Work Text:
based on this image: https://imgur.com/a/ItNMWQC
This story was written for the 2022 Old Guard Big Bang and a collab with the lovely https://measureyourself.tumblr.com/ who created a great playlist to go with it. You can (and should!) listen to it :)
I wanted to write something that you could read curled up in bed after a long day at work, and that would make you smile. I hope this is that for you <3
“Oh, come on,” Joe complains, crossing his arms against his chest protectively. He's standing under the yellow glow of a street lamp with his eyebrows furrowed and an exasperated expression on his face, gesturing at his delivery truck. “This is a shit joke, even for you.”
Booker doesn't even turn around to look at him. Instead, he dips his brush into a paint pot to add a jaunty yellow star shape to the side of Joe's truck. BIG TIME, he writes in blocky letters inside it, and Joe groans. “You're just being cruel now!”
Booker glances back at him this time, looking unimpressed. “Shut it, Al-Kaysani. You lost the bet, you suffer the consequences.”
Joe throws his arms up. “I shouldn't have and you know it. That referee did my team dirty, Book,” he protests, a repeat of an argument they've already had several times, to no satisfactory resolution.
“Doesn't matter,” Booker tells him. “You lost. I get to do what I want.” He's outlining the red letters of the word ITALIANS in black to help them stand out. This guy fucks Italians, Joe's truck now proudly proclaims, making Joe wince all over again. Big time.
“You know I have to work with that thing, right?” he states, his tone desperate now. Being a visual artist does not pay the bills, and Joe bought the truck a few months ago with what little savings he had to take a side job as a delivery driver. It's hell, mostly, but it does bring in some cash.
“Maybe you can work for a pizza chain,” Booker tells him flippantly, dipping his brush back into paint, a clear threat.
“Fuck you, Sebastien.”
“Eh, I'm French, I'm not your type,” Booker answers sweetly and Joe curses at him again, putting his face into his hands for a few seconds, rubbing hard at his cheeks. Perhaps no-one will call, he thinks. Perhaps people will actually find it funny and leave it at that. Yeah, right.
Joe sighs heavily and looks up to see that Booker has added the words any gender in smaller letters. It makes him smile, despite himself. He remembers telling Booker about being bisexual, back when they were both awkward teens and Joe hadn't had the courage to come out to anyone else yet.
“That's kinda cool,” teenage Booker had said, shrugging his gangly shoulders. “Twice as many chances to get laid at Julie's party next weekend.”
Joe had taken a sip from his beer and made a face. “I guess,” he'd agreed reluctantly, smiling at how relieved he felt Booker was taking this in stride, completely unbothered by the revelation. Booker had smirked in return, playfully.
“Though zero times two is still zero, so,” he'd added, causing Joe to hit him with a pillow.
Booker's got the same smug grin right now and Joe just rolls his eyes at him. “Thanks, very inclusive,” he drawls.
“What can I say, I'm an ally,” Booker mocks, and Joe really wishes he had a pillow so he could hit him again. Booker gives him a satisfied glance, like he knows exactly what Joe is thinking. Then he adds anywhere to the rest in the same bright, Italian-coded colors.
“Don't push it,” Joe warns, aiming to sound upset but landing closer to amused, groaning as Booker sets out to paint his actual phone number underneath.
“You're a terrible friend,” he accuses, watching Booker add a cheery little Italian flag to complete the message.
“I'm an excellent friend,” Booker corrects, and the bastard isn't even sarcastic about it. “You'll see.”
***
The week that follows is a mess.
Joe works diligently during the day, driving his truck of shame all over the city and trying to focus on his art in the evening. It's always tricky, finding his creative side when he's tired after a long day of boredom and hurrying up, and it quickly gets trickier because, apparently, evening is the time when creeps and pranksters come out to play.
Joe's phone rings, not incessantly but often enough for it to be disturbing, and lights up even more frequently with messages from numbers he doesn't know. He doesn't answer the phone if he doesn't know the caller, quickly learning not to listen to the voicemails they leave.
The text messages, he glances at with some amount of curiosity. It's a lot of unsavory pics, insults and abuse, but also a few people who seem to find his truck funny, or are genuinely confused whether his offer is genuine or not. He screenshots them all and sends them over to Booker, who openly makes fun of his misery like the ruthless asshole he is.
Two more days, brother, Booker texts him, followed by a string of cutesy emojis. Joe sends back a picture of himself flipping Booker off.
***
Joe's phone vibrates against his thigh and he sets his carton of takeout aside to pick it up.
Unknown caller, his cracked phone screen unhelpfully informs him, followed by the number in question. Joe doesn't recognize it but then again, apart from his childhood home and his late grandma's, he doesn't have a whole lot of numbers memorized.
He frowns and considers, his thumb hovering above the screen. He normally wouldn't take a call from a number he doesn't know – not before googling it and especially not with the general fuckery that has been going on with his truck as of late – but he's waiting for his bank to call him back. They need to let him know if he's only a little fucked or very fucked this month, and he wouldn't want to miss out on that.
He swipes his thumb over the green symbol and sandwiches the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, sitting up. “Yeah?”
There's a shuffling noise on the other end of the line, as if the person calling him is surprised he actually picked up.
“Hello?” Joe tries again, patiently.
“Ah, hello,” someone answers. A guy, his tone careful, almost hesitant. Just when Joe is going to tell him to get on with it, he makes a noise like someone elbowed him in the ribs and continues. “Yes. I'm calling about your truck?”
Joe sighs through his nose, long-suffering. Of course. He considers hanging up immediately, but whoever this guy is, at least he's not breathing creepily into the phone or calling Joe homophobic slurs. There is something about his voice too, something Joe can't quite place just yet.
“What about it, you want to buy it?” he taunts, because, well. He might as well make this fun.
Unexpectedly, the guy on the other end of the line chuckles, sounding amused. “Dio, no. No offense, but that truck is a piece of shit.”
Joe snorts in agreement, taking a bite from his food. “That it is,” he confirms, offering nothing more for a few seconds, letting whoever this is get to the point.
“Yes. I'm calling about what you wrote on it?” the guys eventually continues. He has a pretty gentle voice, Joe thinks, for someone who harasses strangers on the phone. It's almost lilting, lingering on the wrong syllables in a way that reminds Joe of the time he went to one of Booker's parties and met all of his expat friends. “About Italians?” the guy adds, as if Joe had multiple trucks with multiple raunchy messages painted on.
“Listen-” Joe starts, but then something about how the guy said Italians, about his accent, finally clicks. “Oh, fuck,” he says instead, and his mystery caller chuckles again, warm and less shy now.
“Yes, I believe it was the idea,” he returns and Joe huffs at him.
“That's not what I meant,” he corrects, laughing at how ridiculous this is. “I just clocked your accent. Haven't had an actual Italian call before,” he admits.
The man hums, playfully surprised. “No? Not even with such an enticing message?”
“Nah. It's mostly been prankers and creeps. I have to say, this is a nice change.” Joe thinks about it for a second. “Unless you're offended?” he ventures, cautious. You never know, after all.
“I wasn't offended,” the Italian returns, and he sounds like he's smiling at the idea. Joe hums and there is a short silence, not too uncomfortable considering the situation. He's going to ask more about the Italian's backstory, where in Italy he comes from exactly, why he's in the US, what prompted him to actually call the number on his truck, but the man beats him to it.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he inquires cautiously and Joe sighs. This is when things get weird, isn't it? “Yeah,” he allows. “But I'm hanging up if I don't feel like replying.”
“Fair enough,” the man answers, and there is another brief pause. “Do you really, ah. Have sex with all the Italians you meet?” The question is asked in earnest, the tone intrigued but not judgmental. Joe has to laugh.
“Asking for a friend?” he taunts. The Italian huffs on the other end of the line.
“I'm just curious,” he defends playfully, and Joe shakes his head, a little charmed despite it all.
“I don't have sex with all the Italians I meet,” Joe tells him, which is true. “I haven't met many of them, really. I'm Dutch, there weren't many where I used to live. It's the same here.” He smiles, amused at the turn this conversation with a stranger has taken. “I like the accent, though. It's very musical.”
“Thank you. I like your accent too.”
“Yeah?” Joe realizes he's still grinning and he's not entirely sure why.
“Yes. I've never been to the Netherlands, so you may be the first Dutch person I speak with.” The man sounds thoughtful and Joe suddenly finds himself wondering what he looks like.
“Yeah? How're you enjoying the experience, then?” It comes out more flirtatious than Joe intended, drawing a short pause from his new friend. Should he be doing this?, he wonders. The man on the phone seems nice, but Joe has no idea who he is.
“It's good,” the Italian says, slyly. Something about his tone sends a shiver down Joe's spine. “But then, if you don't sleep with Italians, why the message on your truck?”
“Lost a bet,” Joe tells him, settling more comfortably on his couch and taking a sip from his beer. This is shaping up to be a fairly enjoyable conversation, considering.
The Italian hums, between taken aback and delighted. “Really? Can I ask what the bet was?”
“Yeah.” No harm in telling him, Joe thinks. “I was watching football with a friend of mine. It was Italy against France. He's French so he supported his team, you know. I enjoy the Italian team better. They're feistier.”
The man makes a careful noise on the other end of the line, less enthusiastic than Joe expected, though he doesn't interrupt. “So I bet my friend they'd win. They lost, and painting my truck was his brilliant idea.” Joe pitches his voice low and does his best approximation of a French accent. “You like Italians so much, I'll give you Italians.”
The man on the phone laughs, low and fond. “I see, now,” he teases.
“Yeah? What do you see?”
“That you deserved it.” It's stated so casually, so resolutely, it takes Joe a second to understand he's being made fun of.
“Excuse me?”
“You did. Supporting Italy over France?”, the man says, disapprovingly. “Tsssk. You were asking for it.”
“How dare you,” Joe answers, flatly though he's fairly sure the fact he's grinning wide translates well even over the phone.
“How dare you,” the Italian returns, and it starts a heated debate about which team has the best players, the most scores, the most caps. Which coach is the stupidest and which referee was most definitely unfair during that game. It's fun, like talking to an old friend. It should be odd to feel so comfortable with someone Joe has never met, he thinks, and yet it isn't.
“Okay,” Joe finally gives up, when he has no more arguments in favor of Gli Azzuri. “Okay. Shockingly unpatriotic, but okay. My turn. Why did you call the number on my truck? You don't seem like the type of guy who'd go for a random hookup with someone who's way too into Italians.”
“Don't I?” The man on the phone prompts, and Joe is pretty sure he's poking fun at him. “You don't know me.”
“You seem smarter than that,” Joe points out. The Italian makes a dubious noise, like he's not entirely sure that's true. “Aren't you? Unless you're into the whole Italian fetish thing?”
“No.” The man seems to be sure about that much, at least. “I mean it's never happened before, but I think- no.” There is shuffling on the other end of the line and Joe wonders if the man is rubbing his face.
“Do you really want to know?” The man asks, softly.
“Yeah?”
“I lost a bet,” he reveals, and Joe's eyes go wide.
“No way!”
“Yes, way,” the Italian confirms, laughing.
“What was the bet?” Joe inquires curiously, eager to see if this is something he could make fun of his new friend for. He hasn't forgotten the Italian's comments about his favorite football team, you see.
“Ah,” the Italian answers, sobering up. Joe's eyebrows furrow. “It is a little personal.”
“You don't have to tell me,” Joe is quick to reassure, but the man on the phone sighs quietly.
“No, I should. I'm getting over a breakup. A bad one. My friends-” He hesitates. “My friends dared me to come to the pub with them, and flirt with some guy. They said it would be good for me.” The man pauses and Joe can tell he's still pretty disapproving of that plan.
“Yeah? Did you?” he prompts, interested.
“No. There was no-one I liked. They bet me I couldn't get anyone's phone number before the evening was over, but it felt dishonest to chat someone up just to get their number. So I didn't.”
“Yeah,” Joe agrees, sympathetically.
The Italian chuckles, perking up again. “Then when we went out of the pub we saw your number and they said it was a sign from God and I had to call, since I hadn't managed to get anyone's number.” Joe can hear a rustle, like the man shrugged. “They thought at least this way, I would get laid.”
“How long ago was this breakup of yours?” Joe inquires.
“Over a year ago, now.”
“Yeah,” Joe agrees, grinning a little. “That tracks. Your friends are right, man.”
The man on the phone makes an offended noise that somehow sounds very Italian and Joe laughs, throwing his head back. “Sorry, buddy.”
“You're not.”
“Not very, no.”
The Italian hums in response “Well,” he finally answers, his tone lilting and amused. “That's not going to happen, is it? You told me yourself you don't actually fuck Italians.”
“Well,” Joe answers, in the same tone. “I didn't say never. I could make an exception, the accent is hot.” There is a silence on the other end of the line and Joe sits up, wondering if he pushed too hard. He's not entirely sure what he's doing himself, either. “Shit, was that creepy?”
“No,” the man tells him, quickly. “No, it's okay. It's just, you don't know what I look like.”
“I'm picturing Marcello Mastroianni,” Joe tells his Italian and the man huffs. This is one of the strangest things he's ever done, but it feels too good to stop.
“You'll be disappointed, I think,” he states.
“It's okay. I set the bar too high, that's on me. You don't know what I look like, either.”
“I don't. And I don't know any Dutch actors either, so I'm not sure who to imagine,” the Italian replies, thoughtfully.
Joe smiles, leaning back against his couch. “That's easy to solve. I could send you a picture.”
“You could,” the man agrees, but he sounds cautious so Joe doesn't press.
“I'm Joe, by the way. What's your name?”
“Nicky,” the man replies. He pronounces it NEEki and Joe finds that endearing for some reason.
“Nicky?”
“Yes. Nicolò, actually. But Nicky is easier for Americans.”
“Yeah,” Joe agrees, scratching at his beard. “I'm Yusuf, actually. But Joe's easier.”
Nicky hums, softly. “It's nice to meet you, Joe,” he responds, formally.
“Likewise,” Joe returns, playful.
There is a short silence.
“So,” Joe says.
“So,” Nicky answers, and Joe is pretty sure he's smiling. “Send me your picture. With your clothes on, please.” Joe makes a noise but before he can protest that he would never send dick pics unsolicited, Nicky continues. “And If I like you, perhaps we can get coffee.”
Joe takes a second to process that, humming. “I don't get a picture in return?” he teases and Nicky laughs.
“I'll let you live your Mastroianni fantasy a little longer, I think.”
***
Joe sends the picture. It's a nice selfie, outside at a park, with good sunlight. He's smiling, his hair curling around his face, dimples just peeking out from under his beard. He watches as Nicky receives the picture, three dots appearing underneath a few seconds later.
You have kind eyes, Nicky texts back, making Joe's eyebrows arch.
“Kind eyes?” he repeats, oddly flattered.
The three dots appear again and soon enough Nicky is sending him the address of a café not too far away, and the times when he's available.
“Well, fuck,” Joe marvels. He saves Nicky's number into his phone.
***
“Joe?”
Joe is sitting in the sun nursing a latte. He was early because he is a little nervous, so he scoped out the café and decided to order and sit outside at one of their small, brightly-painted metal tables. It's a nice day for a date, he thinks. Sunny, but not too warm.
Joe has absolutely no idea what to expect.
Well, that's not entirely true.
Granted, he doesn't know what Nicky looks like, but he knows many other things about him. They kept texting over the last few days, and he's confirmed that Nicky is indeed smart, but also kind, thoughtful, and surprisingly cheeky at times. They've shared pictures of random cats, sunsets, Joe's art (which Nicky praised enough to make Joe feel almost embarrassed), talked about literature, cinema, politics. They align on everything that really matters to Joe and disagree on enough to keep the discussion interesting.
Texting Nicky that he was on his way earlier today, Joe realized that he actually... liked him already? He was looking forward to meeting him at least, despite the weird circumstances that had led him to.
His name, soft-spoken and musical, gives Joe pause, and then he turns, already grinning.
Hey, is what he plans to say.
“Fuck,” is what he actually says. Nicky leans back abruptly, his unruly eyebrows arched up above the most stunning pair of eyes Joe has ever seen. “I mean!” Joe tries to correct, but Nicky is faster.
“Sorry, I'm not-” he waves his hand in front of his face, “you know. Mastroianni.” He looks stricken.
“No, no,” Joe is quick to rectify, suddenly very aware that he's entirely misrepresenting his level of interest. “Are you joking, you're so fucking hot,” he says bluntly and Nicky's eyebrows arch even higher on his forehead.
“Yes?” Nicky prompts, softly. He's pinking a little in the cheeks, his incredible eyes crinkling at the corners. Joe's fingers are itching to reach for his paint box so he can try to find the exact correct shade for them. Seaglass blue, he thinks.
“Yes,” Joe confirms instead, reaching out to tug at the sleeve of the ugly brown jacket Nicky is somehow making work for him. With those shoulders, Joe thinks faintly, anything would look good on him. “Please sit down and have coffee with me.”
“Okay,” Nicky agrees and he gives Joe a lopsided grin that makes something hot twist in the pit of his stomach. “But I think this might be just your Italian fetish speaking, Joe.”
“Possibly,” Joe agrees, pushing the menu towards him on the narrow table. “Don't kinkshame me.”
Nicky laughs quietly and half-hides behind his menu for a few seconds to get his bearings. He sets it down once he's made his choice, smiling up to Joe. “I won't. And thank you. You are very handsome too,” he tells Joe, earnestly. He has a sweet face when he's not actively making fun of Joe, and Joe really wants to sketch the tantalizing curve of his Cupid's bow.
“Thank you. I do believe it's my kind eyes,” Joe manages to tease. Nicky grins wider.
“They are very kind,” he agrees, mildly. “And very lovely.”
Joe leans back in his chair, tilting his chin up to pretend he's considering Nicky seriously. “You're flirting with me,” he deduces, and Nicky spreads his hands in agreement.
“A little. Is that okay?” It's a gentle question and Joe gets the impression that Nicky already knows the answer. He also gets the impression that Nicky would stop, if Joe wanted him to behave.
Joe does not.
“It's okay. Flirt away,” he allows, sounding magnanimous, and Nicky laughs.
It's awkward at first, the conversation, the flirting, though not as much as it should be considering how little they actually know about each other. They talk about work, they talk about their hobbies, they talk about art. They complete some of the conversations they've had through texts, Joe finding out that some of what he'd assumed about Nicky was true, and some wasn't.
Nicky orders an espresso and then openly groans about how much liquid is in the small cup he's brought. Not in front of the waiter, he's too polite for that, but he doesn't hide his dismay to Joe.
“Every time,” he complains, shaking his head. “I ask for the smallest possible coffee and they give me this watered-down abomination.”
“Your life must be so tough, Nicolo,” Joe answers playfully, careful to pronounce the name right. He googled it and practiced the night before, and from the way Nicky's face lights up, he got it right.
“It is very difficult,” Nicky agrees, though he mostly sounds pleased, only a little grumpy.
“We can go to an Italian café next time, if you'd prefer. I'm sure we can find a place that will make you a proper espresso,” Joe offers, smiling. He can do more googling, it's fine.
“That's a bold claim to make, Yusuf,” Nicky returns, Joe's name sounding sweet in his lilting accent.
Joe wonders if he researched, too. He also wonders if Nicky would want to kiss him.
“I'll try my best to live up to it,” he returns instead, sipping from his latte. It earns a chuckle from Nicky, who launches into a story about the first cup of coffee he ever ordered in the US. They trade stories of cultural shocks for a while, the mood friendly.
Nicky is a good listener, Joe finds. He leans his chin on his palm and focuses on Joe intently, giving him his full attention in a way that is almost distracting.
Joe tries his best to return the favor, watching and nodding as Nicky talks. Nicky gestures with his hands a lot, Joe notices. His movements are small and controlled at first, like he's too aware of the stereotype of it and trying to rein himself in. As the conversation progresses however, the movements get bigger, more fluid, illustrating everything Nicky tells him about with great conviction.
It's entirely too endearing to see him relax into it, and Joe can't help but grin, watching Nicky's big hands move expressively while he tells the story of how he lost his suitcase at the airport once.
“Don't get me started on airport security,” Joe agrees. Nicky's eyebrows furrow in sympathy.
“Do you get 'randomly' selected to be more thoroughly screened?” Nicky ventures and Joe leans back in his chair, sighing.
“Every fucking time,” he replies. Nicky nods, unsurprised.
“I'm sorry. Cretini, all of them.”
“Yeah,” Joe says, smiling again. That.
They chat for a while longer and when their coffees are gone, they end taking a stroll through a local park, talking some more and watching the children play and scream, running around the playground. It's nice, Joe thinks, like spending time with a friend, with someone he's known for a long time and who knows him well in return.
They stop at an ice cream van and Nicky stares so long and hard at the ice cream selection that Joe asks him if he wants to leave, laughing.
“Is it another one of those things that Italians do better?” Joe asks him later, licking his way through a scoop of mediocre pistachio.
“You must think I'm very conceited,” Nicky answers, pronouncing the word carefully. He conservatively chose chocolate and vanilla, and he's obviously trying to hide the fact that he's not having a good time with it.
“Not really,” Joe replies, shrugging. “Is it true, then? Is the ice cream so much better in Italy?”
“Yes,” Nicky answers, with such feeling that Joe just has to laugh again, bumping their shoulders together.
At sunset, Joe finally caves in. They're sitting together at a picnic table, Nicky's chin in his hand as he asks questions about Joe's art, the golden light bringing everything into soft focus. “I'm sorry if this is weird,” Joe prefaces, watching Nicky's eyebrows arch. “Especially on a first date, but could I sketch you, would you mind?”
Nicky's eyes go wide. “This is a date?” he asks, and his face is such a perfect travesty of surprised innocence, it actually takes Joe a few seconds to understand that he's being made fun of.
“Listen to me, you little-” he starts, but anything he could say is drowned out by Nicky's laughter, mischievous and still warm, watching Joe with unmasked delight.
“I got you,” Nicky gloats, looking entirely too proud of himself.
“Yeah. You got me. Well done,” Joe has to agrees. Nicky bows his head, putting his chin back into his palm.
“You can sketch me,” Nicky tells him, smiling. “Take off an inch or so from my nose, if you're feeling generous.”
“I would never,” Joe tells him, meaningfully.
“You're not feeling generous?”
“No, I am. It's a beautiful nose, Nicky,” he says earnestly, reaching into his bag for his sketch book and pencils. “Plenty of Roman statues with that nose, I'm sure.” He smiles. “Or plenty that would have your nose if they still had one, that is. Don't move.”
Nicky chuckles but he complies, watching Joe as he starts to draw shapes and outlines. “Thank you, I think.” He watches Joe in silence for a while, looking serious. “You're very handsome,” he replies, derailing Joe's plan to start mapping out the shape of Nicky's eyes.
He snorts, disbelieving. “I'm very handsome? Have you looked in the mirror recently?”
“I have. I'd rather look at you, tesoro,” Nicky answers, and it's such a calculated pass at seduction it almost sound like a joke. It would be a joke, Joe thinks, if it didn't work quite so devastatingly well.
“Smooth,” he returns, trying to sound casual. Nicolo merely looks delighted.
“Are you blushing? You like that kind of cheesy line?” He asks, amused. “Or was it the Italian pet name?” The look on Nicky's face is quickly tipping into mischief again and Joe knows he has very little time to react before-
“If you say Italian fetish to me right now Nicky, I swear to God,” he warns and Nicky laughs, struggling to hold the pose.
“I won't,” he promises, his voice lilting and playful, and Joe has to grin.
“Not right now, at least,” Joe finishes, sounding resigned.
“Maybe later,” Nicky agrees. Joe shakes his head, applying himself to draw the shape of Nicky's eyes. It takes him several tries to get it right, leaning in to really take them in, almost close enough to be in Nicky's personal space.
Nicky doesn't protest, merely watching Joe back, his eyes crinkling at the corners fondly. Joe makes a quiet noise of protest, and adds that to the drawing.
“What do you think?” he asks, showing Nicky. It's just the outline of his face for now, but the eyes are fully defined and shaded in.
“That's... very good, Joe,” Nicky says, looking impressed. He grins, lopsided. “Didn't do my eyebrows any favors, did you?”
“I drew them as they are,” Joe replies wisely, rooting around in his pencil case to see what colors he has with him. He gets the colored pencils out, putting them on the table between them. “What color would you call your eyes, Nicky?” he asks, and Nicky lets out a slightly puzzled sound.
“Blue?”
Joe makes a dissatisfied noise, going through the color pencils with a sigh. “No. Well, yes, but I don't have the correct one right now. I'll have to go through my watercolors when I get home,” he adds, mostly to himself, and Nicky leans back.
“Send me a picture, if you do,” he requests. Joe nods, gesturing at him.
“I will. But get back in position, please.” Nicky sets his chin onto his palm again, fingers curling against his cheek carefully.
“I thought fingers were difficult to draw,” he ventures, his eyes widening at how intently Joe is now staring at his mouth.
“I like a challenge,” Joe returns, his eyebrows furrowing as he starts drawing again. It takes him a while to draw the bottom half of Nicky's face, his strong nose, the curve of his lips, the stubble on his cheeks, the mole that makes him look even more asymmetrical. Joe finally looks away from Nicky's lips only to find that there is a faint flush on his cheeks now, spreading to the bridge of his nose endearingly.
“What?” he asks, amused. He won't add the blush to his drawing, he doesn't have the right color for that either.
“Nothing,” Nicky says, too quickly. Joe gives him a curious look and Nicky shrugs, expressively. “You were looking at me very intently,” he states, and when Joe tilts his head to the side a little, specifies. “At my lips.”
“Did that make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” Nicky replies, his lips curling up just a little at the corner. “That is not the word I would use.”
Joe smiles back and there is a moment of quiet understanding between them, tension increasing but still comfortable.
“Can I adjust the position of your hand?” Joe asks and Nicky gives a slow nod, his pale eyes following as Joe reaches out, gently curling his hand against his face in a way that will look better on paper. A fine tremor goes through Nicky's arm at the touch, Joe's careful fingers trailing a tingling heat behind.
“That's good,” Joe tells him and Nicky says nothing, his lips parting under the brush of Joe's fingers. Joe swallows dryly as he leans back, runs his fingers through his curly hair, and sets out to draw again. He diligently works on the curve of Nicky's cupid's bow for several minutes, his gaze going between Nicky's lips and his eyes quickly.
“Alright?” he prompts, because Nicky has been unusually quiet.
“Yes,” Nicky answers, his voice low. At Joe's arched eyebrow, he continues, “I really want to kiss you right now.”
Joe pauses, his eyes on his drawing. He feels himself hold still, like he's worried Nicky might take it back if he moves. “Why don't you?” he returns, slowly glancing up.
Nicky is motionless, his many-colored eyes now darker. “Won't I ruin your drawing, if I do?” he asks, carefully. “You asked me not to move,”
Joe considers that. “Then don't.” He leans in slowly, letting the moment stretch until their noses brush together. He can feel Nicky draw in a sharp intake of breath, his eyes hooded.
“Stay still,” Joe reminds in a low whisper, aiming for playful though it comes out low and wanting. Nicky gives a scoff but he mercifully complies, the corner of his parted lips curling up. Joe makes a tight noise at the back of his throat, powerless to resist that, angling his head so he can kiss that tantalizing grin right off Nicky's face.
The first brush of their lips together is electric, sending a heated shiver down Joe's spine immediately, his entire body reacting to the contact. Nicky makes a low humming, kissing him back, and Joe drops his pencil to cup Nicky's cheeks in both his palms, fingers curling around his jawline and around Nicky's own hand, Nicky's fingers flexing to hold on.
It's good, incredible in a way that immediately makes Joe want more of it, his thumb touching the corner of Nicky's lips, his mole, hand slipping back to curl into his hair. Nicky's mouth opens against his own when Joe tugs and he immediately takes advantage of that, touching his tongue to Nicky's, groaning under his breath at the feeling.
Nicky seems to match Joe's need, even as he's obviously struggling to keep his hands to himself, kissing back intently, making quiet, expressive noises at the back of his throat, his breathing growing ragged where his big nose is pressing against Joe's cheek.
Too soon, Joe has to break away so he can catch his breath and compose himself, his heart beating too fast already and his mouth tingling where it was pressed against Nicky's. He leans back just enough that he can look at Nicky's face, catching him with his eyes closed.
“I moved,” Nicky admits, though that's not why Joe is staring at him, breathless. “But not too much, I hope.”
Joe shakes his head, closing his sketchbook determinedly.
“Did I ruin it?” Nicky asks, his his voice low.
“You didn't ruin it. It's just...” Joe gestures at Nicky's flushed cheeks, his darkened eyes, his disheveled hair. “You look entirely different, I'd have to start from scratch.”
Nicky leans back, his red lips slowly curving up into a grin again. “And whose fault is that?”
Joe's answering smile is radiant. “I take full responsibility.”
***
“So,” Joe says much later, when it is time to go home.
“So,” Nicky returns, pink across the cheekbones from staying in the sun all day.
“I'd like to go on a second date,” Joe tells him, amused at the tone of Nicky's voice.
Nicky rocks back on his heels, nodding. “I think I'd like that too.” He considers Joe for a few seconds. “You said you were a good cook, earlier.”
Joe nods because as a matter of fact, he had said that. Nicky had nodded and told him he wasn't too bad at it himself. Joe is beginning to know him well enough to be able to tell that it probably means Nicky is an incredible cook, but he let it go nonetheless.
“Do you want me to cook dinner for you?” Joe offers, smiling at the idea. At his apartment, the two of them lit by candlelight. Romantic. “What's your favorite dish?”
“Lasagna,” Nicky answers, and there is a twinkle in his eyes, like he's challenging Joe to try his hand at that.
“How much of a long shot is it, for me to be making lasagna you'll actually like?” Joe asks, carefully.
Nicky gives a nonchalant shrug and Joe absolutely isn't fooled. Nicky's probably got an incredible recipe he got from his grandma that's been passed down in his family from generation to generation since the twelfth century or something. There is no way Joe can compete with that.
“I won't judge you too harshly,” Nicky promises, making Joe snort. Yeah, right. Nicky grins. “I'll make it worth your while,” he corrects, his voice low and intimate, and it is suddenly Joe's life mission to cook the best damn lasagna this man has ever eaten.
***
That quest leads Joe to an Italian grocery store he managed to locate not too far away from his place, leaning against the counter and explaining the situation to a middle-aged woman with an Italian accent even stronger than Nicky's. Her name tag says Giorgia in small, precise letters, and she nods wisely. “And the Italian man, what is his name?”
“Nicky,” Joe tells her. “Nicolo.”
She hums, sounding amiable. “How much do you want to impress?” she inquires. Joe considers for a second.
“A lot? He's... I like him.”
She looks at him. “Una cotta, si? A crush.”
“Yeah,” Joe answers, ruefully. “I think so.”
“Don't worry. We will impress Nicolo,” she states, gesturing determinately. She leads Joe down the narrow aisles of her shop fluidly, pointing out the products he should buy. Which lasagna noodle brand is the best, which tomato paste Joe should definitely get, which sweet sausage would work better (“Sausage?” Joe inquires, taken aback. “Sausage,” she confirms, with great authority.), and why he really needs basil leaves.
Joe takes her word for all of it and dutifully fills his cart, bringing it to the counter for her to ring. It's more than Joe would normally spend on a single dish and his eyes widen when he sees the total. Can he afford this? Probably. Should he? That remains to be seen.
Giorgia must notice because she gives him a slow once-over, frowning. “Too much?” she asks, not unkindly, and Joe gives her a sheepish smile.
“A little. But it's fine, I can pay.”
“Is this Italian worth it?
“Yeah. I think he is.
“Good. Tell you what,” Giorgia says, waving her hand definitively. “If he does not sleep with you, I give you your money back.” She arches her eyebrows. “Deal?”
Joe grins. “Deal.”
***
Nicky takes his first bite of the lasagna and the corner of his lips curves up.
Joe holds his breath.
“You put a lot of effort into this, didn't you?” Nicky asks, his voice warm.
“I did,” Joe acknowledges. “Is it terrible?”
“No,” Nicky replies. “It's pretty good.” He takes a sip from his wine, pats his mouth dry, and then puts his hand on the corner of the table between them and kisses Joe full on the mouth.
The lasagna is okay, Joe finds out later. It's rich and flavorful, the Italian ingredients definitely working for it. It's also a little too salty, and a little too dry. Nicky finishes his entire plate, his eyes dark and his grin playful, so Joe is still willing to count it as a win.
***
They make an attempt at drinking the rest of the (probably expensive, Joe isn't sure) wine Nicky brought, sitting on the couch together, leaning too close and talking in low voices. Then Nicky sets his half-empty glass down on the coffee table and Joe meets him into a kiss immediately, making a soft noise of surprised arousal because Nicky opens to it all at once, his big hands settling gently on Joe's shoulders.
They end up in bed pretty quickly after that, Joe kissing down the side of Nicky's neck, blindly unbuttoning his shirt to bare more of his skin. Nicky's hands card through his curls with great care and he sighs happily, moving to nip at Nicky's lovely collarbone. That's when he sees it, black lines over Nicky's pale skin.
“You have a tattoo,” he whispers, curious, unbuttoning Nicky's shirt further so he can tug it open and take a look.
Nicky lifts his head to look at him, groaning. “Yeah,” he answers, his dark eyes watching Joe, the expression on his face going a little self-conscious.
Joe stares for a few seconds, trying to come up with something positive to say. Nicky's tattoo is not terrible -it's not offensive or vulgar or anything like that, merely a dark swirl over his fair skin, the shape of a star left blank in the middle- but it's not... good, either. “Interesting use of negative space,” he finally settles on and Nicky slaps him across the thigh, laughing.
“No,” Joe defends, grinning as Nicky pulls him close for another kiss. “Truly.”
“Shut up,” Nicky says, nipping on his lower lip. “I know it's not good. I got it when I was young and stupid. And broke.”
“How old were you?” Joe asks, trying to picture it. He combs Nicky's hair away from his forehead, watching him.
“Nineteen.”
Joe traces his fingers back to the star inked on Nicky's chest. “I wonder what you looked like,” he muses, and Nicky groans.
“I looked like an idiot. A long-haired, Italian idiot, with a big nose and no fashion sense whatsoever.”
“Hot,” Joe teases. Nicky snorts, an ungraceful noise.
“I really was not. Ask anyone who knew me.”
Joe hums, tapping the tattoo gently. “You could get it covered up, if it bothers you. Or at least touched up, turned into something better.”
Nicky shrugs, his shoulder slipping out from his shirt. “I have to own up to being young and stupid, I think.”
“Growth,” Joe teases. Nicky openly rolls his eyes at him this time.
“You are killing the mood,” he complains and Joe grins, reaching out to put his hand on Nicky's inner thigh, stroking up lazily until he finds the hard line of his cock straining through his pants. Nicky goes still, his pale eyes dark and his cheeks pinking when Joe gives him an appreciative squeeze.
“Get out of your pants,” Joe requests, his voice lower than before. Nicky nods, standing up so he can unbuckle his belt and get out of his trousers. He's not particularly sexy about it, slipping one leg free and then the other, turning around to fold his jeans and set them over the back of Joe's desk chair.
“Dear Lord,” Joe says, taking in the sight of him in his white undershirt and underwear, shoulders wide and hips narrow, his chest lean in comparison to his strong thighs.
Nicky looks up, his eyebrows arched inquisitively.
“Get over here,” Joe requests, reaching out for Nicky with both hands. Nicky comes easily, chuckling low and pleased as they tumble into bed together again.
“Fuck,” Joe whispers, mouthing along the line of Nicky's collarbones, thumbs stroking over his nipples in a way that makes Nicky's hips arch up and grind against Joe. “You're so hot.”
Nicky lifts his head to watch him archly, his eyes dark and his lips wet, fingers tightening on Joe's shoulders. “This, coming from the most handsome man I've ever seen,” he returns, his voice too low to be reproachful.
“The most handsome man you've ever seen?” Joe teases and Nicky's hands go to his hair, tugging him up for another kiss.
“Right now? Yes.” Nicolo replies, simply. “Easy.” Before Joe can retort anything Nicky's starting on his jeans, tugging them open and pulling them down and off resolutely. Joe lifts his hips to help and smiles at the way Nicky pauses, both his hands reaching for Joe's thighs.
“You have tattoos too,” Nicky states. Joe gives him a small nod, looking at the way Nicky's fingers are going over the carefully etched words. It makes him shiver, his cock giving a very obvious jerk in his dark underwear.
“Poetry?” Nicky inquires, looking up.
“Emerson,” Joe reveals and Nicky hums, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.
“Fitting,” he decides, his tone playful, and Joe has to pull him up for a kiss, hot and filthy, his hips arching up to rock against Nicky's. He takes his time to learn what makes Nicky shiver and groan: a nip on the spot right under his ear, a strong squeeze at the back of his thighs, just under that fantastic ass of his.
Nicky seems to be in no rush to hurry this along either, nipping on Joe's jawline in return, his wide palms touching him all over, taking in the play of muscles under Joe's skin with obvious appreciation. He curses in Italian every time Joe does something particularly pleasurable, stroking the pad of his thumb over Joe's lips until he opens up and lets it in, suckling, his eyes dark.
Joe wants to see Nicky's big hand wrapped around the both of them, he decides, and tells him so. Nicky's hand is warm and a little calloused, and he strokes them at an even pace, lifting himself up on his elbow to watch Joe intently, asking him if it's good, if Joe likes it, his voice low and his accent growing stronger and stronger the closer he gets.
Joe comes with his head thrown back and his hand fisted in Nicky's hair.
***
Much later, Joe's face is smushed against Nicky's neck, stroking up and down his chest slowly, perfectly content. Nicky leans in to press a gentle kiss to his brow and Joe smiles.
“This was a good second date,” Nicky says, his voice rough and fond.
Joe lifts his head slowly. “This was a date?” he asks, his tone shocked and his face stunned, a perfect mimicry of surprise.
Nicolo's eyes go wide with betrayal.
***
There is a third date, of course. It involves an afternoon at the museum, Joe waxing poetics about the paintings he particularly likes and Nicky following him with a intent, fond look. Joe is fascinating when he speaks about something he's interested in, Nicky finds, and he's is quite happy to hold Joe's hand and walk through the museum with him.
From there they have dinner and drinks at a restaurant Nicky knows. They end up at Nicky's apartment this time (tiny, very neat), where Nicky proceeds to give Joe the most thorough blowjob he's ever received in his life, his mouth hot and relentless, sucking until Joe's hands are tight in his hair and he's almost sweated right through Nicky's bedsheet.
“I'm going to need a minute,” Joes warns as Nicky comes back from the bathroom, his arm still thrown over his face, lying boneless and damp on Nicky's bed. The pat Nicky gives his bicep feels fond, and a little condescending.
“Take your time.”
***
After that there is also a fourth date and it's so brilliant Joe immediately asks for a fifth. Before he knows it it's been weeks, months even. He's spent evenings watching TV on Nicky's quaint flower-patterned couch (“the old lady downstairs gave it to me, Joe, she likes me. I'm a very charming young man, you know.”
“I bet you are.”)
One evening, he looks up from the TV, his feet in Nicky's lap.
“Nicky?”
Nicky makes an inquisitive noise, his eyes still on the screen.
“This is a thing, right? You and I.”
Nicky pauses, taking a second to center himself before he turns to look at Joe with his eyebrows arched.
“Yes, Joe. This is a thing,” he answers, his eyes serious.
Joe grins. “Sweet.”
***
Nicky wants to go with Joe to the gym.
It's a new development; Nicky is more of a jogger and does not see the point in lifting weights or climbing endless flights of stairs while staying in exactly the same place. Joe knows this because Nicky has made it clear to him several times before.
“I thought you said the gym was dumb,” Joe tells him, putting his sneakers on. The weather is sweltering outside so he's only wearing a tank top and his favorite pair of sweat pants. When he looks up, Nicky's eyes are very dark.
“It's dumb,” Nicky confirms, eyes lingering on Joe's body is a way that immediately makes him hot under the collar. Joe pauses, suspicion entering his expression .
“Are you coming with me because you want to exercise, or do you just want to watch me sweat?” he asks, his voice lower.
To his credit, Nicky only looks a little like he was just caught red-handed. “Can't it be both?” he argues. Joe gives him a knowing grin, stepping closer slowly.
“It can. I get it. I like it when you come back from your jog red-faced and windswept, too. It's an attractive look.” Nicky tilts his head to the side slowly, his darkened eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement. He's standing his ground, letting Joe come near and rest his hands on his wide shoulders. “Your thighs look incredible in those shorts,” Joe adds, pointedly.
“Do they?” Nicky inquires, his tone silky.
“Yeah. You should wear tighter ones, though.” His hands stroke down Nicky's back slowly, watching him sway closer until they are pressed together, shoulder to hips. “These do not do you justice,” he points out, and gives Nicky's ass a squeeze.
“Buy me tighter shorts,” Nicky challenges. “I'll wear them.”
Joe's eyes light right up.
***
Joe does not end up going to the gym that day.
He doesn't think he can be disappointed though, not since he gets to show Nicky just how much work he's been putting into his core muscles as of late, demonstrating by boldly lifting him up and pressing him against the nearest wall, picture frames rattling. Nicky makes a noise at the back of his throat that sounds both embarrassed and very, very turned on, wrapping his thighs around Joe's waist to help.
“Was that what you were thinking about?” Joe whispers against Nicky lips between kisses, reveling in the way the words make him arch off the wall and rub against him frantically. “Why you wanted to come to the gym with me?”
“Maybe,” Nicky acknowledges, his voice low. “You've been going a lot, lately. A man gets ideas.”
Joe hums against Nicky's jaw, suckling a light bruise on the tender skin below just to make Nicky twitch. “What kind of ideas?” Joe inquires, though he knows. He just wants to hear Nicky say it, wants to see him tilt his head back and consider him heatedly, his lips parted over quiet pants.
“How long can you hold me up like this?” Nicky asks slyly, and Joe gives him a toothy grin.
“Let's find out.”
Pretty long, is the answer.
Long enough that Joe has time to press slick fingers inside Nicky, watching him bump the back of his head against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut against how good it feels. Long enough that he has time to pull them out too, to push Nicky higher, abs flexing with effort, and to line his cock up instead. Long enough, in the end, that he has time to let gravity inexorably pull Nicky down onto his cock over and over again, until Nicky bites into the crook of his shoulder with a wild groan, and comes.
***
“Nicolo?” Joe inquires. He is lying down with his head in Nicky's lap, Nicky's fingers going from gently stroking through his curly hair to turning the pages of his book slowly.
“I have a favor to ask,” Joe says and Nicky hums in response, setting the book aside for the time being.
“Ask?” he prompts, stroking the curls falling against Joe's forehead back.
“I got a commission,” Joe tells him, smiling up at Nicky's downturned face. “Through a friend. They knew I was looking for work, so when something cropped up they called me. It's not much, but they'll pay me for it.”
“That's nice?” Nicky answers, sounding genuinely happy for Joe. He's so kind, Joe thinks, it's unreal. “What's the commission?”
“A pizza box cover,” Joe reveals, grinning. “For an Italian restaurant. They want original art”
Nicky considers for a few seconds. “Do you think that's karma? For services to the great nation of Italy?”
“Services, uh?” Joe prompts cockily, waggling his eyebrows, and Nicky shakes his head down at him.
“Is the Italian restaurant good?
“I've never been. They're quite popular, especially their pizzas.” He considers Nicky, the corners of his lips curving up. “It's a pretty specific commission, too, not just some guy with an apron and a brick oven. They're right next to the gay district and apparently they're angling to get some of the guys to order there.”
“Not a bad idea,” Nicky agrees, his fingers resuming their soothing motion in Joe's hair. “There are lots of bars. Pizza sounds good when you are drunk.”
“Yeah. So they want...” Joe wriggles his phone out of his pocket, scrolling to find the message, “a sexy Italian chef. Not too Fabio-looking, nice mustache, possibly naked under the apron, feel free to show a little ass.”
“Right,” Nicky replies, amused. “Is that something you would be comfortable to draw?”
“Sure, yeah. I've drawn a few sexy men in my time.” Joe shrugs, smiling up to Nicky. He'll draw a pizza chef with his ass half out if it pays the bills.
“And so? Do you want my blessing for the Italian part?” Nicky asks, gesturing definitively with his hands. “It's fine, I don't think it's offensive. Draw a sexy pizzaiolo, it's okay by me. ”
“Thank you,” Joe chuckles, “but that wasn't what I was going to ask.” Nicky makes an interrogative noise and Joe grins wider. “I'm looking to make this as authentic as possible and I was wondering: would you be willing to model for me?”
***
“Okay now, first of all, you look great,” Joe says. Nicky makes a noise of sheer outrage at him. “Do you think you could give me less 'murder' though, and more 'the pizza here is good'?”
“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” Nicolo complains, adjusting the white chef's hat on his head. It's too big and keeps slipping to the side, sitting jauntily on Nicolo's dark hair. He's wearing a very unconvincing 70s porn star mustache and a white apron with no shirt underneath. Sadly, he has not agreed to removing his trousers as well.
(“I'm not posing with my ass out for a pizza box, Joe,” Nicky had protested.
“Fair enough,” Joe had agreed. “What about for my personal collection?”
“Incorrigible.”)
Joe shapes the general lines of Nicky's body, still grinning. “Hold the box higher? Facing towards me? When I'm finished, I'll also add the box design to the box in the painting.”
“Very meta,” Nicky approves, doing his best to show the front of the box.
“Right. Now look at me like you want to have sex with me and then feed me your delicious pizza.”
Nicky shoots him an unimpressed stare and Joe nods, laughing. “Oh yeah, baby, that's it.”
It takes the whole evening, with many breaks for them both to stretch out, Joe bringing Nicky grateful glasses of red wine and giving him kisses, complaining about the mustache.
They're both tipsy by the time Joe is finished with the part he needs a model for, closing his notebook. “Right. I'm good,” he decides. “Let's stop here.” He looks up just in time to see Nicky wriggling out of his trousers, adjusting his hat again.
“What are you doing?” Joe asks, slowly. Nicky smirks at him, shamelessly stepping out of his underwear.
“For your personal collection, si?”
Joe thinks he might be in love with this man.
**
“So,” Joe starts, taking a sip from his beer.
Booker crams an inelegant amount of chips into his mouth and arches his eyebrows at him.
“I've met a guy,” Joe says and Booker munches, not looking terribly surprised.
“Yeah,” he answers. Joe stares at him.
“How did you know?”
“You've been busy, recently,” Booker explains. “I know it's not your job, you hate that shit. When it's an art project, you usually tell me about it.” He shrugs. “So I figured, if you have less time to spend hanging out, it must be you're seeing someone else on the regular.” Booker washes down his mouthful of crisps with a sip of beer while Joe sits there, quietly amazed.
“How d'you meet him?” he asks. Joe bites down a smirk.
“He called the number on my truck.”
Booker pauses with the bottle halfway to his lips. “Fuck off.”
“It's true,” Joe defends, laughing.
“Is he even Italian? Or is he just a guy who gets off on calling numbers scrolled on bathroom stalls promising a good time?”
“He's Italian,” Joe confirms. “And you were right, I think I do have a thing for them. Or perhaps just this one.”
“Uh,” Booker returns, thoughtfully. He takes a minute to consider, his eyebrows furrowing. “I should charge you for this, I'm basically a matchmaker now,” he comments, a little indignant though Joe can see he's pleased for him too.
“I'll get you another beer,” he volunteers and Booker lifts his mostly empty bottle in assent.
“Cheers to that.”
***
Joe figures Nicky must have had a pretty similar chat with his two best friends as well, because soon after that he gets invited to have drinks with them. Quynh is friendly and talks animatedly about the archery competition she's got coming up. Andromache watches Joe through narrowed eyes, her shoulders very straight in her leather jacket, only uncrossing her arms to sip on her beer and hold Quynh's hand in her own.
“I like your friends,” Joe tells Nicky later, in bed.
Nicky smiles against his neck, giving Joe's hip a shake where he's holding him gently. “Even though they threatened violence if you ever break my heart?” he teases.
“Because they threatened violence if I ever break your heart,” Joe corrects, huffing. “How did you know? They waited until you were in the bathroom.” Nicky shrugs, like he's used to it.
“They're good friends. They said you passed the test, for now.”
“Lucky me,” Joe says, leaning down to kiss him.
***
Joe comes home after a long day at work with bags of takeout and a pack of beer. There's a football match tonight and the thought of it has sustained him all day, through long hours stuck in traffic and rude customers. It's Italy versus France again, and Joe is definitely not betting anything this time.
He unlocks the door and shoulders it open, dropping his keys in the little dish by the door. “It's me,” he calls. He can hear the TV in the other room, Nicky and Booker chatting amiably over the commercials. These two get along suspiciously well, Joe thinks. It's been nice so far, but he's fully aware it may very well backfire on him at some point.
“Come in, tesoro,” Nicky calls from the living room, “we've got everything ready.”
“Yeah, tesoro, get your ass over here, it's going to start any time now,” Booker calls in turn, before making an indignant noise. Joe would like to imagine Nicky kicked him in the shins.
“Revenge, buddy!” Joe responds, removing his shoes and combing his fingers through his wild curls. His hair is getting long and yet he doesn't want to cut it. Nicky seems to like it like that anyway, judging by how often he runs his fingers through it. “This time, Italy is definitely winning. Nicky, you're with me, right? We'll show them.”
“Joe,” Nicky returns, and there is something in his voice Joe can't quite decipher. “Joe, I love you very much.”
“Yeah? I love you t-” Joe steps into the living room and freezes. “No,” he says, staring. Nicky and Booker are sitting on the couch side by side, drinking wine. Nicky is wearing a French flag around his shoulders and a wide, mischievous grin. Booker has the smugest look on his face Joe has ever seen, and that's saying something.
“Oh, come on,” Joe complains, rubbing at his forehead. He sits down between them.