Chapter Text
“It’s not fair”
Joe snorts at Nicky’s attempt at an exaggerated pout. “What exactly isn’t fair, habibi?”
The linguist watches his boyfriend pace across the screen, frantically mixing the bowl of batter in his hands with a fork. He remembers Nicky complaining about somehow breaking yet another whisk in their last call; his bad luck with kitchen appliances is a weirdly endearing constant.
“That! Your pet names, you have so many, and they actually sound good! Mine don’t sound good!”
“Is that why you don’t use pet names? Because they don’t sound right?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, schatje, I’m sure there’s many in Portuguese you can use.”
“Ok, now you are showing off.”
He was, but who could blame him for wanting to bestow his boyfriend with every endearment under the sun? Especially when he misses him so.
Joe had been back in Rotterdam for about a month now, after having spent some of the most lovely weeks of his life with Nicky in Brazil. They had decided to give long distance a try, and, despite the almost unbearable longing that often plagues them both, things have been working out alright. That night, Joe had been a bit late to another one of their almost daily video chats thanks to his new hectic schedule at the university, and had interrupted his boyfriend as he slaved away in the kitchen to make a carrot cake for his friend Nile’s birthday the next day. Not that Nicky would ever mind having his company while he bakes.
“Well, what are your options? Let’s hear ‘em.”
The other man pauses his stirring, nose scrunched up in thought. There’s a speckle of cake batter on his left cheek, and Joe desperately wishes he was there to lick it off.
“There’s querido. Like, beloved, or dear.”
“That sounds nice.”
“No, it doesn’t. I have heard it used in a sarcastic tone for so many years now. It’s weird to say it honestly.”
“Ok, not querido then. Next!”
“Well, there’s , but that would only remind me of Chaves, so no.”
“I don’t know what that is, but defer to your judgment.”
“Thank you. Hmmm, ... Ah! There’s , or , but that’s what old people use, so not for us.”
“Not yet.” Joe says, just to see Nicky blush prettily on the other side of the screen.
“I could call you lindo, because you truly are beautiful” Now it’s Joe’s turn to feel the heat rising to his cheeks at his boyfriend’s playful but sincere retribution. “But that sounds corny to me.” Nicky tilts his head in consideration. “Actually, a lot of them just sound corny. …” He snorts mostly to himself. “Pudim.”
Yeah, pudding sounds like overkill.
From his perch on the counter, Joe can see the mirth shining in those sea-blue eyes as Nicky leans in, the yellow-colored batter close to spilling. “Maybe I could call you gatinho.” He purrs into the mic.
His husky voice has had Joe on a leash from the day they met, and that low and seductive tone permeating every syllable has the linguist already twitching in his pants. He sits up from his lazy sprawl on his bed, mirroring Nicky. “And what does that mean?”
His boyfriend, the rascal, pulls back with a dastardly twist in the corner of his mouth. “Kitty. Also corny, right? So 90s.”
Not if you say it like that Joe wants to say, but this isn’t that type of call; at least not right now, with Nicky on a such a tight baking schedule.
Joe clears his throat, trying to erase the thoughts of Nicky whispering that word into his ear while he straddles his lap, that affricate T (an alveolo-palatal sibilant, not palato-alveolar) echoing in his mind as his boyfriend pulls his earlobe between his teeth. “Maybe you’re just being too picky?”
“No, It has to be perfect! Every time you call me something sweet I feel so…” He trails off, trying to find the right words in English. “Special. And wanted.” Nicky sheepishly sets his bowl on the counter (Joe can see the fork slip inside the batter, but wouldn’t dare to interrupt the other man) and takes his laptop further into the living room, sitting on that god-awful flower-print couch. From Nicky’s lap, Joe can admire him more closely, can see the hesitation on his face as he admits: “I want to make you feel the same.”
Right then, even with almost 10.000 kilometers between them, Joe’s heart swells. Looking at his earnest, kind boyfriend, he thinks of how lucky he is to have met him.
Oh, this man.
“Hayati. You already make me feel all of that and more.”
Nicky’s eyes go soft, matching his smile. But then his expression suddenly changes, a melancholic air hovering over his features like a dark cloud.
The sight sows worry in the depths of Joe’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just… I just realized I never heard my parents use other names for each other.” It’s a strained admission, his eyes pointedly avoiding Joe’s. Nicky looks hesitant to show that glimpse of vulnerability. In the months Joe has known him, the man made little to no mention of his parents and if they were ever brought up in conversation, he either immediately retreated into himself or did his best to change the subject.
The linguist knows Nicky will tell him more about his past when he’s ready and would never push him to do so before that, but can’t bear to see that grief-like pain take over his boyfriend.
“Sorry.” Nicky continues, mistaking his silence for awkwardness. “Didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”
“You didn’t.” Joe jumps to reassure him. “I was just thinking about how they really missed out on the endearment thing.” Covertly opening a new tab, the linguist shamelessly googles some pet names in Portuguese. “And if you won’t use them, I might as well add more to my little love lexicon.”
A surprised guffaw escapes Nicky’s lips at the term, sorrow melting away, and Joe’s mission is accomplished.
“Oh, you think I’m funny… ?” He butchers the pronunciation on purpose, if only to pull out more of those delightful sounds from his boyfriend.
“Oh no! Please, don’t-” Nicky tries to say through his fit of laughter.
“">.”
“, not the diminutives!”
The two of them devolve into giggles, the sound a harmony to Joe’s ears. After getting a hold of themselves, they spend a few moments in comfortable silence. Nicky leans back on the couch’s armrest, closing his eyes with a satisfied sigh, while Joe watches from under half-lidded eyes as he lets his head sink into one of the pillows strewn around his bed. Surprisingly, he’s sleepy; before Nicky, a night he got himself in bed before 3 AM was a rarity, what with his workaholic tendencies, but ever since they started talking after he got home from the university, Joe has felt relaxed and actually happy with whatever work he did that day.
He must have dozed off at some point, as the sound of Nicky calling his name has him sluggishly blinking at the bright screen. His boyfriend’s bowed lips twist into a fond smile. Nicky had gotten back to the kitchen, the laptop turned towards the stove this time, and Joe watches him pour the batter into a Bundt pan and put it in the heat. With the cake finally baking, he starts assembling the ingredients for the chocolate glaze, and the linguist longingly recalls the time Nicky had showed him how to make his grandma’s carrot cake recipe.
“Hard day?” Nicky asks, pulling him from his reverie.
“Had to step in for Quynh during a lecture.” She had to go bail out her wife, who got arrested for ending a brawl in the faculty’s favorite bar, again. “It took longer than I expected.”
“Explains why you were late, Mr. Punctual.”
The linguist can only hum in acknowledgment, eyes dropping once again.
Nicky huffs in amusement at his drowsiness. “I think someone needs to go to bed.”
“But it’s only 10 PM…” Joe will refuse to admit to any whining on his part tomorrow.
“And it’s 7 PM here. Time is an illusion. Go to sleep.” He pauses halfway through emptying a can of condensed milk into a pot. “Gatinho.”
Joe grins at the screen, eyes crinkling as a small laugh escapes his lips. “How can I refuse such a sweet request? I’ll go to bed, but don’t hang up. I like to fall asleep to your sounds.”
Nicky snorts inelegantly, most likely in order to hide the blush Joe can spot creeping up his neck even in his lethargic state. “Don’t know how much of a lullaby me swearing at the stove is going to be, but I won’t hang up.”
“Thank you.” The linguist makes a show of blowing a kiss to him, which Nicky returns. “Good night, hayati.”
He closes his eyes, already a foot into the land of dreams, when Nicky asks: “What does that one mean?”
“Hm?” Joe grunts eloquently.
“Hayati.” The word flows on his tongue as he takes the care to pronounce every syllable exactly as his boyfriend had. “You said it before. What does it mean?”
From under his lashes, Joe spares him one last loving look before succumbing to slumber, parting words sluggish but no less certain. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Promise.”