crazy how productive u get once u start drawing gay kiss
[ID: messy drawing of joe and nicky, from the bust up, kissing. nicky is cradling joe’s face and joe is holding nicky’s arm. both are smiling with closed eyes. the background is a red circle.]
imagine how awkward that elevator ride down in the final battle was
they’re just standing there as it slowly descends, joe is glaring at booker, booker is refusing to make eye contact, nicky is Done, everyone is dead silent and dripping blood on the clean floor, and all the while easy-listening elevator music is playing in the background
Joe as the artist who followed the evolution and development of art over a millenia but maintained an interest in mathematics and physics and Nicky as the doctor and scientists who watched the evolution of medicine as well as the musician who learned to play the oud and then the guitarra… Joe as the artist who’s been irrevocably influenced by the styles of the Italian and Christian culture and Nicky as the medical scientist who’s been irrevocably influenced by the science and culture of the Islamic world…. i have THOUGHTS
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.
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.
“Do you have a favorite era in history?” Nile asked.
“1980,” Joe replied at once.
“That’s specific.”
“The walkman had just been invented, the gay community was yet widely unaware of HIV. We were taking the summer off, and all Nicky wanted to do was roller skate up and down the miles of beachside boardwalk, listening to music.”
“Did you also like skating?”
“A little, but not so much.”
“Sounds like a boring summer for you then.”
“No, Nile, you don’t understand…” Joe’s fist clenched around air, grasping for the words to describe what made 1980 so magical. “The shorts. His thighs.”
“Oh my god.” Nile turned away, torn completely in half by amusement and exasperation. She expected to hear about the renaissance when she first asked this question.
“He’d skate right inside the house when he came back, always bringing me ice cream or french fries or something. He’d take his headphones off but wouldn’t stop the tape, so I could hear his music when he leaned in to kiss me. He’d be so sweaty and so tall in his skates…”
Again Joe paused, overwhelmed by memory. “His ass. Nile, I cannot describe it for you. English cannot do it. When you learn a few more languages, I’ll be able to tell you. The tan lines alone are worth a book. I think we had more sex that summer than the entire 1340s.”
“Wasn’t that the black plague?”
“It was not a sexy decade,” Joe admitted.
“Can you tell me some cool history stuff that doesn’t involve Nicky’s ass?”
“Every moment I have walked as an immortal on this Earth has involved Nicky’s beautiful ass,” was the defiant reply.
![Nicky’s mailbox. [No advertisments, only love letters.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/86515d3378890c989ce1e964650059fb/95279eb6990dbeac-40/s1280x1920/cca265818e40af5fa4c0d766248dd42a824032a8.jpg "Nicky’s mailbox. [No advertisments, only love letters.]")
