Work Text:
It’s not that Nicky’s not happy for Booker, because he is, truly. It’s just that, despite all Booker’s promises that nothing needed to change, it’s clear that everything has changed. It’s just that the ink on the wedding certificate hasn’t even dried yet, and here Nicky is, in his scruffy suit, suffocated by his tie, all alone, and probably invisible.
It’s nothing new, either. He’s spent the biggest part of his thirty years utterly alone, invisible and miserable. An accidental acquisition into an already unhappy marriage, with two parents caught up in their own affairs. Quickly dubbed weird and a loner at school, too shy to talk to his classmates, too quiet for the teachers to pay him much attention. Smart enough to not cause problems, not smart enough to have a brilliant career ahead. And even at the seminary, he managed to disappear in the tiny group of students – mousy, drab, nondescript, utterly forgettable.
And Nicky would have gone on to become a bland, dull, boring, dependable parish priest somewhere in Northern Italy, had it not been for Booker.
Booker, who sat three sheets to the wind in a bar in Genoa on the Thursday before Nicky would be ordained, and who, with the odd perception of the inebriated, had told Nicky to “go for it, man, you’ve been undressing that dude with your eyes all night”.
It’s not the most standard way to befriend someone, Nicky supposes, but after the whole awkwardness had passed – Nicky’s shock at his secret being out, his tearful monologue spurred on by the rare beer he’d had, and Booker’s cheery “Well, you can’t become a priest a total virgin, at least kiss me then” – somehow that’s what happened.
It had been a process, of course. First, that embarrassing kiss which left Nicky dizzy and unable to ever again smell stale beer without reliving that shocking moment Booker had pressed his tongue into Nicky’s mouth. Then, Booker insisting on them swapping numbers with a chuckled “What kind of man would I be, Nicky, to be a guy’s first kiss and then just disappear, huh?”. Nicky hadn’t known the answer to that, too light-headed on beer, a kiss, and being given a nickname for the first time in his life. Then, Nicky calling Booker that Sunday, and, after all the disappointment from his teachers, his fellow students, his parents, finally hearing someone who approved of his decision, even if said approval took the form of a hearty “Merde, Nicky, well done, man, now you can go back to that bar and fuck that hottie’s brains out!”. And finally, a few months later, Nicky texting Booker that he had gotten into Leuven University, for philosophy, with many of his seminary courses transferable, and whether Nicky could maybe crash with Booker in Brussels until he’d found a job to support himself?
Just because Nicky had done one daring, drastic thing for himself, didn’t mean he’d become another person overnight. And so he’d studied diligently, worked hard, became a lecturer in record time, and still vanished into the wallpaper most of the time. He only knew Booker, and a few of Booker’s friends, after six years in Belgium, and that’s how he liked it. He’d imagined it – Booker and him, just sharing a flat in a small alley in the centre of Brussels for eternity.
And then Adèle had happened. And now they’re here, in a swanky hotel out of town, and Booker is looking at Adèle the way Nicky has long since stopped dreaming someone will ever look at him.
And well. Nicky’s really, really, happy for Booker. He is. If anyone asks. And his unfortunate crush on Booker, which had been inevitable, right, being his first kiss and all, and the first guy Nicky ever saw naked, even if it only was because Booker forgot a towel one day not long after Nicky moved in, well, Nicky’s long past that. He is. It’s just – it’s just. It’s.
It's not exactly fun to be thirty, alone, and watching your only friend, slash first kiss, slash latest in a long line of unrequited crushes, move on and leave you behind.
He sighs.
“Aren’t weddings supposed to be joyous occasions?” a voice suddenly says right next to him, and Nicky almost jumps.
He’d been so lost in thought he didn’t notice the newcomer leaning next to him, one hand wrapped around a tea glass. The scent – earthy, minty – wafts delicately through the air, and Nicky suddenly, irrationally, wonders how it would taste to kiss a man who drinks tea.
He’s kissed a few more men by now, but not many, and all of them in some sort of dark, smoky club where Nicky hadn’t wanted to be, dragged out by Booker, who’d be off with someone else as soon as they arrived. All Nicky’s kisses had tasted like alcohol. Tea, however, that might be –
The thought dies a sharp, sudden death when Nicky takes a better look at the owner of the smooth voice, the elegant hands. This man is – well. Not someone Nicky will ever get to kiss. He’s well aware of the league he’s playing in, and it’s the local pub team, compared to the Premier League this man is in.
Dark, doe-like eyes, sparkling with laughter. Fine, wrinkly lines around them. Adorable curls, nicely cropped beard, smooth skin. Lips that seem perpetually curled up.
Nicky’s a sucker for a beautiful smile, sue him. Heaven knows he’s not prone to laughter himself. This man, however, looks like he can find joy everywhere.
Nicky swallows carefully.
The man is looking at him expectantly, and Nicky belatedly remembers he asked a question. He can’t for the life of him recall which one, though.
“Sorry?” he says, aiming for polite and probably landing somewhere on incapable-of-normal-interaction.
“Oh, I apologize,” the man says, sounding genuine. “It’s just – I couldn’t help but hear you sigh, and I was just wondering about such sad feelings on a day like this. Never mind me, my mother did always tell me curiosity was one of my least becoming traits.”
He laughs, his head in his neck, and Nicky stares at him stupidly. He doesn’t think this man has any unbecoming traits.
“I don’t think we’ve met, have we?” the man continues. “Friend of Adèle?”
“Uh, no,” Nicky says. “I am – uh, was – Booker’s roommate. Until he moved in with Adèle.”
It still stings a bit, that. But he’s used to it by now – people don’t stick around a guy like him. He shrugs a bit, wishing he had a glass of something – grappa sounds really good, suddenly.
“Oh! You’re – you are Nicky! I’m sorry, I didn’t know! I’m Joe!”
Joe’s positively beaming, and Nicky – Nicky tries not to deflate.
He’s heard of Joe, obviously. Booker has been telling Nicky all about his ‘amazing friend’ and ‘wonderful brother’. Even Quỳnh, who Nicky’s closest to among Booker’s friends, always glows when she’s telling a story involving Joe. Everybody adores Joe. Joe’s been travelling to see famous art all over the world, and he’s posting videos online to fund those trips – videos Nicky’s always refused to watch, of course. Because Nicky hates Joe. Hates that the only friends he has are always pining over this Joe. Hates that Joe’s smart and funny and creative and perfect. Hates that Joe is everything Nicky will never be.
Hates that everybody loves Joe, while Nicky’s never been loved.
So it only makes sense, doesn’t it, that the absolute most beautiful man Nicky’s ever seen in his life, turns out to be Joe.
Nicky swallows around his dry throat.
He doesn’t need another addition to his long line of unrequited crushes.
“Joe,” he says coolly, and leaves it at that.
It doesn’t deter Joe, however.
“I’m so glad I finally get to meet you! Though it feels like I know you already, Booker has told me so much about you, he’s told me how the two of you met –”
Of course. Of course, Booker told his wonderful, beautiful, perfect man all about the most embarrassing moment of Nicky’s life. Of course, Joe knows all about how pathetic Nicky is, that his first kiss was at age twenty-four, half-drunk and with a total stranger who’s not even into men. They probably laughed about it, Booker and Joe, about the lonely little gay guy who tried to hide behind a white collar. Joe probably knows all about Nicky’s non-existent love life, and very limited social circle. Joe probably pities Nicky, standing here at his best friend’s wedding wondering if he’ll ever get to second base, let alone marriage.
The blood throbs in his ear, and he feels his cheeks burn with humiliation and shame.
He needs to get away from here. He doesn’t need Joe to feel sorry for him, beautiful Joe who probably gets marriage proposals every other week.
He raises his hand, to stop Joe, who’s still talking.
“– but I don’t understand why he never told me how handsome you are –” He glances over, briefly, and he must notice Nicky’s discomfort. He pauses, then continues, raking a hand through his hair, “Oh, god, I’m rambling, right? I’m so sorry. I always do that when I’m nervous, my mother always knew exactly when I was lying because I just kept going on and on, it’s the worst, really – I’m doing it again, ain’t I?”
He laughs a bit self-deprecatingly, swiping a hand through his curls.
Nicky stares at him. Nothing about that makes any sense.
“Why on earth would you be nervous?” he says before his brain has caught up with his mouth, and then he mentally slaps himself.
Joe laughs again. He’s probably just trying to humour Nicky.
“I’m messing this up completely. I’m so sorry, Nicky, it’s just – everybody is always telling me how smart you are, and how kind and generous, how thoughtful and quiet, and I always worried you wouldn’t like me when we met – and that was before I knew you were so hot, too –”
Nicky’s mouth falls – literally – open. He gapes at Joe as a fish on dry land, spluttering and trying to remember how to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Joe continues, after a few long seconds of silence. “I shouldn’t – I didn’t mean to hit on you, I swear. I mean, obviously I did, but I didn’t know it’d be you – Anyway. You can – you can just forget I said all that, if you want. It’s just that I’ll probably stay in Brussels for a while, and we share a lot of friends, and we’ll probably see each other again, and I don’t want it to be awkward. Or for everybody to be angry at me for upsetting you. Or – sorry. Stopping talking now.”
He makes a motion as if to zip up his lips, and then, quickly adds, “Just say we can forget about all of this?”
His warm eyes plead with Nicky, but Nicky is too bewildered to notice.
“But I don’t understand – you were – you were hitting on me?”
Joe clearly struggles for a brief moment, debating whether it’d be best to talk or remain silent.
“I was,” he blurts out then, “but just forget about all that – I know you can get anybody you want – Booker said you are very picky about who you kiss – as you should, obviously, you don’t have to kiss a bunch of frogs first when you’re looking like that –” His eyes wander over Nicky for a fleeting moment, before he whips them back up. “And anyway, I didn’t know you were you and I didn’t think I’d have much of a chance before, but now I know it’s you and that you can do a lot better, so –”
“Stop talking,” Nicky says, and Joe’s mouth snaps close.
He’s looking mortified, but he remains quiet as his eyes drop to the tea glass in his hand. The silence is heavy between them, but Nicky needs to think.
He frantically tries to make sense of it all. Joe was – Joe was flirting with him? Joe doesn’t think Nicky’s too shy and uninteresting to find a boyfriend, but instead has the pick of the crop and just hasn’t found anyone worth his time? It’d be funny if it weren’t so wholly unrealistic, so completely the opposite –
“Joe,” he declares, “I’ve kissed six men in my life. One was Booker, who was drunk and felt sorry for me. The other five were probably also drunk and figured the guy sitting all alone at the bar was an easy catch. I’m not – I don’t know why you would even think –”
“I have eyes,” Joe interrupts. “I can see how you fill out that suit.” The eyes he just professed to have rove over Nicky again – his shoulders, his torso, his thighs. There’s warmth in them, and admiration. For the first time in his life, Nicky feels – seen. Better yet, he feels – enough. He feels as if he’s not an afterthought. “Your eyes look like the sea, did anyone ever tell you that?”
Nobody did. There’s a moment where Nicky wonders if all of this is real, but there’s nothing but sincerity in Joe’s voice.
“Oh,” Nicky says. And then, abruptly, “You fill out your suit pretty well, too.”
Joe’s eyes grow just a tad darker. He turns his tea glass in his hand.
“I do? You’re not just saying that? I promise, you don’t have to be nice to me just because we have the same friends.”
“All the men I kissed tasted of beer,” Nicky says. “I’ve never kissed a man who tasted of tea.”
Joe looks a bit confused, eyes darting to his glass, and doesn’t reply.
“I’m sorry,” Nicky continues. “I don’t know how to flirt. I have only ever made one friend. You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, and you tell me my eyes look like the sea, so you can’t expect me not to want to kiss you after that.”
“Well,” Joe says deliberately. “In that case.” He lifts his glass to his lips, and stares at Nicky as he sips the last of his tea. “Please.”
In the end, it’s Joe who kisses Nicky, because Nicky is too frozen to make a move. But as soon as Joe’s lips are on his, he melts immediately, he’s burning – he grabs Joe’s lapels to pull him closer, closer, as their lips slot together perfectly and they taste hungrily. Tea is so much better than beer, and the sounds Joe makes are thrilling Nicky to his core.
Nicky has no idea how long they keep kissing, but when they finally break it off, their foreheads rest against each other as they try to get enough air into their lungs.
“Wow,” Joe breathes, and Nicky knows exactly what he means.
It feels like every choice he’s ever made only served to bring him here. To Joe. All the loneliness, the guilt, the darkness, the shame – it’s gone. Instead, there’s hope and light and joy, and a chance for so much more. All Nicky needs to do is be bold, and reach for what he wants.
He takes a breath, and goes for it.
“You – you said you’d stay in Brussels?”
Joe takes the change in subject in stride.
“Yeah, that’s the plan. Travelling the world sketching is fun and all, but I’m getting too old to sleep in overcrowded youth hostels. My back needs a proper mattress, not some lumpy bunk bed. And I’d like to take a shower without feeling I get out dirtier than I went in, occasionally. I just hope I can find something on an artist’s budget.”
His laugh is like summer rain, like raspberries and cream. Nicky wants to wrap himself into it.
“I have a free room,” he says.
Joe’s eyes light up, bright like the sun.
“I’ll take it.” And then he grabs Nicky’s hand, and drags him along. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
And Nicky lets himself be lead, focusing on the feeling of Joe’s long fingers around his broad hand. They dance, they cheer for Nile who catches the bouquet, and they sit by the bar and drink tea and talk. And all the time, their fingers are intertwined, and Joe’s eyes sparkle, and Nicky smiles wider than he has in years.
When Booker leaves, beaming, with a radiant Adèle in tow, it’s not that he’s not happy for Booker, because he is, truly. It’s just that he’s so much happier for himself.