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Originally the idea had been that their whole group of friends was going to pool their savings together to buy a house. They thought — fuck this whole system, fuck evictions, fuck trying to be stable adults, fuck it all, let’s all chip in together and actually set up the friend commune.
If Nicky thought the idea seemed a bit impractical given that Andy and Quynh’s relationship was a bit stormy — well, he didn’t really know how to voice it, and he loved them, and he wasn’t sure it would ever get as far as them owning a place anyway. It was a fun idea, if your idea of fun was scrolling through zoopla listings and groaning. Which his wasn’t, but Joe seemed surprisingly into it.
And that was it, really. He couldn’t say no when Joe was texting the groupchat listings of wildly impractical castles in Scotland. “Look at the furnishings in this one!”
“Send it to your parents,” Nile said. “Maybe they’ll get it for you for Christmas.”
Joe’s response was just a photo of his middle finger. And the emoji. More than one emoji. “🖕🏼🖕🏼🖕🏼”
It soon settled into a rhythm. Joe would send listings and enthuse about the interior design. Quynh would dig down into the details of the listing and explain legal terminology and constantly try and explain why leasehold was for suckers. Booker would complain that there wasn’t going to be any room for his books. Nile would say that the house was ugly and that she didn’t want to buy a house with them anyway. Andy would only respond in emoji. And Nicky… he’d normally just agree with Joe. He’d try not to be too obvious about it. But basically, yeah, he came to understand that they shared the same kind of taste when it came to interior design, location, mostly everything else. If Joe had been curating interior design pinterest boards then Nicky would have wanted to follow along.
It wasn’t a major surprise, but also. Nicky hadn’t been to Joe’s current flat yet, one he’d picked out at the tail end of a dead end relationship. He lived in fucking Crouch End and it was a pain to get to and when Nicky had tried to help him move he’d refused and said I’m paying professional movers so that I don’t have to think about it. So Nicky just hadn’t ever gone there. In what was now getting on for close to a year, he had never visited. Instead, they usually ended up drinking questionable alcohol-free beer and whatever kombucha Nile had tried making recently at Andy and Quynh’s property guardianship down in Walthamstow. Nicky lived in a shitty studio flat in Stratford, Nile was in postgrad housing with UCL. And Booker lived out in fucking Hertfordshire.
So Walthamstow suited them all well enough. And the house Andy and Quynh (and various other weirdos they barely knew) were living in was basically a manor, if you ignored the fact that half of it was derelict and they could be turfed out at a moment’s notice. There was room. For now.
Nicky couldn’t ever live somewhere as messy and insecure as their guardianship. His little studio flat was horrible and his rent was too high. But the landlord mostly seemed to forget he was there, he’d painted his walls, he had been in the same place for five years, and it was fine. It was fine.
Which didn’t explain why Nicky spent more and more time examining the houses and maisonettes and flats Joe was sending to the groupchat. They got more realistic over time. As Nile made it clear she wasn’t in a position to buy anything, as Booker stopped replying to messages, as Andy and Quynh were more off-again than they were more on-again.
Until it reached the point where one night, when Nicky had finally made it all the way up to Crouch End to drink a fucking shrub (okay it was delicious but it was mostly vinegar) on Joe’s sofa because the rest of them weren’t free, and Joe was looking up at the ceiling. It wasn’t a nice ceiling. The flat was big and light and nice. But the ceiling was uneven and prone to mould. “I do actually have enough for a deposit,” Joe said. He sounded apologetic but realistic. “I do want to try and buy a flat. It’s hard to get a mortgage when you’re freelance.”
“But your work sells,” Nicky said. “You can show them your tax returns.”
“I know,” Joe said.
“It’s stupid that it’s all based on fucking wages. Any of us with a job could be made redundant tomorrow. But art lasts.”
“I’m not sure the art market lasts,” Joe said, wryly.
“Still,” Nicky said. He watched Joe out of the side of his eye. Joe was looking up at the ceiling, then over at the ugly windows, then back again.
“I guess I always thought…” Joe started, then he hesitated, then he started again. “I guess I always thought that by my early thirties I’d have it all sorted out, just like my parents did when they were my age. I’d be in a serious relationship, I’d be buying a place to live with my partner, and then that would be it. My life would be stable and sorted.”
There was a long pause. “I’m glad you didn’t buy anywhere with fucking Freddie though,” Nicky said.
“Freddie was nice.”
“But you didn’t want to live with him, did you.”
Joe sighed. “No.”
Another pause. “What about you?” Joe asked.
“I thought that by my early thirties I’d be living in a monastery and would have resigned all care for worldly things like leases and ground rent.”
“I thought monasteries were major landowners,” Joe said.
“In my fantasy world, nobody can own land,” Nicky said. “Anyway. I have thought about trying to buy a studio. Library money isn’t spectacular but maybe I could afford a studio like the one I’m currently renting. But it seems like a lot of work for something that isn’t any better than what I have now. And it’s not like I’ve exactly found anyone to share the burden with either.”
Joe nodded. His eyelashes were very pretty, Nicky thought. They were really so thick and elegant.
“I was wondering,” Joe said, after a while. “I know the friendship house never worked out, but how about we make a go of it? A friendship flat? I can put in more towards the deposit if you like, my parents keep giving me money in the hopes that I’ll stop renting. If I invest it in a flat maybe they’ll stop bankrupting themselves.”
Nicky stopped himself from immediately protesting. He felt his pride rise up, and he listened to it, and waited for it to slip away. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “It sounds nice. But what happens when you fall in love and want to live with your partner?”
Joe laughed. “It doesn’t last,” he said. “I can’t imagine anything more stable than friendship. This one, I mean.”
Nicky knew what he meant, and yet. And yet. “Ask me again in six months,” he said. And he meant it.
And six months later, Joe asked again. He was helping Nicky fix a broken shelf in his studio flat, there was a rotten part of a windowsill, and Nicky was so tired. “We should buy a place together,” Joe said. “I do mean it, you know. Fuck this whole idea that you have to be married to someone to buy a place together. That’s not the only way people should live.”
Nicky laughed and laughed and sat down hard on the floor. “I thought you’d totally forgotten about that,” he said. Joe had been dating a woman called Nina for a few months and Nicky had somehow thought—
“Never,” Joe said. Hand pressed to his chest.
“What about Nina,” Nicky said.
“What about her,” Joe said, his voice flat. Nicky shrugged.
“She might be surprised that you’re buying a flat with someone else. Since you’re dating her.”
Joe shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. Nina has a very vigorous dating life and she lives in a squat with her girlfriend. I’m the occasional fun.”
It hadn’t seemed that occasional to Nicky, but he was somehow… relieved to hear this news. “Okay,” he said.
“Okay?” Joe said.
“I think we should do it,” Nicky said. He reached out a hand to Joe, and they shook on it. “You’re right,” Nicky said, unnecessarily. “Our friendship. It is very stable.” Did that make them boring? Did that mean that they could never change? He didn’t know. He hoped not. But they could be trusted, probably, to live in the same building. In the same flat.
Joe smiled. “And we make each other happy. We live compatible lives.”
”We will go very well together,” Nicky said, seriously. “I think I have spent too long alone.”
“I can’t tell,” Joe said. His eyes crinkled with fond joy. “I think this was a very good idea.”
”Yes, yes, you are a genius,” Nicky said. “Who has always said that to you? Me. But now you need to find us somewhere to live.”
—
The thing was that as the two of them trailed around open houses and flat viewings together, Nicky liked to daydream that the reason they wanted two bedrooms wasn’t so they could live separate lives. No, no, they were going to share the big bedroom, of course. The second room was their study, or Joe’s live-in studio, or their library, or their spare room where friends could sleep when they needed a place to stay.
Some of the estate agents assumed they were a couple. Sometimes Joe would correct them, and sometimes he’d just smile, a twinkle in his eye. Nicky would feel a slight lump in his throat, but only for a second. Joe had said their friendship was stable. It was. And Nicky couldn’t jeopardise that. He was happy with this. He was happy with what they had built, what they were building. He was happy with two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, a kitchen with a skylight, a living room, maybe even a balcony. He was happy with taking the smaller room. He was happy with separate bookshelves. He was happy with a shared collection of DVDs. This was the shape of their relationship, and of the centre of his life. He was happy with it. It was what the inside of his brain looked like. It was what he knew.
—
The flat they found was somewhere in East London, not too far from a reservoir where they could go swimming together on Sunday mornings. The floors were exposed wood, and the kitchen was big but the living room was a bit small. “It’s fine,” Joe said as they deliberated over the details. “We can open up that wall between them. Or I can just sit in the kitchen and watch you cook.”
“I understand now that I will be your live-in chef,” Nicky said. “The deal is over, Joe.”
“You break my heart,” Joe said, fluttering those eyelashes, pressing a hand to his forehead in a crude mimic of a swoon. “You wound me to my soul.”
Nicky looked at him, a small crease in his eyebrows.
“Ouch,” Joe said, as if Nicky hadn’t understood that he was pretending to be upset.
“Si, si, nobody has ever suffered as you do,” Nicky said. “Tell me, Joe. Are you expecting breakfast in bed every day, or only on Fridays? And do you take jam on your toast, or only butter?”
Joe’s hands found the ticklish spot on Nicky’s ribs, and the conversation devolved into laughter and nonsense.
Their offer was accepted the next morning. What followed was paperwork. The rest was easy, so natural it almost hurt. Why had they never thought about living together before?
—
“There’s not room for everyone in here,” Quynh said, arm in arm with Andy as they received the grand tour. “Hey, where am I going to store all my treasures?”
“Yeah, Joe,” Andy said. “What about our treasures.”
“Get your own place,” Joe said. He waggled his eyebrows.
And a year or so later, to everybody’s surprise, they did.
—
“Wait, what’s through here,” Booker asked, indicating a closed door.
“That’s Nicky’s bedroom,” Joe said. “He’s been too busy with work to unpack so it’s mostly just his bed and boxes in there still.”
Nicky grimaced from his seat on the sofa which wrapped around the corner of their new living room. He was sipping on a cup of green tea, only just now getting over a headache. “Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Joe said.
“No, don’t you be stupid,” Booker said. “He’s got his own room?”
“I live here too,” Nicky said. “What, you thought I’d be sleeping on the sofa?”
“That is definitely not what he thought,” Andy said. She and Quynh were putting together a flat-pack bookcase and not letting anyone else help.
Nile hummed as she flicked through one of Joe’s many art magazines. She whispered the word awkward under her breath, and Nicky almost laughed. He tried to sink back against the window, and into the night sky.
—
“Friends buy flats together,” Joe said. “Right? Isn’t that what we were all going to do?”
“Yeah, I know. Forget I said anything.”
Joe was curling a lock of hair around his fingers in frustration. “It just feels like—“ he stopped. “Like you think that’s the only way this can work.”
“I don’t think that,” Booker said. “I actually think friends buying together is probably a better idea than when my wife and I bought together.”
“So, what, what are you not saying,” Joe said.
Nicky didn’t hear the reply. He turned away, and Booker was whispering so quietly. Dragging Joe into a kitchen cupboard. Furious.
Nicky found out much later what Booker said to Joe in reply. What Booker said was: “I didn’t think you were sharing a room because I don’t think friends can live together. I thought you were sharing a room because you’re in love with him. And he loves you too.”
Joe rested his forehead on Booker’s shoulder for a moment, and then pushed him away. “We’ve got it sorted,” he said. “No thanks to you.”
—
It took another few weeks before the topic came up again. Nicky was prodding a fork at a rubbery piece of polenta that Joe had cooked, and Joe said. “Remember when we were thinking about buying a place together,”
“Yes,” Nicky said. “And then we did it. Look.”
Joe looked around, despite himself. “Yes, you’re very clever. You told me you were worried I’d fall in love and want to live with my partner instead of you.”
“Yes,” Nicky said. He fiddled with the fork. “I did worry about that.”
“What about you?” Joe asked.
“What about me.” Nicky felt his face stiffen. He tried to relax, and couldn’t.
“Couldn’t you fall in love with someone, and want to move in with them instead of me?”
“No.”
“Why not you?”
“I know my own heart,” Nicky said. He hoped that would be enough. He’d been thinking things over recently, but it felt almost impossible to put it into words. When this life, this arrangement, perhaps depended on him not doing that. He was stable. He was safe. He was a platonic friend who would always be there. Wasn’t he?
“Nicky,” Joe began.
“Joe.”
“Come on. You’ve dated before. You’re beautiful. Why not you?”
“I told you,” Nicky said. He felt his heart thrumming against his chest at Joe’s questions — at the word beautiful. “I know my own heart.”
“What does that mean,” Joe said. He wouldn’t let it go.
“How could I love anyone more than you,” Nicky said. His heart croaked. His throat was ragged. He reached out a hand to hold Joe’s arm, to make him understand.
“As a friend,” Joe said. He looked at Nicky as if he was trying to figure him out. And Nicky didn’t know how to make himself legible to that look. Didn’t know how to respond. Joe looked at him as if he was worried. Nicky didn’t know what he was worried about. It didn’t have to change. Maybe it didn’t have to change.
“Yes,” Nicky said. He took a deep breath. And another.
—
Joe started bringing people back to the flat after that. They’d never discussed it beforehand, but he was so respectful, so meticulous. First there was Nina, then there was a man called Mo he’d met on an app, then there was Francis whose studio was across the hall from Joe’s, and then there was Jo. Nicky didn’t know anything about Jo. They usually stayed the night, and Joe made them breakfast after Nicky had left for work in the morning, and then they were gone. He cleaned up after them. Did the dishes. Told Nicky about them over dinner.
“Mo works in libraries too,” Joe would say. “He says he’s got two contracts right now — one in Croydon and one in Enfield.”
“Ouch,” Nicky said, with sympathy.
“That’s what I said.”
Sometimes Nicky had to work at the weekend, and he’d always hated weekend shifts. It felt ungodly to be at work when he could be sleeping or spending time with his friends or at the cinema or reading or just… not working. Wasn’t that what the weekend was for? He’d come home to find Joe had cooked dinner for both of them. Homemade pasta perfected over the first few months they’d spent sharing a kitchen. His polenta was getting better.
Joe’s studio wasn’t far away, and he’d sometimes make it home late at night, exhausted and happy, with paint in his hair. Or glue stuck between his thumb and index finger. Or the smell of coffee surrounding him like a fog. Or he’d be back home hours before Nicky, grumbling over nothing, and still the most beautiful thing Nicky had ever seen.
Nicky didn’t hate them. But he found himself feeling less and less charitable. He found himself thinking one afternoon, after Joe tried to explain who Jo was, sounding more and more like a character in a farce, that he just didn’t care. Couldn’t care. And he was going to have to do something about it.
Wasn’t he? Could he? He sat in the kitchen staring out of the window across at the building across the fence. It was painted a very ugly shade of grey.
He thought again about their flat and the shape of his life. A few boxes stacked next to each other. He wanted to be here. He wanted to always be here. But if that was all he wanted, if that was what he tried to conserve to the detriment of everything else — in the end it might feel like painting his whole life grey.
Maybe he should try. Maybe he wanted something else. Not only this.
Unfortunately, before Nicky had time to work out what exactly he wanted to do, Joe was away for a few days visiting his sister in Amsterdam. Nicky would come home from work, look over at the slightly ajar door to Joe’s bedroom, and forget for a moment that Joe wasn’t there. That Joe wasn’t about to lean out of his doorway and ask what Nicky wanted to do about dinner.
Nicky took out his phone. He typed out a message, then deleted it. Typed out another one. Deleted it. Typed out “Miss you,” and sent it.
—
“You said you know your own heart,” Joe said. After all that, and all that time for Nicky to ruminate and plan, it was Joe who made the next move. Or maybe he only did it because as he came through the door Nicky looked at him as if he wanted to eat him, held out his arms, and said, “you came back to me.” And Nile liked to say that Joe was the dramatic one.
Joe came home and put his bag on the floor and looked at Nicky, really looked at him, and he crumpled up onto the sofa, his head resting on Nicky’s arm. Nicky had been reading, but he carefully put the book down and rested his hands in Joe’s hair instead. He felt his fingers tingle.
“Yes,” Nicky said. He rubbed at Joe’s scalp. “I do. You have it.”
“Then why didn’t you say that,” Joe said. He twisted so he could look right up into Nicky’s face. “Why didn’t you explain what that means.”
Nicky screwed up his face. “‘I can’t imagine loving anyone as much as I love you’,” he said, again. He meant it as much this time as he had before. “You then asked if I meant that as a friend.”
“Because I was scared that’s what you meant!”
Nicky continued to rub at Joe’s scalp until he pushed his hands away and sat up. “I can say with some certainty,” Joe said. “I can say with certainty that I don’t think I could ever love anyone as much as I love you. As a friend, or otherwise. Terrible man. Look at how you’ve got me twisting your words.”
And then, of course, they kissed. And then, of course, they went to bed. Pressing each other down into the sheets. A window slightly open. The smell of coffee clinging to Joe’s hands, and later on in Nicky’s hair.
—
Nicky’s bed was bigger, but Joe had the master bedroom. It only took them a week to sort all of these things out.
It turned out Nicky’s old room made a perfectly nice home library. And the heavy wooden desk Andy found them in an antique shop was sturdy enough that pressing up against it together and leaning their bodies on it and kissing and holding each other while leaning most of their combined body weight on it did no damage at all. “It will outlast us,” Joe said.
“Stop talking please,” Nicky said. “You’re always so romantic about furniture. You’re supposed to love me.”
“I love you even more than the secret drawer in the wooden desk,” Joe said. “Open up for me.”
Nicky stepped closer. “I’m open,” he said. “You have me.” He wondered if there really was a secret drawer, or if this was more of Joe’s terrible furniture romanticism again.
The clock was ticking on the wall. Nicky smiled and relaxed as Joe pressed his mouth to his throat, then touched his thumb to Nicky’s lower lip. The walls were yellow. There were flowers on the windowsill. Nicky knew Joe’s heart as well as his own. And the radio in the kitchen was playing some old disco record that made him want to dance. So he did. And Joe moved along with him. He always did.