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Nicky’s not a poet – never was, never will be. That is Joe, not him.
He’s sure that if love could kill him, he’d die multiple times every single day, he’d spend every waking moment of his life in an endless circle of death and resurrection.
But it doesn’t kill him.
Instead, it simmers under his skin like red-hot coal, flaring to life with every touch, with every kiss, with the soft caress of words whispered into his skin at night. It feels like the flames are trying to consume him, but he heals too fast to let them.
It squeezes his heart and lungs every time he sees Joe die, it steals his breath away in the worst possible way, and does not let up until Joe takes a gasping breath, heart beating anew. It hurts, and bearing the pain does not get any easier, no matter how much time passes.
Sometimes, he gives up, stops fighting it. Allows the fire in his heart to burn freely, to show in his eyes, his kiss, his every heartbeat. It’s in the first breath after waking, in the last gasp before death.
If love can’t kill him, he thinks quietly to himself, it will be the pain of watching Joe suffer. The pain of watching him die. The ever-present, nagging voice in the back of his head, asking him: what if this is it? What if this is the last time?
So he savours every touch, every kiss, every shared moment. Not because he thinks any of them might be the last, but because he can. And there is no divine being above that can take that from him, from them.
“You’re thinking too much again,” Joe mutters, words slurred against the back of his neck, heavy with sleep. Nicky sighs, turns around and presses his lips to Joe’s.
“I love you,” he says, and it is not enough. It never is. “I love you,” he whispers into Joe’s skin, and writes poetry with the flames under his fingertips.