words together? Now, he can’t find them. “I am still here.”

Joe grabs at Nicky’s wrists and holds on tightly.

He does not let go for a long, long time.

*

Except for basic needs, they do not leave the bed for a week. Joe requires comfort, and Nicky is happy to give it, even as his own chest tightens. He thought they would die together. Now, he will have no choice but to leave Joe behind.

“I will find a way to fix this,” Joe said, at first.

“Joe,” Nicky started, but Joe stopped him.

“Don’t say it. Please, Nicolo.”

Everything dies. “I won’t.”

Later, Joe promised, “We will delay this for as long as we can. But that means you must not put yourself in danger anymore.”

“I won’t run, Joe.”

And now, as they are getting ready to meet Andy and Nile, Joe says, “I will protect you.”

“You always have before,” Nicky says.

“This is different.” He grips his hands into fists and will not look Nicky in the eye.

*

For the first time in a very long time, Andy looks surprised. “Both of us, then?”

“It appears so, yes,” Nicky replies.

She glances at Joe. He’s staring at the table. When she looks back to Nicky, he shakes his head.

“I see,” Andy says.

Nile looks between them all. She holds her head up, strong as the rest of them crumble. Though, the fear in her eyes betrays her. She’s much too young to already lose them.

Andy pushes her chair back. “How about some whiskey?”

“Yes,” Nicky and Joe say at once. He still won’t meet Nicky’s eyes.

Nicky wonders if getting drunk will feel different as a mortal.

*

They are on a mission. Nicky has his sniper rifle. He’ll cover from a distance. He doesn’t need to get close.

He still gets shot in the shoulder, even after Joe takes two to the chest to protect him.

“Joe!” He reaches out. Andy holds him back. Nile eliminates the threat.

“He’ll be fine in a minute,” Andy tells him, “but you won’t be.” She covers his wound. “Stop moving or you’ll bleed out.”

Still, he doesn’t lie back until he sees Joe rising. He can’t breath until Joe is beside him, taking his hand.

Before, the wounds were painful, but eventually the pain stopped. With this, he aches and aches and aches.

*

The ache never really goes away. Not after a week. Not after two.

“No more missions,” Joe says, when he finally decides to speak again. They are in their bedroom, but lately it’s felt more like a funeral parlor. Nicky’s still here, but Joe is already mourning him. They haven’t made love since before the mission. Joe only touches him when he reaches for him in sleep.

“I will not sit by and do nothing,” Nicky says, frustration and anger spiking. He loves this man with his whole heart and soul, but his patience is thinning. “I will not wait.”

“What is so wrong with waiting, Nicky?” Joe crosses the room toward him. They are two feet apart, near shouting. It is he closest they’ve been outside of sleeping for two weeks. The longest Joe has looked at him in three. The furthest their hearts have been in 900 years. “Must you chase after death, when you only have one left to give?”

“I want to help people,” Nicky says. “How can I do that from this room?”

“We’ll find other ways.”

Nicky shakes his head. How to make him understand? “I feel like a prisoner.”

Joe’s shoulders drop, a sign the fight is leaving him. But this too, frustrates Nicky. His love never gives up.

Nicky starts forward. “Joe.”

Joe waves him off. “I’m sorry. It was not my intention to trap you.” He sidesteps Nicky and heads for the door. “I’ll speak with Andy.” He grips the handle.

Nicky takes three long strides and shoves the door closed before it could really open.

“I’m trying to do what you want,” Joe says.

Nicky takes a breath, hoping to draw strength into his voice. It still breaks when he says, “Then look at me.”

Joe doesn’t at first, until Nicky says, “Please.”

When Joe does look, his eyes widen at whatever he sees there.

“Touch me,” Nicky says. He’s begging and he doesn’t care. “You have not touched me since...” He takes another breath, finding more fragile strength. “This is not living, Yusuf. I feel as though I’m already dead.”

Joe drops the handle. He turns toward Nicky. Fire ignites in his eyes. “No,” he whispers, then says again, louder, “No.” He grips the front of Nicky’s shirt and pulls him in. One hand wraps around Nicky’s waist. The other combs through Nicky’s hair, drawing him closer, bringing their lips together. He kisses softly at first, but with a growing need. Nicky grabs at Joe’s shoulders and will not let go.

When they break for breath, Joe says, “Forgive me, my love. Forgive me.”

“There’s no need,��� Nicky tells him and leads him to the bed.

Joe pulls off Nicky’s shirt. “You are alive,” he whispers into the newly exposed skin. He’s gentle with Nicky’s wound, but insistent in other ways. He presses Nicky into the mattress.

“I’m here,” Nicky tells him.

“You’re here,” Joe replies, and proves it to them both.

*

It’s morning and they are dressing to meet Andy and Nile. Joe’s at the mirror, trimming his beard with a pair of scissors. Nicky’s standing beside him, stretching, waiting for his turn at the sink to brush his teeth.

His wound aches, but he’s sated and content and can’t stop smiling at the smile Joe gives him.

Joe isn’t paying enough attention to what he’s doing. He nicks the edge of his cheek.

And it bleeds.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #joenicky #nickyjoe #yusufnicolo #nicoloyusuf #angst #angst with a hopeful ending #sort of??? #i'll post a spoiler as the last tag so you can decide whether to read or not #thank you anon for the prompt #i think??? or should i be mad you made me write angst ;p #protective!joe #mortal nicky #self harm cw #(joe tries to cut himself) #spoilers!!!!! at the end its implied that joe is mortal now too

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

(part 2 of my advertising agency office au. read part 1 first here)

Something’s different.

Nicky can’t place his finger on what, exactly. At least, not at first. But when he finishes his usual morning work with twenty minutes to spare until lunch, he knows. He’s had no interruptions today. No mistakes born of distraction that he’s learned to allot time to correct.

Joe has not been to the water cooler.

Sitting back in his chair, Nicky frowns at the clock in the bottom corner of the monitor. Twenty minutes is not enough time to complete any of his planned afternoon work. He could start something, but would have to stop for lunch. Unless he worked through lunch. But no, then he’d only get irritable. More irritable.

Why would Joe not visit the water cooler today? He usually came by twice in the morning and twice in the afternoon. He’d tell anyone who would listen that he liked to take a break from the computer screens and stretch his legs.

Did Joe quit?

If Joe quit, Nicky will have to adjust his time management and find a twenty minute long project to fill the new empty spot. He’ll have to learn to live with the unpleasant sinking in his stomach that almost feels like... disappointment.

He should find out one way or another, he reasons. For the sake of his schedule. So he grabs a pile of paperwork that needs copying and heads out into the main hallway. He passes the water cooler, crossing from the cubicles to the offices, and remembers far too late that his pile of paperwork to copy is only so tall because the copy machine is still broken. Despite Nicky’s pleas the day before, the technician insisted he couldn’t visit their office until after noon.

The copier mocks him, usual green lights flashing red. Paper jam, the touchscreen announces, white block letters on a red background. Open tray and remove paper. Someone replaced Nicky’s scribbled note with one written in black marker, Out of Order.

From the cubicles comes the chatter of one-sided phone calls. Sellers making sales. Accountants trying to reconcile uneven numbers, yelling at other accountants.

From the offices, the steady tap of keyboard presses and mouse clicks.

Overhead, the air conditioner breathes through a humming fan.

Nicky holds his pile of papers toward his chest and approaches the copier.

“It’s broken,” says a well-meaning co-worker, walking by with his coffee. He doesn’t stop for a reply, which is good, since the best Nicky could muster is a small apologetic shrug. He waits for the co-worker to disappear into an office. Then he waits a second more.

He takes one step back toward his cubicle, then berates himself for wasting his own time, and peers into Joe’s office.

Joe has his back to the door. The blinds are open this time, thank goodness, but even the blue sky beyond cannot compare to the vibrancy of the color splashes on Joe’s screen. His mouse is a paint brush, bringing forth images, fonts, and patterns in a flourish and dismissing them as quickly.

Headphones cover his ears. The straightness of his shoulders aligns with the back of his chair. He is intensely focused, lost to the rest of the world.

But he hasn’t quit. Not yet.

The sinking in Nicky’s stomach dissipates. Instead, he feels foolish.

Face burning, he rushes back to his cubicle and returns the pile of paperwork onto the corner of his desk. He straightens it.

He checks the clock. Ten minutes to lunch.

He waits.

*

The copier technician finds the paper jam easily enough, but the broken pencil is a different, more complicated matter. In the end, he disassembles half of the machine. It takes hours. At 4:30, Nicky’s co-workers are glaring every time they pass his cubicle. At 5, snide remarks start flying around the water cooler.

The administration staff cannot leave without making copies of their reports for Merrick and the other executives. Merrick likes hard copies, not emails. Nicky suspects he has them sent to a file cabinet and never looks at them. No, Merrick has already told them, emails will not be allowed ever, not even in this special case.

“I can’t have you getting lazy,” he told one co-worker, loud enough for the others to hear.

Merrick, himself, ducked out soon after. The other executives followed. They might have looked sheepish, if they looked at their employees at all. One carried a golf bag. It smacked against the side of Nicky’s cubicle as he walked by, knocking down the printed-out picture Nicky had pinned to the wall, the one of a cat hanging on a tree branch above the words, Hang in there!

To stop his co-workers plotting his murder, Nicky agreed to make copies of everyone’s reports, quadrupling the size of his already impressive pile of paperwork. Worth it, he knew, when his co-workers left with smiles and not glares.

At 7pm, the technician finally has the copier working again. Nicky catches him in the hallway.

“No more pencils,” Nicky says, trying to make light.

“Do whatever you want,” the technician replies, while texting on his phone. “This overtime means I get to charge double.” Laughter follows him to the front of the building. Nicky sighs. He really hopes Merrick doesn’t know his name. He imagines he’ll lose more than one paycheck to that bill if Merrick holds true to his threat to make Nicky pay for it.

With that worry heavy on his mind, Nicky collects his pile of paperwork and hauls it down the hallway.

Lights on the far walls begin to switch off, until only the lights over the main hallway and the small desk light in Nicky’s cubicle remain on. Being surrounded by so much darkness is unsettling. It’s quiet too – no phone calls, no click-clack of the keys. Only the air conditioner keeps him company, whirling overhead.

He loads the pile of papers into the input tray and starts the copier. It whistles and whines as the papers file through, and he sends up a quick prayer that the machine holds out long enough to finish his co-worker’s reports. And maybe his own.

Halfway through, Nicky notices one more light is still on in this building – the one in Joe’s office. Did he forget to turn it off? Nicky peeks inside.

The blinds are drawn. The screens are black. Joe is slumped in his chair, head crooked at an uncomfortable angle, chin resting on his shoulder. His lips are parted, mouth open, drool gathering at the corner. Each inhale couples with a soft snore.

If he sleeps like that the whole night through, he’ll be sore as hell in the morning.

Nicky should leave him, though. It’s not his business, and as far as he knows, Joe fell asleep on purpose.

Except his bare forearms have goosebumps and the overhead light is burning bright. Wouldn’t he have a blanket if he intended to sleep here? Wouldn’t he have turned off the light?

The copier seems to be working well, so Nicky abandons it and steps into Joe’s office. He walks softly at first, unsure, before he realizes how potentially creepy that is and stomps the rest of the way to Joe’s office chair, hoping he’ll wake up on his own. He doesn’t.

“Joe,” Nicky says.

No reaction.

“Joe,” he says again, louder.

Joe snores in response. His eyelashes fan over his cheeks. His curls are wild, bouncing out in all directions. His lips lift softly at the edges, as if a good dream has entrapped him. He’s more than attractive, he’s... cute, in a way that startles Nicky, embarrassed, to action.

He places a hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Joe. Wake up.”

“Nicky,” Joe says, laughing, as he turns his head further into the chair. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

Nicky freezes. His breath catches. He’s sure even his heart skipped a beat.

But Joe’s eyes are closed. He’s still sleeping.

“Brighter than the moonlight,” Joe says, words slurring. He sniffs. “Deeper than the ocean. I could drown,” he yawns, “looking at you.” He curls around his arms and snores again, louder.

There could be other Nicky’s with bright eyes, Nicky reasons, as his hands tremble and his heart thunders, alive in a way it has never been before.

Nicky should wake him, right? He should.

At the copier, paper whirls through the machine. It’s finished scanning now, and is stapling the sets. Nicky walks past, down the lonely lit corridor to his cubicle. He snatches his green jacket off the back of the chair. The outside is coarse, waterproof material, but the inside is soft cotton. He brings it back to Joe’s office. Carefully, he drapes the jacket over Joe like a blanket, tucking it under his arms.

“...if you... hold me...” Another snore.

“Joe,” Nicky says again, trying only once more to wake him. When Joe’s eyes do not open, Nicky sighs. “Sweet dreams, Yusuf.” He runs his hands down Joe’s covered arms, making certain the jacket is secure. At the door, Nicky clicks off the light.

When he returns to the copier, it has finished the reports. Nicky delivers them to the mailboxes of the executives.

He shivers all the way home, but he doesn’t mind, knowing Joe is warm.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #kaysonova #this is a direct continuation please read part 1 first #there will be more!!! #these two nerds crushing on each other #advertising agency au #merrick cw #no powers au #au

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

(part 5 of my advertising agency office au - see masterpost)

“I see you currently work at Merrick’s agency,” the interviewer says through the speakers of Nicky’s phone. He skipped lunch to sit out in his car in the parking lot and take this call.

At the start of the call, the interviewer introduced herself as Andy, CEO of the company, The Old Guard. The agency was much smaller than Merrick’s, employing only a handful of people. But their client list was lengthy and loyal. Their website said they’ve been around for many years.

“Yes,” Nicky says, unsure how much to give away.

“You poor bastard,” she said. “What are you making there?”

Nicky blinks at her language and her forward question, but still tells her.

“I’ll give you double,” she says. “When can you start?”

Nicky sits back in the driver’s seat, temporarily rendered speechless. He’d never had an interview go so well, so quickly. “I would need two weeks, to break cleanly here.”

“You got it.”

“And...” Nicky hesitates. If he asks what he wants to ask, he risks looking unprofessional and potentially losing this absolutely amazing job offer. Joe can handle himself. He surely has job offers lined around the block. But. Still. “I have a friend.” Nicky pauses, unsure how to proceed. Andy waits, and Nicky knows he likes her. Unlike Merrick, she offers him patience. “He is a graphic designer.”

“Oh,” Andy says. “Look, Nicky, we already have a good crew here, except for a numbers guy. We’re like a family.”

“Oh.” Nicky fights to hide his disappointment. “I see.”

“I know Merrick has snagged a lot of good people, but...” She laughs. “Unless it’s Yusuf al-Kaysani, I couldn’t possibly convince the rest of the team to take on another designer.”

Nicky goes very quiet.

Andy notices. “Wait. Is it Yusuf al-Kaysani? Nicky? Are you still there?”

“I haven’t talked to him about it yet,” Nicky says, suddenly nervous. He hadn’t expected to put Joe’s name out there without asking. He’d only meant to see if the option is available.

“Listen, Nicky, the offer’s open for you either way. Think about it. Call me next week. Swing by the office and meet the team. In the meantime, talk to al-Kaysani. If he wants in, we’ll fit another desk in here somewhere.”

Someone in the background says, “We’ll what?”

“Don’t make that face, Booker,” she says. “Bye, Nicky.” She hangs up.

Nicky stares at the call-ended screen on his phone. What a strange interview. But a good offer. And if Joe...

No, he won’t get ahead of himself.

He gets out of his car, puts his phone into his pocket, and tries not to think about any of this for the rest of the day.

*

Joe gives his presentation behind closed doors somewhere on the executive floor, but Nicky knows it goes well when a sizeable check from the Pharmaceutical company crosses his desk.

"Good job, Joe,” Nicky says, pride swelling, and readies the check for the bank.

*

“There you are, Nicky,” Joe says, appearing at the entrance of Nicky’s cubicle at the end of the day. His voice is a shot of warmth through Nicky’s chest, and Nicky immediately abandons what’s left of the day’s work to swivel in his chair and face him.

“Hello, Joe.”

Joe’s eyes flutter closed. He places a hand over his heart. “Say it again.”

“Hello?”

Joe smiles. “My name.”

“Oh.” Nicky’s face burns, but he’s smiling, too. He can’t seem to help himself around Joe. “Hello. Joe.”

Joe takes a strong step forward, into the cubicle. His hands reach out, searching - but then he catches himself and stops. He glances around, but no one is looking. He coughs in his fist.

“I was hoping,” he says, “that if you are free this evening, you would perhaps like to accompany me to dinner. And... if you would like... I would be pleased if you would...” He takes another step closer, smaller than the last. Voice low, he says, “Please come home with me,” sounding as desperate as Nicky feels.

"Yes.”

“Oh.” Joe’s smile expands, blinding. “Molto bene.”

Nicky turns and shuts down his computer properly. He sets his unfinished work in a pile to complete first thing the next time he’s in the office. Then he grabs his jacket and still-full lunch bag and follows Joe out of the cubicle and the building.

Joe leads him to his sports car in a nearby spot. It’s beautiful, silver, and sleek, fast-looking. Nicky frowns at it.

Andy’s offer to Nicky is generous, but would a small company like The Old Guard be willing, or able, to match Joe’s exorbitant salary?

“Nicky?”

“Forgive me.” Nicky shakes his head. This is not the place for that conversation.

Joe gives him a worried look, like he wants to press, but Nicky stops him by promising, “I will tell you later.”

Joe opens the car and Nicky slides into soft leather. Joe sits down in the passenger side and immediately yawns. In the natural light, the bags under his eyes are dark and prominent. All of him, beneath his smile, seems to droop. He’s all but melting into a puddle in the leather.

“Joe. Perhaps I should drive.”

Joe rubs his eyes. “Maybe.” Another yawn. “I don’t know why I’m so tired all of the sudden.”

“I do,” Nicky says. “Two sleepless nights in a row. Perhaps more.” Nicky has suspicions.

Joe huffs a sleepy laugh. “Maybe.”

“Come on.” Nicky holds his hand out for the keys, and Joe gives them over. They switch seats and click their seat-belts.

Nicky turns the ignition, bringing the car to life with a loud purr. He sets it in reverse, but then considers something, and puts it into park again. “I don’t know where you live.” He waits. “Joe?”

Joe is slumped in the passenger seat, eyes closed. His chest rises and falls in long steady breaths.

Nicky’s heart leaps into his throat. How much Joe must trust Nicky to hand him the keys and fall immediately asleep. How tired he must be.

Nodding to himself, Nicky sets the car in reverse again and pulls out of the parking spot. He drives the fancy car the few blocks to his apartment building and pulls into the visitor spot.

With the car parked and the engine turned off, Nicky rounds to the passenger side and opens the door.

“Joe.” He places his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Joe, help me. We’re at my apartment. It’s just a few stairs.”

Joe grumbles, reactive at least, thank goodness. Nicky has already learned how deeply Joe sleeps.

“I’m not sure I can carry you.” Nicky reaches across and unbuckles Joe’s seat belt.

Joe drops his head forward, forehead pressing into Nicky’s shoulder. “You’re so warm,” he mumbles.

“I’ll be even warmer upstairs.”

Joe hums, and moves just enough to help Nicky drag him to his feet. Nicky pulls his arm around his shoulder and leads him to the stairwell, locking the car behind them. The stairs are a struggle, but they manage. Nicky leans Joe against the wall as he opens his apartment door.

“I think I need a nap,” Joe says, blinking slowly. “Just a quick one... I don’t want to miss...”

“Hey.” Nicky catches him before he can fall asleep against the brick wall.

They stumble into Nicky’s small apartment and Nicky leads Joe into the bedroom and to the double-size bed. He eases Joe down and then bends to take off his shoes.

“I’m sorry.” Joe rubs his eyes, but can’t seem to keep them open. “I’m ruining our first date.”

“It’s not ruined,” Nicky says. “Would you like some pajamas?”

Grumbling incoherently, Joe reaches for his shirt and pulls it off over his head.

All of the air suddenly disappears from the room. Nicky suspected Joe is all muscle, but to have it suddenly on display, so very near before him - in his bedroom.

He looks away. Glances back. Looks away again.

“How about a t-shirt?” he says and standing, rushes to his dresser. He digs through the second drawer down, searching for his most comfortable sleeping shirt. When he has it, he faces the bed again, just in time to see Joe kick off his pants.

Joe is, at least, blessedly, wearing underwear.

Still, fire pulses through Nicky’s veins. Joe is beautiful, inside and out. Nicky swallows the rising lump in his throat and approaches the bed.

Bunching the t-shirt, Nicky begs Joe to lift his arms so he can put it on. Joe complies, sitting up enough for Nicky to pull it down and cover those pecs and those abs. He immediately flops back down and starts to snore.

More than anything, Nicky wants to join him. He looks so peaceful and content, and bends his body around a perfectly Nicky-shaped emptiness. With those arms around him, Nicky just knows he would feel warm and safe all night through.

But then his stomach rumbles, reminding him that he skipped lunch. He can’t skip dinner, too. Besides, when Joe wakes up, he’ll be hungry. Nicky will be a lousy host if he doesn’t have food ready for his guest.

On the way to the kitchen, he glances back once, from the door, to Joe sleeping soundly in his bed. And for the first time in a very long time, everything feels right.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #joe x nicky #joenicky #kaysonova #hey how about an office au lol idk man #advertising agency au #we are nearing the end! #joe just needs a good nights' sleep #and nicky needs a big dinner #then...... well #we will see next time ;)))

[monicashipsnickyjoe]

They’re boxed in, pinned down, the two of them behind a flipped table, with enemies on all sides. Nicky has only a handful of bullets left. Joe’s completely out. He has his scimitar, but he’ll never close the distance he needs to use it before being cut down.

“I don’t know, Nicky. I think we’ve gotten out of worse.” Joe’s smiling, but it’s distant. There’s fear in his eyes.

“Probably.” Nicky offers his own half-smile. It fades as soon as Joe’s does.

Joe’s grip tightens on his scimitar. “I’ll go first and draw their fire.”

“No.”

“Nicky.” Joe wants to argue. Nicky understands. If he thought he could, he’d try to convince Joe the same. But what Joe sees in Nicky’s face must stop him.

“We go together,” Nicky says. If he had time, he would reach out and cup Joe’s cheek, bring him in for a kiss. There’s no time with the enemy so close, drawing closer.

Joe’s eyes soften. His smile returns, a whisper of a thing. “Always.”

“I will come back to you,” Nicky promises. He checks his weapon. He has four shots left.

“And I, you.”

They nod to each other and rush from cover.

Bullets fly. Nicky shoots those aiming for Joe, but he only has four shots. They hit four bodies, but it is not enough. There are so many.

A shot catches Nicky’s knee. Stumbling, he throws his useless gun away and draws his sword.

He never gets to use it.

A bullet hits his shoulder.

Joe takes two to the chest, and one to the head. He drops.

Nicky tries to call his name, but there is blood in his mouth. He spits it out, but then there’s more.

All guns turn on him. Their muzzles flash. He doesn’t hear anything.

He falls into silence and darkness.

*

He blinks awake to chaos. An explosion, he thinks. There’s dust and smoke and death in the air. Bodies are around him, more than he killed. He looks to where Joe fell. He’s not there.

He’s not -

Another explosion shakes the whole building. Nicky’s ears ring. With fresh smoke in the air, he coughs and coughs.

Sword in hand, he pushes himself up on wobbly legs. To hell with the way his eyes sting and lungs burn. Joe is gone, and Nicky will find him.

They promised. Together.

He takes one shaky step, and then another, growing stronger each time. He’s healing. Is Joe?

He wants to cry out, to scream Joe’s name. But when he tries, ash, not blood, chokes him this time.

Slowly, the smoke clears. The house looks a battlefield, windows blown out. Bullet holes splatter across the daisy-chain wallpaper. So many bodies. Did the enemy bring an entire army?

And where is Joe?

Hugging what is left of the wall, Nicky hurries forward. He doesn’t care if he is being reckless. If they have Joe, Nicky will burn them. He will tear down the whole world until Joe is back in his arms.

The next room is much the same, bodies and blood and dust. No Joe.

Next room, the same. Next. Next.

Wait.

Voices. Outside.

“Let me go back!”

“Joe, damn it. That whole place is going to topple.”

“Nicky is in there!”

“We’ll get him, I swear. But if we go in now, we’ll all die.”

“You stay. I’ll go.”

“He would want you safe.”

“No! We go together!”

Joe. Joe.

Yusuf.

Nicky doesn’t know where the door is to get outside. They’d come in through a window.

The window.

Nicky hurries to it. It’s only half blown out, glass hanging in precarious sharp sections. But through it, outside, by the light of headlights and fire, Nicky sees Joe and Andy and Nile.

What’s a little glass?

Nicky sheathes his sword, throws up his elbows, and jumps through the window.

Blissfully, he doesn’t fall far. The glass, though, slices deep and everywhere. He might bleed out. But he can see Joe, and Joe -

“Nicolo!”

Behind Nicky, the whole building collapses on itself. Dust clouds the sky, taking Joe from him again.

Nicky inches through it, to where he saw Joe. If he could get to him... If they were together...

Joe, crawling on his hands and knees, finds him first. He’s coated in ash and blood, and he’s absolutely the most beautiful man Nicky has ever seen, even as he is. He is a vision.

“Joe.” Nicky reaches.

Joe catches his hand, his shoulder as he falls, the pain catching him now that he doesn’t have to push anymore. He has Joe. He has Joe, everything else can come now.

His body fights, pushing out the glass shards. Gently, Joe removes the ones from his face and neck. He brushes his fingertips over the healing skin beneath. His eyes close and he exhales deeply.

“When I was... they were pulling me away,” Joe says. “Andy and Nile arrived in time.”

“Good,” Nicky says. When the glass is gone from his hands, his arms, he touches Joe’s near the elbow, gripping onto what’s left of his shirt.

“I am sorry,” Joe says, “that you had to wake alone.”

“I found you,” Nicky says. Joe has no reason to apologize. “I will always find you.”

”Oh, my heart.” Joe leans down. He presses soft kisses to Nicky’s face. “My love.”

And Nicky is whole again.

#i wrote something nickyjoe #nicky x joe #joe x nicky #joenicky #kaysonova #i guess i wanted to write action today oops #canonverse #canon typical violence #temporary character death cw #angst with a happy ending #explosions cw #gunshots cw #glass shards cw #blood cw