Work Text:
It’s not morning yet, and the sky is still dripping in darkness, but Nicky is awake and can’t seem to go back to sleep. It’s not wariness: they are safe; he knows it. It might be because of the scenery, a spectacle of white dots, the dance of the bats in the garden outside, the soft hoots from the forest nearby, the smoky smell of wood and dirt, or it might be because the man next to him is still asleep, and he rarely gets to look at him, his serene sleeping expression, at this hour of night, and admire how the light of the morning catches in his hair. Slowly and gently, he turns to face him. Joe’s face is relaxed, no worrying twitch of the temples, no wrinkle of the nose, just his forehead finally flat and his mouth slightly agape like sleeping babies.
It’s frustrating: his lack of better words, his poor sentences. Joe’s capable of beauty in a few words, poetry flowing from his lips as if the source of life, and sometimes Nicky is frustrated. He knows that Joe doesn’t care, in that he doesn’t need poetry for himself, that his heart is content with offering all those verses that crowd his head and mind, but Nicky wishes to someday be able to put into words how much he loves him, how much he adores and respects him. As for now, he’ll keep his thoughts until he can put them on paper.
If Joe were not asleep, he would kiss the growing shadows beneath his eyes, for this man holds enough kindness and empathy to flood the ocean. If Joe were not asleep, he’d drown himself in these eyes as dark as the void, for they possess galaxies in their vastness, and when the night comes, they shine with the light of a thousand suns. If Joe were not asleep, he’d sink in his voice, round and earthy, like the deep and grounding tone of the cello. If Joe were not asleep, he’d wander with his callused fingers over the velvety skin of Joe’s arm, the soft sensation of his neck. If Joe were not asleep, he’d push their forehead against each other, slip his hand on the scratching cheek of his beloved and whisper, again and again, « you are me, and I am you », and feel their souls touch one another as they’ve had for centuries. If Joe were not asleep, he’d hug him as to become one, and engulf himself in the familiar and comforting scent of his better half. If Joe were not asleep, he’d put his ear on the chest of his love and listen to the slow and peaceful beating of his universe.
But Joe is asleep, and for nothing would Nicky disturb him. Instead, he’d rather admire how the light of the coming dawn reveals him like a bronze statue of beauty, unchanged even after centuries, even after every caress from Nicky. Golden, his skin, and his cheeks, and his nose, at the birth of a new day. And his arms, and his hips, and his feet, all turning into fire and divine. Through the softness of the morning, the shadow of Nicky ever present on Joe, soothed and soothing. Nature around them is waking up, the coo of doves echoing in the room, colouring the garden of new smells and new sounds. And though he’s always been attracted by the few instants after dawn, when cities seem to regain life, when suddenly nature is singing a new melody, when the night isn’t really gone and time seems to stop and reality escapes like sand flowing between our fingers, in that moment, he doesn’t need to look. He doesn’t need to look outside; he doesn’t need to capture a new memory, for he has thousands, but never enough of the man in front of him, still asleep.
When Joe stirs awake, they need not speak. Nicky doesn’t know how to confess all the tenderness that overflows his heart and mind when their eyes meet, or when he sees him from afar. But he doesn’t need to, not like that. He smiles, gently puts his forehead on Joe’s and whispers, « you are me, and I am you ».