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It takes a few months, but things feel . . . normal is perhaps not the right word, not for their long and unusual existences, but things feel balanced and very nearly whole. Nile fills spaces none of them knew were empty, her vitality and curiosity and compassion shoring them up, and Nicky hopes that he and Joe and Andy have been able to do the same for her. They’d cautiously taken on a job together, the four of them, and when that went well, they’d done another, and another, and they complement each other so thoroughly that Nicky can’t quite figure how they managed for so many, many years without her.
Nicky muses about that as he holds a little bundle of mint up to his nose and inhales deeply, does the same with a bunch of basil, distracted until Joe tucks in close behind him and presses a constellation of kisses to Nicky’s shoulder blade through his shirt. It’s not always practical for all of them to have meals together, and certainly not elaborate ones, but when they have the luxury of taking time to rest and recharge, Nicky treats it like a small celebration, a reaffirmation through nourishment and togetherness. Nicky volunteered himself and Joe to do the shopping, and it’s a joy to explore the late-summer bounty of this market spread out in a park, to feel safe and anonymous among the bustling crowd.
Nicky leans back into Joe’s solid warmth for a moment, then smiles at the vendor and pays for the herbs and tangles Joe’s fingers with his own, tugging him along to the next stall. They pick out sun-warm tomatoes in a rainbow of colors and heft gleaming eggplants and find fresh garlic that’s not long out of the ground, and when Joe eyes a display of tiny, fiery-red chilis, Nicky buys a handful of those, too.
Then Joe remembers that Nile likes cantaloupe, so they hunt for a farmer who sells them. It doesn’t take long—the air is perfumed with the heady scent of them, and the young woman behind the table offers them a sample. When Joe holds up a slice to Nicky’s lips, the flesh juicy and deep orange, Nicky very deliberately touches his tongue to Joe’s fingertips as he takes a bite. The melon is delicious, and they tell her so, and if she’s blushing a little after they’ve made their selection—“The best one, the best one!” Joe crows—it’s probably only because Joe winked at her.
Satisfied, they wend their way back through town, and Nicky relishes the feeling of the sun on his shoulders, of the weight of Joe’s hand clasped in his, the sound of Joe’s voice intimately familiar and immeasurably comforting as he reminisces about other markets in other places, other times.
(And later, after Nicky cooks, Joe hovering the whole time, bumping their hips and sneaking tastes and scalding his tongue and making extravagant noises of appreciation; after they sit down and eat and Nile takes a second helping and then a third; after they linger at the table until long after dark and tell stories that make all of them, even Andy, laugh hard enough to swipe at their eyes; after they wash the dishes and put the kitchen to rights and retire for the night, Nicky will pull out a paper bag of plums with dark purple skins, so ripe that they’re practically falling off the pit, and he’ll split them in half with his fingers and feed them to Joe. Joe will follow the juice that drips down Nicky’s wrist with his tongue, and Nicky will stretch out on top of Joe and lick into his mouth, tasting heat and spice and sweetness. He’ll chase salt down Joe’s body, and he’ll fill his mouth with Joe greedily while Joe clutches at him and sighs out a litany of helpless moans and words in many languages that mean perfect and more and love, and Nicky will feel full, full, full.)