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London, 1886
“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this” Nicky scowled at his reflection in the mirror as he finished buttoning up his waistcoat. The number of layers of clothing so-called polite society demanded in modern times was ludicrous. For all their innovation and industry, some corners of the world seemed to be constricting, not expanding.
He doesn’t like London. None of them like England very much, and probably never will again after the loss of Quynh, those bastards. But London especially is smoggy and stuffy in more ways than one and Nicky can’t breathe.
Stupid waistcoat.
And shirt collars and cravats, Christ Almighty.
“Don’t let Andrea hear you speak like that” comes a soft voice and Nicky turns to see Joseph, as he was now, watching him bemusedly, shoulders and ankles crossed as he leans in the doorway, already fully dressed in similar finery.
Santa maria, madre di dio, Joseph was beautiful. And now, in his own crisp white shirt and emerald green waistcoat, the lightest dusting of stubble. The broadness of his chest, the trimness of his waist. Perhaps there are some advantages. He had forgotten how fetching Joseph was like this.
“No” Nicky concedes, hands on his hips. Their work did not often require them to be so formally attired but when it did they all felt a pang of sympathy for Andrea, who had to shuffle about weighed down by petticoats. It did not diminish her ability to fight, she was too skilful for that, but it wasn’t comfortable in the slightest. Nicky’s fingers had ached from pulling on the strings of her corset, and it just reinforced his point, what in the hell was the point of these ladies fashions if you had to have someone help you into them, just to wear them? He had not had to have such assistance since the Crusades and at least that armour had made sense to him. Not this…silken frippery they were forced into for simply walking about in.
“But Andrea is not here, hayati” Nicky reminds Joe traitorously, after a moment, smiling when his lover laughs gently. No, when they had realised the formal attire this meeting would require (who discusses raiding an arms factory in the Savoy of all places anyway? If it weren’t for the fact that the man concerned was renowned as a genius and simply wanted them to blow the place up so the weapons couldn’t be used, by anyone, they might not have bothered) the two of them had volunteered, to spare Andrea the discomfort. She had stayed with Sebastien, to comfort and distract the young immortal as best she could.
They could only hope time really would lessen his pain, especially of Jean-Pierre. He was so young. They both were.
Nicky jumps, jolted away from the memory of Sebastien’s heartbroken features when they had left the others at Calais at the feeling of Joe’s arms encircling his waist to pull him close and lay his head on Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky hums, soaking in the warmth that bleeds from Joe like sunlight, bright and replenishing.
“I still hate this,” he says, mostly to feel the reverberation of Joe’s laughter rumble behind him.
“You should not. You are a vision, love”
Nicky snorts at his, ugh, terrifically polished, shoes and tucks an errant lock behind his ear bashfully. Joe’s embrace changes, for a moment Nicky fears he is being somewhat punished for his lack of acknowledgement but although Joe’s arms unfurl, it is simply so that his large hands can splay like iron bands on the curve of Nicky’s waist, made clearer by the silky silver waistcoat. As is the possessiveness of Joe’s touch.
A moan gathers in the back of Nicky’s throat and he presses back against Joe, leans into the touch, hands coming up to cover Joe’s own.
Joe is the one who looks heavenly and Nicky eyes him hungrily, and Joe’s reflection, because he is Joe, fucking winks.
It is too much. Spinning in Joe’s grasp, Nicky wraps his hands around the back of Joe’s neck and pulls him in, smearing hot kisses against his mouth. Joe chuckles into his mouth and kisses back with fervour, doing nothing to slow the pace because they’ve got an appointment to keep after all. But then Joe unleashes a spurt of strength, twisting them so that he is the one pressing Nicky back into the wall. His mouth trails away to Nicky’s jaw, and then latches onto his throat left vulnerable from the loathsome buttons Nicky had been delaying fastening.
“Joe, Joe, Joe” Nicky can’t help but gasp, he can’t catch his breath in this fucking waistcoat, head thunking back against the panelling when Joe’s only answer is a pleased hum as he shoves his thigh between Nicky’s legs.
“I know, my love, I know. By Allah, I wish you could see yourself. Curse this infernal meeting, you are perfection. I find daily proof of it and these clothes merely accentuate that” Joe’s hands are everywhere at once; his waist, his hip, his ass as Joe peppers kisses with his compliments against Nicky’s smooth skin.
He pulls back, chucks a hand under Nicky’s chin so that they are looking each other in the eye, “I’m going to fuck you tonight, yes?”
“Yes, God, please Joe” Nicky begs, hands curling into the lapels of Joe’s own waistcoat to haul Joe back in because if they’re very fast and very good, both of which Joe certainly is then Joe can fuck him now too.
And Joe lists forward to press lush, lax kisses to Nicky’s mouth before pulling away again. And Joe talks, Joe has words for everything but his mouth is still swollen and his eyes are molten and if Andrea wouldn’t have both their guts for garters if they miss the meeting and the details of the arms factory, then Nicky knows Joe wouldn’t stop, even for the Apocalypse and Nicky knows he looks just as wrecked.
“I know, amore mio, I know. Later” he promises, pressing the word into the join where Nicky’s shoulder meets his neck. “Later, hayati, I will unwrap you like the gift you are and not let you up until you are boneless and sated but right now we have to go. And I have to sit next to you looking wholly divine and not do anything about it till we get back here” Joe huffs like he’s laying out a battle strategy.
Nicky stares at him, because when is he not, really, and then his eyes catch sight of the clock on the wall by the door and he swears softly. They really, really do have to leave. Fuck.
“And do your shirt up. All the way, habibi.” Joe commands leaning in to suck one last kiss to the little hollow of flesh below Nicky’s Adam’s apple which his shirt collar will cover anyway even if such a bruise could last on their skin. Joe smiles, soft and small though his voice holds an entirely different type of warmth, “Later” he promises, as Nicky’s answering kiss grazes his cheekbone and stepping clear, disappearing to the door of their hotel suite to collect their jackets.
Nicky lets out a breath to re-centre himself, willing his hardness to go away.
“And the cravat!” Joe shouts from the little sitting-room, because, of course, he knows Nicky far too well by now.
Sometimes, he thinks, Nicky could quite cheerfully kill his husband if he hadn’t done it so much already. “Divine, infuriating, angelic...” Nicky confides to his reflection as he does up the last two of his shirt buttons effectively cutting off the majority of his air supply for the next two hours because it’s been decades since he’s been able to insult Joe properly. He snatches up the cravat from where he’d left it draped over the mirror and ties it on. Ugh.
“Vaffanculo,” he says with one last glance at the fine garments, thumb rubbing over the slim rolled silver band on his ring finger, a secret blessing since it is inconceivable to these idiots that two married businessmen sharing a suite as they travel together could possibly be married to each other and immediately feels better.
They make it the Savoy with time to spare and having given their aliases to the maitre d’ are just wending their way towards their client's table when someone calls, “Nicky?”
One of the most irritating things about immortality is trying not to react when a stranger calls your name. Nicky and Joe both freeze and when the call doesn’t come again, they relax and make to continue. Just someone else. Some other Nicky. It happens, especially with their more modern nicknames.
And then, “Nicky Grey, I thought it was you!” the man collides with Nicky, pulling him into a hug and Joe swears quietly. Because it’s Oscar Wilde.
They had met him once, a few years ago. Too many years ago really to a mortal, and now he is older and Nicky looks as young as ever.
Shit.
Oscar pulls back. “But, my goodness, my dear boy! Look at you. You seem not to have aged a day!” Oscar smiles kindly though he’s quick (and clever and they need to lose him). And then he spots Joe. “And Joseph too, what a reunion! We must catch up, please. I’m with my friend Robbie, you’ll love him –“
They’ve been found out. Nicky thinks quickly. They know London well, better than anyone living despite all its changes and they could lose Wilde easily. But the information. The arms factory. Rescheduling would be better, they can still have the meeting. But it loses them time, and the client is insistent about his schedule anyway. Damn, damn. Nicky looks at Oscar and smiles, he’s kind really. He just thinks they’ve aged well, rather than noticing they haven’t aged at all. Maybe they can trust that won’t say anything. What would he say, it’s not as if he’s seen them die or be injured? They can have their meeting and leave out the back and leave England for a hundred years.
Joe nods, almost imperceptibly when he sees where Nicky’s going with this. So Nicky babbles something about a meeting and not knowing how long it will go on and they’ll try and catch him later as they scurry away.
It’s only when they’ve managed to find the client’s partner, a doctor, and convinced him that such a sensitive mission ought not to be discussed in the Savoy’s crowded tea room, despite the benefits of hiding in a crowd, that they relax and get down to business.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen. My friend ought to be here too, but he’s not the most, ah, punctual when working on a case I’m afraid”
Joe waves off the apology, as the two of them take their seats and he casts a sideways glance at Nicky, eyes dragging down Nicky’s body in a way that makes Nicky stiffen and he winks, because now that he’s more himself, Joe can’t resist a good pun. “Please. We’ve got all the time in the world”
****
Florence, present day
Nicky still really, really hates formal wear. Especially suits.
Okay, that’s a slight over-exaggeration and not exactly true. He’s glad that formal wear is now for wanting to look especially nice for nice, special occasions like the first birthday of Quynh’s that they will be celebrating in 500 years. Together, as a family, that is not Nicky slipping out to the nearest church to light a candle, in the memory of the sister he had lost.
No, to be precise Nicky hates suits because he has to see Joe in them and then is not immediately allowed to take Joe out of them. Like unwrapping a gift, Joe had said once. But sadly it’s not his birthday for another few months and if they ruin Quynh’s birthday with their ‘sexcapades’ (as Nile has christened it) then Andy will have their guts for garters. No, they have to go somewhere, in public and keep their hands to themselves like the most exquisite torture.
He blows out the match and leaves it beside the last of the five candles he has just lit, this time in thanks for his family and their safe unity. Exiting the little chapel, he strolls hands in pockets through the halls of the palazzo. That’s another nice thing about modern clothing, it’s so much faster. He’d had the first shower and knowing that it was best to leave their room while Joe got ready so that they can successfully leave the house and Andy will not disembowel them, he’d decided to go to the chapel. The palazzo’s been theirs since just before the Pazzi Conspiracy. They thought there’d been peace in the city. They all had, and the thought of it makes Nicky’s blood curdle at the very memory. They had been in Siena that week. By the time they got back, Giuliano was long dead and Lorenzo a changed man, and three men’s bodies hung from the side of the Palazzo Vecchio.
It had reminded Nicky and Joe horribly of the Crusades and they had withdrawn, as they often did, to Malta until they could find some good to do.
But now is not the time for ghosts, but light and love and living. Nicky had intended to sit in the open courtyard and enjoy the silent warmth of the night air as he waited for the others but to his delight, he finds that Nile is already there.
She’s sitting curled up on a stone bench, reading. Her hair is a cascade of braids tonight and she looks like a goddess in her long white summer dress. He hangs back a moment, not wanting to disturb her if she’s worlds away in her book but then Nile looks up anyway and waves him over with a smile when she sees him.
“Tesoro, you are stunning” he murmurs as he bends to kiss her head before taking a seat beside her. Nile grins, flushing prettily at the compliment. “You too,” and she laughs when he winks. “hey, grey, actually hang on that’s a point”
Nicky glances down at his clothing, wondering what the colour of his blazer has to do with anything. Nile holds up her book, eyes bright.
Ah. Oscar. Another ghost.
“I know you were in London and Paris a lot in the 1800s according to Booker and I just wondered, did you ever meet Oscar Wilde?” Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that, with the turn, her life has taken, Nile would have picked up a copy of Dorian Grey.
Nicky opens his mouth, and in an act of truly impressive ventriloquism, Joe’s voice comes out “He inspired him”
“What?!” Nile spins, revealing Joe standing behind them looking devastatingly handsome in his own navy jacket and crisp white shirt, rings glinting on his fingers. Fuck. Fuck. Nicky takes a deep, meditative breath. He will be good. He will be very, very good and then after dinner, they will go out for drinks and after that, they will come home and have a lot of sex.
Joe smirks at him appreciatively but then his smile softens as he holds out a hand for Nile and spins her into a hug. “Sweetheart, you look as beautiful as ever,” he says, holding her gently.
Then, he plucks the copy of Dorian Grey from Nile’s fingers and deftly folds the page so she won’t lose her place. “We met Oscar twice, completely by accident. You know the rule”
“No repeats”
“Precisamente,” Joe leads the way of the short distance back to where Nicky is watching and steps into the open space between his legs, dropping a soft kiss to Nicky’s mouth, fingering the red silk tie he wears and depositing the book at the same time. Nicky knows full well that Joe disapproves of that particular work, given its portrayal of immortality. But Oscar was working on a theory and an outsider's perspective. And Joe won’t try to talk Nile out of reading it tonight. “He saw Nicky, in all his youthful beauty and he got an idea”
“Oh my God, Nicky, you’re Dorian Grey?!”
“Not really,” Nicky tells her, flushing under her impressed gaze.
“No, not really given the whole creepy fucking painting thing and deals with the devil and stuff” she shudders, “but – I mean, is there like a piece of art or history you’re not responsible for?”
She’s such a sweet kid, she gives them far too much credit really.
“No” Joe answers for him and behind them, Andy -who looks fantastic in a deep purple blouse and black skinny jeans - and Booker in his own sharp suit start retching, as they come within earshot. Quynh, bless her, beautiful in her own red dress, long hair elegantly plaited, coos and tugs on Andy’s hand to make them wait, instead of charging off to the restaurant as a means of escape.
Joe shrugs, but his smile curves like his scimitar as he says “Talent borrows, genius steals”
Nicky snorts at the reference, “You, amore mio, are a holy terror”
“Habibi," Joe protests, eyes wide with fake hurt "I have nothing to declare but my genius”
Nicky groans, laughing into his hands. But when he looks up, he can’t help but smile at Joe’s pleased, handsome face.
“Either the wallpaper goes or I do!” Andy calls, ruining the moment.
Nicky stands, taking Joe’s hand in his and holding on tight, ready to go.
“All the walls are covered in frescos” Nile whispers beside them in confusion, having not caught the references. Nicky and Joe smile at her, and Joe’s laugh when it comes rumbles with that beloved cadence, eyes crinkling beautifully as he whispers conspiratorially back at her.
“Oh Nile, sweetheart, for Andy that is wallpaper”
“I heard that”