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It’s the cold that wakes him, slipping in under the duvet to nip at his feet where they’re no longer twisted together with Nicky’s perennially warm toes. The flat is quiet, and their room is still dark; it’s late enough that the entire world feels still, and Joe is drowsy as he lifts his head to look for Nicky. The clock blinks 3am at him, and Nicky is nowhere in sight.
Always the early riser, it’s not unusual for Nicky to leave the bed before Joe, but he doesn’t usually do it without at least leaving Joe with a half-remembered kiss. It’s this thought that finally wakes Joe fully, and he gets out of bed as gracefully as he can under the circumstances. It’s by the grace of God alone that he avoids taking out their bedside cabinet as he stumbles, but he rights himself quickly enough and shrugs Nicky’s abandoned hoodie on as he makes his way out into the hall.
There’s no immediate sign of him, but Joe isn’t terribly worried. Nicky is quiet by nature, and Joe knows he would go to every effort not to wake him up with midnight wanderings. The apartment is dark around him, but even still half-asleep Joe makes his way easily through the clutter of their life together. They’ve both separately and individually made noises about getting new bookcases to contain the piles of books that spill from every free surface; a bigger place with a studio for Joe’s art supplies; more wall space for Nicky’s photography, but for now their home is busy with their lives, and Joe loves it.
There’s a gentle clink from the kitchen, the distant sound of a glass being set on the countertop, and Joe makes a shuffling beeline for the door. It’s already open when he gets there, and sitting on the counter, in direct contradiction of all the times he asked Joe not to do exactly that, is Nicky.
Facing mostly away from the door and more concerned with the bowl of cereal he’s quietly munching his way through than anything else, Nicky doesn’t notice Joe at all. It gives Joe a perfect moment of stillness to take him in. Scruffy with sleep still, Nicky’s hair is wild and his eyes are heavy. He’s turned on the dull light in the cooker hood and it washes him out dreadfully, casts his face with unflattering shadows and just barely highlights the vulnerable arches of his feet and his sweet knobby toes where they dangle above the floor.
Joe loves him, always, but in that moment it hits him like expecting one more stair than there actually is; the step, the drop, the sweeping surprise. He loves Nicky, completely and without question. Barely a year together, and Joe knows as he watches Nicky cup his favourite bowl in one broad hand (and knows with certainty that it is his favourite bowl, because he’s the kind of person who has very specific preferences about practical things like that) that that’s it for him. Forever. He wants nothing but Nicky. Wants to be there to see him eat in the middle of the night again and again, a thousand times. Wants to wake to an empty bed only with the absolute certainty that it won’t be empty for long. Wants, in that moment, Nicky’s attention more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.
He makes it one step into the kitchen before Nicky raises his head, surprise written in the widening of his eyes. It’s gone as soon as it appeared, and he looks like a child caught sneaking biscuits as he smiles at Joe, sweet and small.
‘Did I wake you, tesoro? I’m sorry.’ His voice is quiet, and he sets his bowl aside as Joe walks towards him, already reaching out to take his hand before Joe’s even aware he lifted his first. ‘You look like you’re still asleep; do you know where you are?’
Nicky’s teasing voice is almost exactly the same as his speaking voice, and it’s just another thing Joe loves about him, about them together. That he can hear it now, the current of humour under his accent; the curl of joy around his tongue. Nicky makes space for Joe between his knees, still holding his hand, and Joe can’t resist cupping his jaw with his spare hand, coaxing his head just that bit lower so he can brush a whiskery kiss against Nicky’s nose. Nicky’s smile grows, and he catches Joe’s lips as he draws back. They kiss lazily in the tiny puddle of light cast by the dim bulb. Joe feels warmed from the inside out, sunlight in the tips of his fingers and everywhere his body touches Nicky’s.
There’s barely a breath between them when they stop, their foreheads pressed together, breathing quietly. Joe can still taste Nicky’s smile; he feels like he’s held his hand for five seconds and five years both. Like there’s never been a time his fingers weren’t waiting for the grasp of Nicky’s own. He speaks before he knows he’s going to, and feels like the words were always ready on the tip of his tongue.
‘Marry me, Nicky?’
Nicky gives a tiny gasp, a rush of air against Joe’s lips, barely enough to ruffle his beard. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t move away.
‘Joe?’
Joe brushes his nose against Nicky’s cheek and tugs him closer. Nicky’s hand wraps around his waist and holds him firmly against his chest.
‘I love you. I think I was made to. Will you marry me? I don’t want to let you go, not ever.’
A muscle jumps in Nicky's cheek; Joe's so close to him he can feel it against his own. Nicky's hand clenches in the fabric of his stolen hoodie, his knuckles warm and heavy where they press against Joe's back. He nods, small and quick, his face tucked in against Joe's neck.
'Sì, sì, yes, of course, please Joe—' Nicky always loses his grip on his English when he gets emotional. Joe's been learning Italian and he's catching it quicker than Nicky's attempts at learning Dutch, but he loses the thread of Nicky's whispered endearments and promises as he presses kisses to Joe's neck and clutches him close.
It feels like the world isn't big enough to contain the swell of joy in Joe's heart, like he could turn the earth on its axis with the beat of his heart alone. He lets go of Nicky's hand only to grasp him gently by the cheeks and lift him into a breathless, laughing, crying, gleeful kiss. Nicky wraps his legs around Joe's waist and pulls him closer still. The counter digs awkwardly into the tops of his thighs but it might as well be happening to someone else for all Joe notices, as consumed as he is with the tremor in Nicky's hands where they rest on his waist; the bright shine of his eyes as he laughs against Joe's lips.
They settle, eventually, all the wild unexpected joy contained and warm in their chests, in their joined hands, in the matching rhythm of their breaths. Joe brushes his thumb thoughtfully back and forth along Nicky's finger.
'You don't like rings, my heart.' Nicky doesn’t like anything on his fingers, even gloves. He finds the pressure constricting. Joe despaired of him all through winter, and took to carrying hand-warmers in his pockets so he could tuck Nicky's chilly fingers in with his own and warm them up. 'Do you want something else? What would you prefer?'
Nicky shakes his head very slightly and squeezes Joe's hand.
'You can wear a ring for me,' he says, sounding happier than Joe's ever heard him. 'You already carry my heart, I'd like it if you carried a ring for me too.'
Joe has to drop his head to Nicky's collarbone to breathe, poleaxed with affection in the way he always is when Nicky surprises him with earnest and effortless statements like that. Nicky kisses the top of his head and holds him gently in the circle of his arms.
An eon passes in the quiet of their kitchen; empires rise and fall in the time it takes for them to separate enough for Nicky to hop down from the counter. Joe feels every second stretch into syrupy infinity and enjoys each one. Eventually, Nicky leads him by the hand back to bed. The sun has started to rise, and light spills in drops through open doors as they pass them, golden and warm on their skin.