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Present – A Quiet Afternoon
The safe house breathed with the quiet weight of afternoon sun. The kind of silence that only came after war — or in their case, after centuries.
Nile sat cross-legged on the floor beside Tuah and Quyn, sorting through yellowing manuscripts. Andy was perched on the windowsill, half-draped in sunlight like a cat, sipping beer without speaking. The air smelled of dust, old pages, and the faint burn of coffee left too long on the stove.
Joe sat on the floor with his back against the couch, curly hair tousled, legs stretched out. Nicky was just behind him on the couch, one hand absentmindedly threading through Joe’s curls, the other curled around a cup of cooling tea.
Booker’s absence hung quiet but unspoken. It always did.
Tuah cracked open a thick, leather-bound volume. “This one’s from the late Roman Empire. Fifth century.” He flipped carefully, fingers reverent. “Looks like poetry—love poems.”
“Ohhh,” Nile grinned. “Read one.”
Tuah cleared his throat, his voice softer than usual:
“He is a blade in moonlight—
Gentle in hand, deadly in love.
If the gods have weakness, it is him.”
There was a brief pause.
Quyn murmured, “That’s beautiful.”
Andy made a noncommittal hum. “Poets and their drama.”
Tuah smiled and turned another page. “They’re all written to the same person. He calls him Soleas—‘the one I walk toward.’ There’s dozens of these.”
“His gaze undoes me.
I am no soldier, no senator—only flesh in flame.
Take me, or I will burn forever.”
Joe tilted his head, amused. “Dramatic bastard.”
A quiet sound came from Nicky.
Not a laugh. Not a sigh.
A groan.
Everyone turned. Joe didn’t even have to look—he smiled.
Andy didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, for god’s sake. You’re still mad about it?”
Nicky didn’t respond. His hand had stilled in Joe’s hair.
Tuah blinked. “Did I do something—?”
Andy waved it off. “Not you. The poet.”
Tuah’s eyebrows rose. “You’re saying this is… about you, Joe?”
Joe leaned back, grinning now. “Gaianus. Real guy. Famous for it, apparently.”
Nicky’s lips were pressed into a hard line. His jaw worked like he was chewing through memory.
“You’re kidding,” Quyn said, sitting up. “That’s the Gaianus? He’s a legend.”
“Joe was his muse,” Andy teased.
“Against my will,” Joe said, smug.
Andy laughed. “Gaianus was a little obsessed. Nicky hated him. Still does.”
Nicky muttered, “He was relentless.”
Joe turned slightly, lifting a hand to rest over Nicky’s. “He wrote nice poems, though.”
Nicky's green eyes narrowed. “He wanted you.”
“I didn’t want him,” Joe said lightly. “I wanted you. Always you.”
Nicky didn’t speak.
And suddenly Joe stopped smiling. He turned fully now, still kneeling, and looked up into the face he’d known for nearly a thousand years. Something softened in him.
But the room had already begun to blur.
Flashback – 800 Years Ago, Italy
Florence glowed at night like a candlelit prayer. And Gaianus was a shadow behind every corner, parchment in hand, love in his eyes, obsession heavy on his tongue.
He followed Joe through palazzos, whispered sonnets during feasts. Slipped verses under the door to their shared room.
Joe had tried to be kind. But even kindness had limits.
It was late, a moonless night, when Gaianus finally cornered him alone in the garden.
“Yusuf,” he whispered, breathless, “I have no empire but your smile. I have no faith but in the way you look at me. Please—”
Joe backed away, voice weary. “Gaianus—stop. I told you—”
“I love you.”
Joe flinched.
“I would be your servant, your secret, your shadow—please. I don’t care what you are. I only want to be where you breathe.”
“I‘m devoted to my man.”Joe raised his hands.
Gaianus moved closer, “He doesn’t need to know, I can be your secret.”
Joe opened his mouth—but didn’t get the chance.
Because Nicky was suddenly there.
Silent as a dagger. Unmistakable.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped between them, eyes like the deep sea before a storm.
Joe didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
Nicky’s voice was low, cold, perfect. “He is not yours.”
Gaianus’s mouth opened, but Nicky stepped forward again, jaw tight.
“I won’t stay silent anymore and i won’t warn you twice.”
For a moment, Gaianus stood very still. Then he turned, and fled like a man who knew better than to fight for what was already claimed.
Later That Night
Nicky hadn’t spoken since they returned to their room.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hands curled on his knees, staring at the wall like he was still holding back the fire.
Joe knelt in front of him. Hands on his thighs. Voice quiet.
“You’re angry.”
Nicky’s voice was rough. “No.”
Joe tilted his head. “Jealous, then.”
Still silence.
Joe smiled, just a little. “I like it.”
That made Nicky look at him. “You… like it?”
Joe nodded. “I do. Because sometimes, I wonder.”
“About what?”
“If you’re only with me because we’re immortal. Because it’s easier. You didn’t choose me over time. You just stayed because time never forced us apart.”
Something dark and old flickered in Nicky’s eyes. “You think I’m here because I have to be?”
Joe shrugged, carefully. “I think sometimes I don’t know if you’re here because you can’t leave… or because you never want to.”
The words hung heavy between them.
And then Nicky leaned forward, hands cupping his face.
“I would die for you,” he whispered. “But I would rather live for you. A thousand times over. You think I’m here because I’m trapped? You, Yusuf, are the only freedom I’ve ever known. The only choice I’ve ever made that felt right.”
Joe’s breath hitched.
“You think I’d stay centuries if I didn’t want to?” Nicky went on, voice breaking now. “I’d burn the world if you asked me. I’d give up forever, if you needed a single lifetime to feel peace. I love you. Fiercely. Stupidly. Endlessly.”
Joe surged forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss, desperate and warm.
They fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, shedding the years between them.
Nicky straddled his lap, and Joe slid into him slow, reverent, like a prayer too sacred to say aloud.
Their foreheads pressed. The only sound was breath.
Joe whispered into Nicky’s lips,“You own me Nicolo. Body and soul.”
Back in the Present
The sun had shifted. Shadows stretched longer.
Joe, still sitting at Nicky’s feet, took his hand again. Quietly. Casually.
Pressed it to his heart.
“Eight hundred years later,” he said softly, for Nicky alone, “and you’re still the one in control of my heart. One look from you… and it skips.”
Nicky’s lips trembled, just slightly. Then he leaned down and kissed Joe’s temple.
Andy didn’t say a word.
Neither did Tuah.
And Nile only whispered, with a slow grin, “Damn.”
Love, in that house, had lived longer than kingdoms.
And it still burned.
———————————-
The house was asleep.
The kind of hush that only came after a day that had been too full, and a night that had settled gently across centuries of ache and healing.
Joe and Nicky’s room glowed soft with lamplight. Old wood. Clean sheets. A window cracked open just enough to let the summer air breathe through.
Nicky was sitting up against the headboard, hair loose, falling around his face in waves the color of old bronze in moonlight. His eyes — stormy, sea-green, and shadowed — were on Joe.
Joe, who stood at the edge of the bed, shirtless, curls mussed, looking at Nicky like he might fall to his knees again — like he always had.
He climbed into bed slowly. Deliberately.
Nicky opened his arms.
Joe went without hesitation.
They kissed like they were tired of pretending they hadn’t needed this all day — slow, warm, molten. When Joe pulled back to breathe, he stayed close, pressing his forehead to Nicky’s, thumb brushing his jaw.
Nicky’s voice was quiet. “They still think of you.”
Joe smiled faintly. “The poet?”
“All of them.”
Joe gave a soft hum. “They can write a thousand lines. I’ll still come home to you.”
Nicky’s throat bobbed with something he didn’t say right away.
But his hands slid down Joe’s bare back, anchoring him in place, and that was enough.
Joe moved slowly. Worshipfully.
He took his time undressing Nicky, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered like he’d forgotten nothing in 900 years. Nicky let him. Said nothing. Just breathed, just felt, until they were skin to skin, tangled beneath the thin sheet and nothing else.
And when Joe finally pushed inside him, Nicky’s breath hitched — not from pain. But from feeling. Too much of it, all at once.
Their fingers laced.
Their eyes didn’t leave each other.
Joe moved slowly, rocking into him like he wanted to stay in that moment forever — no rush, no noise, just heat and love and presence. His free hand found Nicky’s face, cradling it like something sacred.
Nicky swallowed hard.
And then, finally, his voice came — ragged, low, raw:
“I used to think love was a battle.That to love someone was to defend them. To bleed for them. To guard them from the world, But then you looked at me. And suddenly, love wasn’t a shield anymore, It was... this, This softness. This undoing. This knowing.”
Joe stilled. Not to stop — just to listen.
Nicky’s legs tightened around his waist. His hand came up to cup Joe’s face.
“You are the only man I have ever been afraid of. Not because you could break me. But because I let you, Because I wanted to, Because you were the only thing in this world I was willing to shatter for.”
Joe's breath shivered against his skin. He bowed his head, pressing their foreheads together again.
“You move inside me,” Nicky whispered, voice shaking, “and I remember every lifetime. Every death. Every time I thought I lost you, and you still came back to me.”
Joe gasped — not from exertion, but from feeling — and gently guided Nicky’s hand to his chest.
“Do you feel it?” he whispered, just like all those centuries ago. My heartbeat still does this. For you. Only for you.”
Nicky’s fingers splayed over Joe’s chest.
The rhythm there — steady, alive, full — thundered against his palm.
“It’s not just yours,” Joe said, breathless now, moving a little deeper.
“You own it. Every beat. Every breath. You own me, Nicky. Body and soul.”
And Nicky—Nicky broke.
Not with tears. But with a sound. A keening, quiet sound — like a man crumbling under the weight of being loved too much, and still not enough to explain how he felt back.
He pulled Joe down.
Held him so close it was hard to tell where one body ended and the other began.
And when they came — slowly, together — it wasn’t with moans or gasps.
It was with stillness.
With trembling hands. With whispered names. With a quiet so profound it felt holy.
Later, Nicky lay in Joe’s arms, chest to chest, eyes half-closed as Joe stroked lazy fingers down his back.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
And then, into the hush, Joe said softly:
“It’s always been you.”
Nicky lifted his head, met his eyes.
Joe smiled.
“They could write poems until the world ends. I’d still choose the man who doesn’t need words to undo me.”
Nicky leaned in. Kissed him, soft and sure.
“Then let me keep undoing you,” he whispered. “For as long as we have.”
And Joe — grinning, wrecked, radiant — whispered, “Forever.”
And let him.