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youssefguedira · 24 days

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i dont know when ill get around to writing the larger fic this is part of but you know brain worms have this

Nicky offers to pick him up at the airport like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t been almost ten years since they saw each other, because he knows Joe hates planes and won’t want to try and navigate the two trains and two buses it’ll take to actually reach their hometown after the flight. And Joe doesn’t even try to protest, just texts him Thank you before he gets on the plane and then tries not to think about it for the entire flight. He fails.

When he arrives he’s exhausted, because it never really gets easier no matter how many times he does it. Moves through the airport like a zombie, operating mostly on muscle memory. He hasn’t been here in a long time. Still knows it well enough to navigate without really thinking about it.

His suitcase is one of the last to come through on the carousel, but it does come through, and then he’s walking to arrivals with his heart in his throat.

Nicky’s hanging back from the crowd, hands in his pockets. His hair is a little longer now, and at some point in the last decade he’s gotten his ears pierced, which Joe didn’t know. He’s wearing a dark green sweater and blue jeans. When he catches sight of Joe he smiles, small and restrained, straightens slightly.

“Hey,” he says as Joe gets closer, voice soft.

Joe has to swallow. “Hey,” he says hoarsely.

And he doesn’t even need to say anything else, because Nicky pulls him into a hug before Joe even has to ask, and Joe buries his face in Nicky’s neck and tries to breathe around the sob catching in his throat. One of Nicky’s hands comes up to cup the back of Joe’s neck, his thumb moving back and forth gently, and Joe is fragile enough that that gesture alone almost undoes him.

Nicky pulls back first. Smiles at Joe. “You look good,” he says.

Joe has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak. “You too.”

They linger just a moment longer, Nicky’s hand still on the back of Joe’s neck. Ten years ago, Joe would’ve kissed him; now there’s a gap neither of them quite know how to fill.

Finally, Nicky steps back fully, and Joe feels the loss of contact sharply. “We should go,” Nicky says. Joe nods, and follows him out of the terminal.

The car Nicky heads for is the same battered old thing he’s been driving since he got his licence. Joe wonders to himself how the car is even still going, and the look Nicky gives him tells him he knows exactly what Joe’s thinking.

It does something funny to Joe’s heart. He looks away, and gets in the car.

“I brought you something to eat,” Nicky says before he starts the car, reaching for the bag by Joe’s feet.

“You didn’t have to–” Joe begins, but Nicky cuts him off with a knowing almost-smile.

“You hate plane food,” Nicky says, “and it’s almost two, and the other option would be whatever we can find on the way. I thought you might prefer this to service station food.”

It makes Joe want to cry a little. “Nicky,” he says, and can’t manage anything else.

Nicky seems to understand. He pulls out what he had been looking for - a silver thermos, and a fork - and hands it to Joe. The contents are still warm when Joe opens it: pasta, warm and comforting.

“Good?” Nicky asks, watching him.

Joe nods. “Good.”

“Okay.” Nicky looks at him for a beat longer, then turns away and starts the car.

There’s a moment of delay before the CD player starts up, but when it does, Joe knows it from the opening note: he bought Nicky this CD from a thrift store the summer before he left for university, when they’d taken off for two weeks, just them and the car and the road. And there’s no chance that Nicky’s kept it in his car for ten years, but as they leave the airport and turn onto the motorway it makes it feel like they’ve done this a thousand times before, even though Nicky never picked him up from the airport when he came home, only met him at the station once or twice.

Joe finishes the pasta and tucks the thermos back in the bag. “Thank you,” he says, and it comes out a lot quieter than he means it to.

Nicky glances at him. “We’re still a few hours away, if you want to try and sleep. I will wake you when we’re almost there.”

Joe might protest under other circumstances, but the flight was long, and he doesn’t sleep well on planes anyway. So he takes off his scarf and folds it into a makeshift pillow before leaning back and closing his eyes. Nicky drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, hums along with the tune, and Joe lets the sound of his voice and the tapping of the rain on the window wrap around him like a blanket, carrying him off to sleep.

----------

Joe wakes to Nicky shaking his shoulder gently. “We’ll be there soon,” he’s saying. The rain has stopped; the radio is on, now, chattering in the way in the background. They’ve left the motorway behind for a much narrower road. Joe has to blink a few times before he catches sight of a sign and realises what Nicky means.

He sits up. The position he’d been sleeping in hadn’t been great for his back or his neck, and he’ll probably regret it soon, but he’d slept a lot better than he might’ve expected.

Being back always makes the rest of his life feel like a dream, like he’d never left at all. When the sign for their town passes Joe sits up, panic coiling in his stomach. He’s had days to prepare himself and still isn’t ready.

“Wait,” he says when they turn a corner two streets away from Joe’s parents’ house, “Nicky. Wait.”

“What?” Nicky asks. He doesn’t stop, but he does slow down.

“I can’t– I can’t do this.”

Now Nicky does stop, pulling into a lay-by. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, I just. Not yet. I need time.”

Nicky looks at him for a long moment. “When are they expecting you?”

“I didn’t give an exact time. Just sometime this afternoon.” He’d told his sister Nicky was coming to get him over the phone; she hadn’t said anything, but the silence had been enough.

Nicky doesn’t say anything, but he’s got the look on his face that means he’s thinking.

“I’ll be okay by myself,” Joe says then. “If you need to work.”

Nicky shakes his head. “I have today off.” And then, before Joe can really think about that, he turns the car around and heads back the way they came. This time, he recognises the path Nicky’s taking almost immediately, turning away from the area Joe’s parents live in and towards the outskirts of town, where it starts to become mostly farmland.

“I can park the car by my uncle’s house,” Nicky says, glancing at Joe. “Then we can go from there.”

Joe doesn’t need to ask where; they’ve walked the same route so many times he could probably do it in his sleep.

The sheep are out in the fields by Nicky’s uncle’s house, but he doesn’t see any of the lambs yet, though they must be coming soon. Nicky’s uncle let Joe try and help with lambing once, up until the point where Joe saw what exactly that entailed, and immediately lost his nerve. But he’d still let him help Nicky feed them every year.

There’s a little paved yard outside the farmhouse, where Nicky parks the car before grabbing the bag that had been by Joe’s feet. “I’m going to drop these off,” Nicky says. “You can come in, if you want?”

Nicky’s aunt and uncle have always been kind to Joe, but they will inevitably ask about his father, and Joe cannot quite bring himself to talk about that, not yet.

“I’ll wait,” Joe says.

It’s a few minutes before Nicky reappears, this time without the bag, but carrying a different thermos. He smiles apologetically as he jogs over. “I didn’t mean to make you wait long,” Nicky says. “But you know how they are.”

All Joe can do is nod. Nicky sets off down the path towards the woods that border the farm and Joe falls into step beside him. They don’t talk much on the way there, but they don’t need to: the silence is comfortable enough.

It’ll be spring soon. It’s cold but not cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the snowdrops are in full bloom, bright shards of white in the grass. The rain has stopped, but the smell of it still hangs in the air. They must’ve spent hours walking this path, enough that Joe doesn’t really need to look to know exactly where Nicky’s going.

This part of the river is just secluded enough that he can’t hear cars passing by anymore. The bench by the path is still there, though at some point they’ve built a shelter over it, which probably leaks but has kept it dry even after the rain. Nicky makes for it immediately.

If he looked at the back of the third slat from the left he’d find their names carved into the wood, side by side. Joe very deliberately doesn’t look.

Nicky sits down. Nods to the space beside him. When Joe joins him, he holds out the thermos.

“Tea,” Nicky says. “If you want.”

How many times have they done exactly this, over the years? In summer, they’d wade into the river; in winter, Joe always wanted to try skating on it, but the ice was never quite thick enough. Every time Nicky got into a fight with his father, every time Joe couldn’t bear to be in the house one second longer, they’d come here.

Joe gives into memory and rests his head on Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky brings one arm up to hold him close, hand on Joe’s upper arm.

Joe closes his eyes, listens to the birds, listens to Nicky’s breathing.

Nicky says, “When is the funeral?”

“Thursday,” Joe says. He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to think about the last conversation he had with his father, doesn’t want to imagine walking into his parents’ house and finding him gone. Of all people, Nicky will understand. It’s what brought them together when they were younger: being the only two students in their class who spoke English as a second language, and difficult fathers.

Silence falls between them, and Nicky doesn’t let him go, and Joe’s missed him, more than he really knew. He’d tried to stay in touch, and they had, for the most part, but it’s not the same as having Nicky beside him again.

Joe doesn’t think there’s anyone in this world who knows him the way Nicky does.

He doesn’t know why he says it, but they haven’t talked about it, and it feels like something they should, if only so Joe can lay this all to rest.

Joe opens his eyes. “You, uh. You seeing anyone?”

Nicky doesn’t pull away, but Joe feels the way he goes still, tense. Slowly, softly, he says, “I don’t think this is the right time, Joe.”

“Is there ever a right time?” Joe asks, half-joking.

Nicky doesn’t laugh.

Joe clears his throat. “I’m not. So.”

Nicky exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself. His thumb moves back and forth, back and forth where it’s resting on Joe’s arm, catching on the fabric of his coat. “Me neither.”

Joe’s not sure if that’s better or worse than if Nicky had said he’d found someone. If he had, perhaps Joe could put to rest the little part of him that will always be in love with Nicky. Not get rid of it entirely, but fold it away in a little corner of his heart and leave it there. This, though – this is possibility he doesn’t know what to do with.

“How long are you here?” Nicky asks quietly, moving his hand up to run his fingers through Joe’s hair, like he used to whenever Joe needed something to keep him grounded.

“I got two weeks off work,” Joe says. “After that I don’t know.”

Two weeks feels monumentally long and yet vanishingly short at the same time. And after?

They don’t talk about much after that. Small talk, more than anything else: Nicky’s still living in the same apartment, still working the same job, but Joe knows he loves it from the tone of his voice when he talks about the shelves he built for his most recent client, how he’s starting to make more of his own stuff, how his boss has been talking about retiring and leaving the whole business to Nicky. Joe could listen to him talk about it for hours. Maybe he does.

It settles the frantic thing that had woken in his chest when they crossed the town line, and eventually, Joe says, “I think I’m ready.”

Nicky turns his head inwards and kisses the top of Joe’s head. Lingers there for a moment. It isn’t anything; it doesn’t have to be anything.

“Okay,” Nicky says. “Okay.”

The walk back to the farm is largely silent, just as the walk there had been, passing the thermos of tea back and forth between them. They get back in the car, and Nicky drives them back to Joe’s parents’ house.

Nicky pulls up on the curb outside the house. “Call me, if you need anything. Or just– call me.”

“I will,” Joe promises. He has two weeks; he’s not going to waste them. They haven’t been in the same timezone in a long, long time.

Nicky smiles, small and hopeful, and there’s nothing really to say, after that.

Joe gets out of the car, and prepares to face his family.

#neon writes #the old guard #kaysanova #the setting and language of this one is deliberately deeply vague i don't know where it is the point is the Vibe #i call this one someone took le otto montagne 2022 a bit too personally! this is the first 'section' of this fic #there's a second part after a little time jump (not more than a year) which is what i like to call the past lives segment of this fic #anyway. enjoy #userlyde #userlinax #OH ALSO. the song is amore che vieni amore che vai #not for thematic reasons it's just the first track of ostinata e contraria #and its funny to me

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questing-wulfstan · 2 years

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Listen, I can't blame y'all when His Excellence Neil Gaiman hisself compared it to Dream walking out on his date with Hob to hit it off with Shaxberd upon learning about Eleanor and Robyn, but I feel like fixating on this interpretation only of the scene is a disservice to Morpheus' overall characterisation over the season.

Have you noticed how Hob calls "his friend" over to his table and that doesn't phase Morpheus at all then Dream doesn't even ask him whether he still wants to live before putting an end to their meeting ? It's unexpected from someone otherwise so strict and set on protocols ー even when he storms out in 1889, he already had Hob's answer to that question. Yet he leaves 1589 Hob without having formally asked the one question that justifies their centennial meetings.

That is because Dream knows, oh he knows what Hob's Heaven is like. He's had a wife and a son of his own once, and he knew what eternity by their side would be like, once. And he knows Hob has everything but Death on his mind then. He also knows ー or so he thinks ー what Hob's answer will be the next century. For Hob Gadling alone was granted immortality, not Eleanor, nor Robyn. And Morpheus knows what outliving one's son is like.

Morpheus' work in this tavern of the White Horse is done, but he's also taken back to the most traumatic event of his existence, one he won't recover from in two millennia and he can't look Hob in the eyes anymore, he needs a distraction, something, anything but having to confront his revenant grief. And there's that playwright loudly willing to strike a bargain with higher entities for the ability to create timeless dreams for humanity and there's his distraction, there's an escape ...

Comes 1689, Morpheus is certain of the outcome of this meeting. Sure, it will have taken the bugger three time the hundred years Dream had predicted Death, but no matter because it is true : nobody can bear an endless existence.

Then Morpheus learns about not only the expected death of Hob's son, but that it happened much earlier than it should have, devoid of a fulfilling lifetime for Robyn and of psychological preparation for Hob. Scythed in the prime of life, much like Orpheus. And within a close time frame to his wife's departure, too. Hob is holding up a mirror to Morpheus' own misery and the King of Dreams finds himself on the verge of tears. He is no longer smug as he offers Hob what he thinks of as an eventual relief.

Yet ... Hob doesn't take it. Somehow, somewhere, Hob Gadling finds it in himself to resist the tragedy of his life, to chose tomorrow, to decide that whatever the future holds, it is worth being there to see it.

And that is really when something kindles within Morpheus. No longer mere curiosity but a devouring fascination for Hob Gadling, his hopefulness and his resilience. He latches onto that man who shares his misery yet seem to have overcome it, or anyhow accommodated himself to it.

And when they meet again in 1789, and fortune has smiled upon Hob Gadling once again, Morpheus is much more open, much more attentive, much more interested. Who knows if he might not have given Hob his name even, hadn't lady Johanna Constantine interrupted him ?

By all means, Morpheus doesn't process their blooming bond. He's the anthropomorphic incarnation of the human or really, the living unconscious : there are numerous things passing through his mind at all time that he does not process. To him, he's merely monitoring the puzzling glitch that is Robert Gadling's will to live still, and waiting for him to eventually, inevitably renounce his immortality.

So when another century has passed and Hob asserts that their meetings are unnecessary for he won't ever renounce being alive but proposes his friendship, Morpheus is left reeling, faced with how much he has in common with this 'mortal' and his envy for Hob's resilience and capacity to forge ahead.

Naturally he takes flight and makes for an escape, lest he finds himself ensnared by his own grief ...

#sandman #netflix the sandman #dreamling #morpheus #dream of the endless #hob gadling #hob x morpheus #hob x dream #this is such a mess does it even makes sense ??#anywho I've spent way too long writing this out #meta #which admittedly slid towards poetic flourish but meta nonetheless #sandman meta #userlyde

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tommy-evan · 2 years

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LUCA MARINELLI BEHIND THE SCENES FOR THE OLD GUARD 2 TUDUM ‘22

#the old guard #theoldguardedit #togcastedit #luca marinelli #nicolo di genova #usernati #userlyde #usertriz #userbooker #userkayla #usercacau #tuservi #tusererica #userbones #the old guard spoilers #the old guard bts #L edits things

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linaxart · 1 year

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they look young for their age

Joe insists Nicky cheats by being too handsome and distracting (he's right, Nicky wears the good cardigan when he wants to win. Joe knows, falls for it every time)

#the old guard #kaysanova #joenicky #joe x nicky #immortal husbands #Yusuf al-Kaysani #nicolò di genova #tog #digital art #fanart #sketchbook #photoshop #accessible fanart #artists of tumblr #usernati #demonicneonfishy #usernicolo #❤️❤️❤️#userlyde

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nilefreemans · 2 years

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the sluttiest thing a man can do..

for @alkaysani

[insp]

#yusuf al kaysani #usernicolo #userlyra #userlyde #tuserkris #togedit #togsource #the old guard #shinylightblue #userbooker #userskris #my edits #my gifs #totalnerdsedits #totalnerdsgifs

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laviejaguardia · 11 months

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Technical Support - read on ao3

NOW COMPLETE

Joe/Nicky. F1 AU. Rated M. 96k words.

Formula 1 driver Yusuf "Joe" Kaysani has just signed with Old Guard Racing, under the management of Team Principal Andromache Scythian. Like in any new partnership, there's edges to file down to fit and roles to coordinate so it all goes smoothly. In between those questions is the matter of who will be his new race engineer and run comms for him during races. It's a big ask that needs a delicate balance, it can't be just anyone. Engineer Nicolò di Genova has been working at Old Guard Racing for a few years, putting his analytical mind to good use filing down milliseconds off their lap times. He's been content with his work behind the scenes, only briefly stepping into the spotlight when the occasion called for it. Despite the sport's unpredictability, it's been good steady work, surely this new partnership won't change things much for him. Or: Joe runs his mouth when high on adrenaline, Nicky's voice is soothing, and a lot of things can happen in a single F1 season.

Hope you enjoy this labor of love, try to drop a kudos or a comment if you do, they're the blood and bone of fandom :)

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bookersebastien · 2 years

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you ever imagine that the first thing booker did was visit his sons graves. theyre maybe grown over a bit, tombstones long worn down with only the faintest impressions of words left on them tucked in the corner of an old cemetery. you ever think that the entire time there he held off from drinking, to talk to them clear minded. and talk to them he did, he sobbed on the grass telling them he missed them and that he was truly sorry for what happened. maybe if he hadnt gotten caught maybe he would've still been there for them. he tells them how he failed again, how he managed to be so lucky to find a new family is so beyond him but he messed up and theyve left him too and by the time he sees them again, one of them will be long gone. he tells them stories about their missions, the one in greece on that fisherman's boat, the time in egypt he and joe got trampled by a camel, the time they accidentally ended up with 50 rescued animals at their safehouse. he thought jean-pierre would like that one, he always loved animals. he only stopped when his voice ran hoarse and his tears would no longer come, and only then did he allow himself to leave. immortal yet he'd never felt so old in his life. and then he drank and he drank, until every drink started to taste the same and he could feel his body growing weak and tired. then he'd get up and do it again. he was alone again

#the old guard #sebastien le livre #tog fic #kinda #yes this is bc i saw the post with booker and his sons #made myself sad #userlyde #usernati #userkayla #usernicolo #usertriz

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katesbridgerton · 2 years

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guys, i want to start writing again, but i honestly don't know where to start. please send me prompts? i accept for the following ships: kaysanova; kanthony; tarlos; buddie; jisbon; mattfoggy; spirk aos.

tagging some mutuals. sorry!

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blood-suits-and-tears · 2 years

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one of my fave quotes (˶◕‿◕˶✿)

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd lucius #ofmdedit #bstcreations #bstgifs #I haven't made gifs in ages so this took me a while #usernicolo #userkayla #userlyde #userlyra #haven't tagged anyone in forever sorry!

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userengy · 3 years

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SHADOW AND BONE + planet symbolism

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youssefguedira · 1 year

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today i offer this. tomorrow, who knows?

#the old guard #kaysanova #posts i took a picture of my copy of opening fire to make #i couldve done this with movie joe but i hate screencaps.com and i think this is funnier #userlyde #userlinax

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questing-wulfstan · 2 years

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While on the subject of trauma, do you ever think about how Hob Gadling waited 33 years for Morpheus to show up at the New Inn, and seemed determined to wait even longer if needed even as he was getting dangerously close to the longest he'd ever stayed in the same place, which had awarded him to be drowned as a witch ? And sure, British people no longer publicly drown witches in the year 2022, but that would not stop a traumatised Hob from dreading it. Nor would it stop bigots finding themselves a sudden dislike for a queer man marginalising himself from society just enough that he can fall off the face of the earth without too much trouble from not-publicly do other than drowning him ... What I'm saying is, it was not only incredibly patient and loyal for Hob Gadling to wait 33 years at the New Inn for Morpheus, it was also freaking brave and metal of him, thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

#sandman #netflix the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #meta #sandman meta #maybe saying 33 is dangerously close to 40 is a bit dramatic I'm aware #but you know what I mean #it's about the flair *snaps fingers*#listen I love y'all's headcanons of Morpheus' fishbowl trauma #but besties there are worse trauma for each of them right in canon please #userlyde

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tommy-evan · 1 year

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LUCA MARINELLI as PIETRO GUASTI - LE OTTO MONTAGNE

#togcastedit #luca marinelli #lmarinelliedit #the eight mountains #le otto montagne #usernati #usercacau #usertriz #userbooker #userkayla #tusererica #alielook #tuservi #userlyde #userkit #L edits things #atomicblondeseries*

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linaxart · 1 year

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I spent more time arranging the tiles than in any rendering oof

#the old guard #Yusuf al-Kaysani #tog #joe al-Kaysani #tog fanart #the old guard fanart #kaysanova #immortal husbands #joenicky #digital art #fanart #sketchbook #photoshop #tag monthly theme #userlyde #usernicolo

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nilefreemans · 2 years

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“You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun for yourself?”

Ngô Thanh Vân (Van Veronica Ngo) as Linh in The Princess (2022)

#van veronica ngo #ngo thanh van #togcastedit #tog cast #the old guard #usernicolo #userbooker #shinylightblue #tuservi #userskris #usernati #userlyra #userlyde #bloodsuitandtears #usermoonlight #tuserangela #usertriz #idk who to tag anymore #I havent made a gif in like a year

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laviejaguardia · 1 year

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Joe crashes into the old safe house. The fact that the door is locked and he has to break the lock already tells him Nicky hasn’t arrived yet. He throws his bag on the decaying couch, paying no mind to the dust that flies up. His eyes sting and he decides to blame it on the allergies.

His phone takes a few forceful taps to light up, he punches in the encrypted code and pulls at his curls as the line rings.

“Joe,” Copley’s voice greets him.

“News.” To call it a request would be generous.

“Nile checked in five minutes ago, Andy two hours ago. They’s safe and lying low.”

Joe breathes out but his shoulders remain tense. Copley doesn’t say anything and silence stretches over the line. Joe's breathing fills the connection.

He tugs at his curls, hand coming out stained with tacky blood. He has no idea if it’s his or someone else's. He’s glad his dark hair means the stains weren’t visible, he had no idea he was so dirty.

“I take it Nicky…” Copley trails off, no doubt taking notice of the mood on the other side of the phone.

“No.” Joe replies, curt and without any warmth. He might regret being so rude later but now the man’s cautious tone grates at him. He paces the dirty room, kicking up more dust. He tugs again at his hair, momentarily forgetting about the blood and muttering a curse at the first feeling of wetness.

“I’ll let you know,” Copley finally replies and the line goes dead. Joe throws the phone on the couch, not caring that it might get lost in between the dilapidated cushions.

I’ll let you know… Copley said and Joe hears the echoes of what he didn't dare to utter.

I’ll let you know if there’s news.

I’ll let you know if there’s bad news.

I’ll let you know if he’s spotted.

I’ll let you know if he’s been followed.

I’ll let you know if he’s been kidnapped.

I'll let you know if he's d-

Joe’s breathing picks up and he paces the room, both hands on his curls now. His shirt is stuck to his skin in places, dried blood making for an adhesive. The old dust, disturbed for the first time after decades, burns his throat. He bites his lip, crosses his arms and uncrosses them. There are ants all over his skin. He tugs at the irritating collar of his shirt, it grazes the side of his neck like a breeze, like the way Nicky noses the skin to make him squirm.

There’s no velvety chuckle curling on his ear now, only stillness, silence and the lack of a presence, a void so enormous it has its own gravity. Like a black hole, it sucks Joe _down down down_ the spiral of worst case scenarios.

He got out according to plan, with a chance encounter with a patrol that was over and done in two minutes. Oh, he remembers now, the blood in his hair is not his. The knowledge only works to annoy him further, he hates being covered in other people’s organic matter. Once the men were dispatched, he walked through the field under the red hues of dawn to the rendezvous point where, as planned, a car was waiting for him.

The ride was a blur. He’s not sure if he used the phone’s GPS to get to the safehouse or if muscle memory did him a solid. He has no idea how long the ride was.

He does a turn around the couch and scratches at his shoulder and up to his neck. The blood is getting itchy. How long has it been? Shouldn’t have Nicky arrived already? He pats his pockets but can’t find his phone in any of them.

If he made it, Nicky should only have been slightly behind Joe himself.

The image of Nicky being held between two henchmen, bloody and stoic as always comes to his mind. Nicky gets so focused when he snipes and this time they couldn’t spare Joe as a spotter. It’s nothing they haven’t done a million times before. And yet… The last glimpse Joe had of Nicky flashes before his eyes, the warm press of his lips against his own in a chaste parting kiss. The memory of the warm kindness in his eyes and whispered good luck wish does not have the soothing effect the real thing had then. All Joe can think about is how he should have held on for longer, should have wrapped his hands around the straps of Nicky’s ammunition vest and refused to let go.

It’s too easy to picture Nicky lying on the ground, sniper rifle on his shoulder, gaze intent on his target. It’s a sight he’s intimately familiar with. The well worn thoughts about his thighs, his ass or the way his shoulders spread even wider than normal that he voiced just to break Nicky’s concentration escape him now. All Joe can think of is how he never noticed how vulnerable Nicky looks. The soft hairs on the back of his neck, the dip of his lower back, the spot Joe knows would render any man immobile if shot through.

A hand raises in his mind's eye, a gun at the end of it, gripped expertly and finger on the trigger.

Joe chokes on a sob and shakes his head, cursing the images away and failing. The horror film continues to glow on the backs of his eyes, seance uninterrupted. He’s seen Nicky dead so many times. His mind has no issue bringing the image to life once again, rendered perfectly to the last detail.

Nicky's lovely clear eyes, vacant and dull. His cupid bow, made for kissing and laughter, slack and flaccid. His skin takes an ashy look in death that makes the red of the blood all the more stark.

Joe’s chest is a vice around his heart, squeezing all the air out of his lungs and turning his heartbeat into a thunderous thumping against his sternum. It hurts to breathe, his tongue feels big in his mouth, pushing against the back of his teeth. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyelids. The dried blood flakes and makes them itch.

Joe gasps, images of Nicky’s lax body burrowing in each crevice of his brain. The wall is musty and cool behind his back, the floor gritty through his pants. He curls towards himself, gasping for air, in the darkness against his thighs all he can hear is his own gasping breaths.

Certainty sinks into him like lead.

He’s dead he’s dead he’s dead, something deep inside him chants.

This is it this is it, he’s gone and not coming back. You lost him. He died far away from you, you will not go together, you will not follow him for thousands of years.

His body feels like it’s been torn in half, not a clean cut but a jaded edge down to the very atoms that form him, ripped apart at a molecular level. He’s a nuclear fission of grief, splitting at the most primal elements.

Nicky used to say he believed they had been part of the same star once upon a time and that that’s what drove them together, why they felt like home before they even shared a language. It used to make Joe feel warm, he certainly felt like his body knew Nicky’s since the origin of the universe. Now Joe wonders if this is what the supernova that ripped them apart back then felt like.

The wall digs at the bumps of his spine, a rosary like the ones Nicky used to like, made of bruises that bloom and fade like fleeting cemetery flowers.

They heal because it’s not his time, but it was Nicky’s and Joe can see it clearly, his strong body, lax and limp on some lost corner of the world where even he might not find him. There’s no dreams to connect them replaced now with the waking nightmare of his existence and-

The door creaks open.

Joe shoots up from the floor, scrambling to hold on to the couch to keep his balance.

Nicky is putting down his bag and kicking off his boots with matching thumps on the old wooden floor when Joe lays eyes on him. Dust, golden in the morning light, curls around him, caressing every available inch of skin and adhering to his clothing. Nicky grimaces at some sensory feeling and reaches towards his back. His eyes land on Joe then and he smiles, soft and content.

“Tesoro, hello,” he greets him, velvet voice warmer than any sun, more enveloping than any blanket.

As Nicky wrestles his t-shirt off, revealing blood stained but unmarred warm skin. Joe breathes in deep, pulling in dusty stale air and his own atoms back together. It rattles in his lung, forcing his ribcage to expand and his heart to stop beating against its bone cage. His shoulders slump with his exhale.

Nicky balls up the cloth and flicks it towards the couch. It falls next to Joe’s abandoned phone. He takes a couple steps closer, moving through space as graceful as water. Warm hands find Joe’s hips, nudge him closer as gentle as a breeze kissing the petals of a cherry blossom.

“I made good time, did you have any problems?” Nicky asks, a corner of his lips curling upwards in that way it irrevocably does when he has Joe in proximity.

Joe smiles and leans in to rest their foreheads together, noses grazing against one another.

“No, habibi.” Joe replies, their faces so close his words turn into a kiss, soft and lingering. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he tells those warm sea-green eyes.

#tog fic #the old guard #kaysanova #tog #joenicky #immortal husbands #joe centric #mcd scare #anxiety #my writing #mmine #posting at dead hours is my passion #demonicneonfishy #usernati #some joe whump for ya #userlyde

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