#the only way to be

The day is grey and gloomy, the old stone cottage hemmed in by mist.  Standing on the back step of the house, arms folded across his body, Nicky licks the faint taste of salt from his lips, listens to the crash of waves he cannot see.  He squints at the sky, hoping for at least the impression of sunlight against the grey, but there are clouds and there is dampness and that is the whole of the world.

At least outside.

Nicky steps inside and closes the heavy wooden door. The kitchen is warm, the oven set low, and the air is fragrant—thyme and rosemary; a meal that is hours away, still in the making. Nicky taps a finger against the battered kettle on the hob, testing whether there’s still enough hot water for tea, but finds he’s disinterested in the business of cups and tea leaves, saucers and spoons.  He wanders through the kitchen and into the hallway, passes the foot of the stairs and turns into the sitting room where Joe still sits.

There’s a fire crackling contentedly in the grate, and two lamps casting a golden glow over the weighty business of Joe in thought. Nicky watches him fondly. Joe’s right thumb and middle fingers are smudged with charcoal, and there’s a half-finished sketch in his lap. His face is turned toward the window, limned in lamp light, while his jeans are torn at one knee and the neck of his sweater is pulled askew.  He looks rumpled and comfortable, waggling his toes just a little before the fire, and when he registers Nicky’s presence and looks over, it’s with a warm smile on his face.

“Are you staring?” Joe asks, shifting his sketchbook to the small table beside the sofa.

“Maybe,” Nicky says, crossing the room to sit beside him, to pick up his hand and rub a thumb over his palm. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You are never a disturbance,” Joe says softly, and leans to glance a kiss to Nicky’s temple. The sweetness of the gesture makes something in Nicky vibrate quietly, his body meeting affection with joy.

“You were thinking,” Nicky says, and folds Joe’s hand between both of his.

“Hmm.” Joe smiles at him, the skin beside his eyes crinkling up. “I was thinking of your kisses.”

“You were?”

“Mmmm,” whispers Joe and he leans in to almost press his mouth to Nicky’s. “I am fortunate to have had so many.”

Nicky brushes the tip of his nose against Joe’s. “And now?  Feeling lucky?”

“Always,” Joe says, and when Nicky leans in to kiss him, it’s to meet his smile with his own, to sink into the familiar pull and slide of Joe’s lips, to press against him and know him as home.