Chapter Text
The flight from Malta back to Schiphol is delayed. It's fucking delayed. And not a little delay either; the usual thirty minutes crept quickly up to an hour, then to two... Joe blinks in dismay at the board now proclaiming a delay of four hours, plus a 'wait for more information' sign above the gate. He sits back down heavily in the uncomfortable seating and tries to muffle the groan in his throat. The poor, harried attendant at the desk glances sideways at him, but relaxes when he offers a sympathetic smile, turning back to her frantic clicking.
Joe takes the opportunity to look around, leg bouncing while his eyes wander. A few other equally tired passengers hover around; it's not a very busy flight but there's still a small gathering. A family with two well-behaved teenagers; an older couple talking to someone on the phone; a young man whose eyes he briefly meets while they're also drifting around; a student or young professional typing frantically into a macbook covered in so many stickers it looks like a dive bar bathroom wall. There are more but Joe's eyes drift, frequently and helplessly, back to the young man opposite him. Joe's gay as all hell, okay? He can't help but appreciate a handsome male form, and his fellow stuck traveller offers all that and more.
With a noble nose that gets more attractive the longer Joe looks at it, and straight, chin-length brown hair that looks unbearably silky, Joe decides to name him Airport Cutie in his head. He's a fan of a good descriptive nickname for the strangers he meets; a holdover from his high school days giving code names to their crushes with his friends. Airport Cutie has a dusting of stubble and a beauty mark on his cheek like fucking Marilyn Monroe or something, and big, pale eyes with eye bags that Joe is unashamed to say he kinda wants to lick. Or maybe press a cool cloth to, to ease away some of that tired bruising.
Airport Cutie meets his eyes again on his return sweep, passing by Joe, then widening and doing a very small double take. Joe offers him his best smirk, a one-sided, half-open lift of his mouth and a slow blink that would be just above friendly if the guy is straight and doesn't get the context, but is suggestive as all hell if he isn't. Airport Cutie quickly scans his face, and then the rest of him. Joe shifts, loosening his lounge into more of a sprawl. His hands are already tucked into his jacket and his knees spread wide, so it doesn't take a lot of effort to look supremely available, and from the blush on Airport Cutie's face and the way he ducks his gaze away with a soft, breathy laugh, the guy can tell exactly what he's doing.
Years of experience have taught Joe how to best flirt with his body, but also how to read someone else's. Airport Cutie is interested, at least a little bit, because he glances up again and then quickly away, checking the departure screen as the tannoy crackles on for another announcement.
"Dear passengers, Flight 6708 to Amsterdam, flying with KLM, departing at three-forty, has regrettably been cancelled due to mechanical issues. Please see the information desk for further advice."
As the announcement continues in a few other languages, Joe looks back at Airport Cutie, watching him fold over with a groan and a grimace, rubbing between his eyebrows. He frowns down at his phone and starts typing. Joe can hear it vibrate with an incoming call and the guy stands up, casting Joe a quick look of apology that he is surprised by, and then hesitates. He picks up the call with a quick flutter of... Italian maybe? It's not quite like the Spanish he already knows so he guesses Italian. Airport Cutie clutches his phone against his chest and looks at Joe directly as he thinks, chewing his lip.
What Joe wouldn't do to get his teeth on that soft pink himself.
"Sorry," the man addresses him, "but would you mind—" he casts his hands towards his stuff, piled on the chair. "I will be quick, and not far, I'm just cautious that—"
"Yeah, sure!" Joe agrees quickly, beaming when Airport Cutie graces him with a quick smile and strides off, back to his conversation. He doesn't go far, leaning up against the windows that look over where their plane has been idling, taunting them for the past—he checks his own phone—two and a half hours. The guy is clearly adored by natural lighting, his angular face catching shadows and highlights like a Renaissance painting. Shit, if it wasn't creepy Joe would get on his knees and beg to take a few photos, so he can play around with his oils replicating the image at home, once this chance meeting is over.
He looks back at Airport Cutie's stuff and thinks, Well. It's only reasonable that he defend his bags properly, right? From nearby. He's willing to bet that no one would blame him for using the opening to get a closer look either, so up he stands and over he goes with his own things, bracketing his seat and Airport Cutie's empty one with their luggage. They're both travelling fairly light, a hand-luggage holdall and a small backpack for Joe and the same but with a messenger bag for his new friend.
"Gra—uh, thank you," he hears when Airport Cutie returns. The guy doesn't miss a beat when he sits beside Joe, casting him a smile but distracted by something on his phone. Without a word he shifts, leaning on the arm rest between them so they're almost touching, and holds his phone out. "They will give us a hotel, if we ask," he tells Joe with an earnest expression. "But we should ask quickly so there are good rooms."
Joe flounders for a moment, wondering if he's missed something. But it becomes swiftly evident that the phrasing is probably coming from the translation to English rather than a proposition. Damn. "Oh, thanks yeah. Information desk then?" He offers hopefully, bouncing up onto his feet when the Italian nods. They grab their things, layering up with equal speed, the sort that only comes from being a regular traveller, and head towards the desk together. The line isn't too long so there's no chance to speak before Joe is being called forwards.
Inwardly he thanks KLM for not being total dicks when the room is arranged with minimal fuss. The man behind the desk, much like the gate attendant, looks equally relieved by the exchange and hands over his reservation printout with a cheerful goodbye.
Then it's Airport Cutie's turn. Joe doesn't want to look too much like he's waiting, but he is still slightly curious about all the wild possibilities for the night ahead, so he stalls and takes his time pulling his travel wallet out and folding the reservation into the right size to slot in. It means, luckily, that he's well within earshot when things start to go pear-shaped.
"I'm very sorry sir—"
"No, no but—" Joe looks around, seeing Airport Cutie's frustrated frown and the stony look on the previously friendly assistant. The sort of look that says the guy is preparing for a fight and is unable to help. Airport Cutie's frown turns to panic, and his mouth stammers out a few unfinished words before he sighs.
Jokes aside; Joe is a romantic at heart. He has a soft spot for cheesy rom-coms and adores a good first meeting story. He knows exactly how cliché he's being but he can't help it, when he turns around and waves Airport Cutie over. "Hey, come here a second," he calls, waiting for Airport Cutie to get over his indecision and resign himself to leaving the desk. "Look, I couldn't help but hear. You don't have a room?"
"I did not book through the 'right website'," he sighs heavily, rolling his eyes along with the quotation marks. "It is... perhaps I will find a hotel anyway and just pay?"
Joe is watching his face, so he sees every reaction that flashes over it when he replies, "Why don't you share mine?" Surprise, wonder, trepidation, something that looks deliciously like lust, and then consideration.
Airport Cutie's lips purse beautifully. "Is there space?" he asks, rightfully so. Joe has his own moment of panic and grabs the printout to check, spotting the words 'double room' and relaxing.
"Yeah for sure, plenty. Besides, it's worth it not to pay, and not to sleep in the airport, right?"
Airport Cutie chuckles and nods slowly. "True, yes." He looks off for just a second, expression clear when he looks back and smiles. "Alright, yes I will share. You protected my luggage very well. I think I can trust you tonight not to..."
"Kill you?" Joe grins. Only a little death, if the universe somehow gifts him a small miracle. Airport Cutie just looks him up and down, only his eyes moving but raking over every inch of Joe's body.
"You could try," he replies dryly, before plucking the printout from Joe's hands and reading it, marching off towards the hotel with Joe hot on his heels like a love struck puppy. Which is more or less exactly how he feels, and he's okay with that.
What the hell is he doing? Nicky doesn't even know this man's name and he's flirting and preparing to share a room with him for the night. He'd scanned the reservation and realised what he isn't entirely sure his mysterious, handsome saviour has yet - a double room, not a twin. They'll have to share a bed, but honestly Nicky is beyond the point of backing out.
If he has to suffer the horrors of a cancelled flight then he will damn well enjoy himself.
At the front desk, they go through the rigmarole of getting their key-cards and hearing about dinner menus and check out times, and then it's just the two of them in a quiet, too-small elevator, squashed together with their bags and facing one another awkwardly.
At least, Nicky is awkward, but his companion just smiles, leaning back artfully against the wall. "I suppose I should know your name, now you know mine," he says. Nicky tilts his head and the man blinks. "You didn't look? Or listen?"
"Um..." Now that he thinks about it, Nicky remembers that the receptionist had said something his roommate had replied to, but he had been rather distracted at the time by the way said roommate had just nudged him out of the way with a warm hand on his hip, so it had fled his mind. "I'm sorry, no. I am Nicky," he offers as an apology, holding his hand out.
How is this man real? Nicky thinks, flustered beyond belief when soft, slightly dry lips brush over the back of his captured hand, lifted high to a smiling mouth. Fuck.
"Nice to meet you Nicky. I'm Joe. Is that a nickname?"
Nicky nods. "For English," he explains, Joe humming in agreement. "In truth it is Nicolò, but I let people use Nicky instead. It is easier, and quicker. Better for Starbucks, as well."
"I'm the same actually, Joe's a nickname. But Yusuf isn't really hard to say. It's just more convenient, to fit in as a kid, and now to avoid the, ah..." Joe rubs the back of his head with a grimace, casting about for the words, still holding Nicky's hand gently between them.
"Assumptions? Biases?" Nicky suggests with a wry twist of his face and a raised eyebrow. Joe hums, his huff of laughter both amused and threaded through with irritation. "Can I... use Yusuf then?" he goes on to ask, meeting Joe's surprised eyes boldly. "If you like? It suits you. It is softer, like you. Like your hair I mean, not the..." He gestures frantically at Joe's—Yusuf's generally leaner shape.
"Sure," Yusuf says with a growing grin. "I don't mind either way, honestly, but it sounds nice when you say it. How about I try yours—Nicolò?" Nicky was about to laugh but even if it is imperfect, the way Yusuf's mouth shapes his full name makes him blush and nearly choke. "Ah, definitely Nicolò then," Yusuf latches on immediately. His hand tightens on Nicky's, arm tensing to pull him in, but the doors ding and slide open. Nicky expects him to let go but he doesn't, changing his grip on Nicky's hand to be more comfortable and waiting patiently for him to stop standing still and staring, grab his bag, and follow Yusuf out into the corridor.
His hand is warm, and soft. It's a little sweaty, but Nicky doesn't judge after they've been stuck in the airport for so long. He wouldn't let go even if it was too much; such a simple touch already makes his stomach flutter and his face hot. It's pretty impressive, honestly.
"Here we are, home sweet home," Yusuf chirps, looking back over his shoulder. He struggles to pull the card out of his jacket pocket—it's on the wrong side, he would need to let go of Nicky and seems wholly unwilling to do so—so Nicky reaches out and slips his hand into his jacket for him and fishes out the card. He falls instantly in love with the jacket itself, the soft buttery faux-leather of it, and the bobbled cotton lining of the pockets that speak to years of loving use. And he loses his breath a bit when he looks up and realises he's leaned far into Yusuf's space to help him.
Luckily one of them still has their faculties. Yusuf tugs the forgotten card from his fingers, unlocks the door with a smirk and a blush of his own, and finally, sadly, releases Nicky's hand so they can get inside.
As Nicky had known, there is only one bed. He pretends to be surprised, humming and raising an eyebrow at it. "I see," he says in as bland a tone as possible, waiting for Yusuf to stop spluttering and trying to explain the mistake, before ending his torment with a broad grin. "I saw already, Yusuf. I am teasing."
"Teasing, huh?" Yusuf replies. His tone is dark with want, and still a little breathless from his anxiousness. "It's like that?"
"It could be..." Nicky says, wishing he didn't sound so high-pitched and strangled. He would like very much to be cool and calm and collected, seducing handsome Yusuf into the bed behind him for a night of something hopefully wonderful. Actually, hold that thought. "Sorry," he interrupts their mounting tension with a finger up between them, "but I did not exactly, ah, come prepared."
Nicky is pretty sure what Yusuf mutters is 'you will' but he can't be sure, he moves on too quickly for Nicky to ask. "There should be a shop somewhere? Downstairs. It isn't so late, we could go and see, maybe have some food."
"I would like to buy dinner. As thanks for this."
"But I didn't pay for it!" Yusuf protests. "That's not fair."
"Perhaps not, but I think you will more than repay me later. Yes?"
The gulp of Yusuf's throat is riveting. "Yes," he croaks, and again more smoothly, "yes. Definitely. Perhaps though, we should just order room service when we get our supplies. So that I have adequate time to show you my gratitude..."
Oh dear Lord. Nicky will die in ecstasy tonight. Yusuf's honey tongue and molten eyes promise that tenfold.
Without any further words he drops his bag and lets go of his holdall, spinning sharply on his heel and almost running for the door. He waits there with eager impatience, jerking his chin when Yusuf looks at him from inside the room, until the other man scrambles after him, only just remembering to grab the room key before they race off, eating up the short distance down to the shopping area. The elevator ride is excruciating, but by some silent agreement they lean against opposite walls and simply watch each other, and Yusuf noticeably and forcefully shoves his hands into his jacket while giving Nicky the hungriest look he's ever seen. He feels like a five course meal displayed on a pristine white tablecloth.
Nicky has to bite his lips into his mouth to keep quiet.
The shops are still full of milling travellers, but Yusuf has no shame when he drags Nicky—grabbing his hand and clinging to it possessively—over to the aisle they need, flying past bottles of shampoo and toothpaste and coming to a sudden stop in front of the adult supplies section. Nicky stumbles into him with his momentum, and Yusuf sneaks his arm around his waist with a heated look that would have taken Nicky's breath away if he'd had any left. He curls his fingers into the pocket of Yusuf's jacket and fixates on his jaw and mouth while Yusuf says things he isn't listening to about choices of this condom or that; this type of lube or the other one.
"Are you—Nicolò," Yusuf chides, and oh boy his eyes crinkle when he smiles this smile. Nicky licks his lips, blinking to clear his thoughts. "You're not listening."
"You choose," he says in a rush. "But quickly, Yusuf."
"No, no we both have to choose. Look—focus for two minutes, then we can go back. I am—" Yusuf glances around to check there is no one nearby and then turns their bodies in towards each other, making a little private bubble for the two of them. He shifts, taking Nicky's hips and shuffling a little closer to him, nodding his head and flicking his eyes downwards between them. Nicky looks and can see the slightest swell of the outline of his dick in his pants through several layers of fabric, hard and desperate. He bites back a whine, eyes shooting up to Yusuf's face, and Yusuf swallows his own groan, nodding. "I want to get back too," he murmurs, thumbs stroking idly over Nicky's waist, "but we gotta have what we need so we can keep going. I'm not gonna want to stop."
"Yes, yes of course," Nicky whispers back, sneaking one last glance down before stepping carefully away, sure his flaming cheeks are still giving him away. Maybe someone walking by will write it off as simple embarrassment over shopping for condoms.
He wonders what they look like, standing together while Yusuf very calmly points out the different options, happily talking himself through the pros and cons of several flavours of lube, and Nicky settles for just nodding or shaking his head, gripping his own elbows tight so he won't reach for Yusuf again. His eyes stay away from Yusuf's distracting... everything with supreme effort, all the way through picking out what they might need and taking it to the counter to be rung up. The cashier smiles at them, a soft and dimpled thing as she scans and bags their items. Yusuf pays and Nicky sucks on his bottom lip and tries not to make eye contact with the woman, leaning unconsciously into Yusuf's side. He doesn't even realise until Yusuf's arm curls around him again while he's still mid-transaction, and when Nicky looks at the cashier it's plain to see that she'd spotted the soft, wanting look of awe he'd shot Yusuf.
"Newlyweds?" she asks, slightly reluctant like she knows it will go down badly if the answer is no. "Or newly engaged?"
Nicky's face flushes the deepest red it has all night, but far from helping him clear up the misunderstanding, Yusuf steps right into it. He laughs breathlessly, turning to look at Nicky. "Is it that obvious?" he asks while Nicky just stares like a deer caught in headlights.
"It's all in the eyes," the cashier winks, passing the bag and receipt over. Yusuf just sighs.
"Yes it is," he agrees, thanking her and nudging Nicky into action so they can leave. Nicky is still staring at him, and his arm is still around Nicky's waist, when they reach the elevator. Yusuf turns and grimaces. "Sorry, I couldn't help it," he apologises with a slight laugh. "It was too tempting. Did I make you uncomfortable?"
That's the question, isn't it? Nicky slowly shakes his head but does step out of Yusuf's hold, pushing his hair back from his face and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He hears Yusuf call his name, sounding increasingly worried, and manages to give him a small smile. "I'm alright, I'm alright. Just surprised. And I... have an idea," he confesses, peeking up from under his eyelashes to judge Yusuf's reaction.
"I'm listening," the other man says curiously. "And I'm intrigued how this is related to what just happened."
Nicky presses his lips together but his smile still escapes.
If the hotel receptionist is surprised to see them back again before check out then he doesn't show it. He greets them warmly and his expression colours with intrigue when Nicolò steps forwards, biting his lip and casting doe eyes back at Joe. Joe is amazed by the performance. It is a genuine struggle, not just a performance for their audience, to stop himself from pawing at Nicolò and plastering himself to his back. When Nicolò had dragged him over for this game he had been a little miffed to have to delay their acquaintance with a flat surface any further, but if the idea works? It will be more than worth it.
"I wanted to ask about room service?" Nicolò's rich voice turns the words to music. Joe hears it in every cadence. He wants to confirm his suspicions that Nicolò's sighs and moans are nothing less than a symphony. "We are—" another shy look which is perhaps more real than the first, "celebrating, our engagement, if that's—" he looks suddenly horrified to be essentially sharing that they'll certainly be having sex in the hotel later. Again, Joe wonders how much is put on and how much is genuine. "Sorry, um, I just mean—we would like to enquire about room service?"
Joe gazes at him in wonder when he flings a hand back and grips Joe's, pulling him close to form a hot line of support at Nicolò's side. They look at each other, interrupted by the polite 'ahem' of the receptionist, who is hiding a big grin while the pair of them blush furiously and try to meet his eyes. Well, Nicolò tries—Joe just looks at him. He wants to see nothing else ever again until the end of his days. Nicolò was beautiful at first glance and is getting more beautiful the longer they spend together, their new and exciting connection lending affection and attraction to his aesthetic appreciation.
He realises he's been ignoring the conversation in favour of gazing dreamily at Nicolò when his fake fiancé blinks and nods eagerly in response to something Joe hadn't heard.
"That—" Nicolò gasps, eyes wide and surprised. It is amazing that the receptionist doesn't swoon at his desk, with a look like that turned on him in full. He just smiles back fondly, tapping on his keyboard, while the Italian plays the part of the stunned and touched innocent that he isn't. Joe wants to taste that silver tongue so badly his mouth waters. Keep it together Joe, you need this to last.
He hands over his original room key obediently when asked and receives the new one back—a full upgrade? Nicolò you stunning genius—offering his own quick thanks to the receptionist. The man accompanies them in the elevator up to their old room with the good professional sense to not bother with small-talk or watching them too closely, opening the door with his administrator's pass so they can grab their hastily abandoned suitcases and head off to their new suite.
"I—you—" Joe stammers in awe when they turn the corner towards the next elevator. Nicolò glances at him shyly and Joe licks his lips to see if he can ease that slight edge of wariness away. It seems to work as a distraction, if the way Nicolò's eyes zero in on the motion is any indication. "You were glorious. We have a luxury suite for an entire night and it's barely even time for dinner!"
Nicolò lights up and smiles happily, all hesitance lost. "We will have to send our order down quickly, so that we don't get... distracted."
"He would understand why," Joe winks. "But Nicolò, that was incredible. I think you have more than earned my gratitude. Perhaps now you'll let me pay for dinner?"
"Not a chance. You bought all the supplies for later. I will buy you dinner and it will be even, equal between us."
"Yes, equal," Joe agrees breathlessly.
They share more smiles before leaving the elevator for hopefully the final time that night. Their suite awaits, a large bedroom with a larger bed; a full sized bathroom and bath; and even a balcony. The view is not amazing, mostly filled with airport, but in the distance is the sea and they are high up enough that it feels quiet and peaceful. Joe steps out, breathing in the air he has so enjoyed here in Malta, and wonders again why he has to leave.
It will be fondly remembered. If there had been any doubt before, there is none left now.
"Yusuf?" A plaintive voice calls him from inside. Nicolò is perched on the sofa, holding the menu. He looks bewildered, and when Joe looks, leaning over the back of the couch beside him so his mouth is tantalisingly near Nicolò's ear, it isn't the same menu as they'd had on offer in their first room. There are much larger prices, without any currency symbols, and fancier items as well. "What should we do?"
Joe looks down at him, noting how close their mouths are. Nicolò glances as well but lifts the menu meaningfully. "I think we should order some food, Nicolò," he says, making his voice as low and soft as possible. "So we have some strength to keep going."
"Cazzo," Nicolò breathes. He doesn't seem to have realised he's said it, and looks back at the menu with his ears burning hot. "Alright. Why don't I pick one, you pick one, then a dessert?"
"Two desserts," Joe bargains. "And drinks?"
"No alcohol," Nicolò says firmly. Then with a wrinkle of his nose, "I mean, I do not want to risk losing a second of this."
How Joe hasn't kissed him silly yet is probably the work of a power greater than any god. Still, the delayed gratification will be spectacular, and Joe feels oddly hesitant to rush when they both desperately want this one, precious night to be as perfect as it can be. It's crazy, what they're doing, but without even a moment of disagreement they have jumped headfirst into it together. If Joe was a romantic he would call it destiny. Say they were soulmates.
He is a romantic. It's meant to be between them; it has to be.
They decide that showering is the best way to kill time before the food arrives—separately, to Joe's dismay but understanding. He grabs what he needs from his bags and gets comfortable while Nicolò is in the bathroom, trying not to imagine him wet and naked, flushed from heat all over.
Fuck it, he can imagine. He sprawls out on the couch, throwing his jacket onto the floor. He's a little too long, socked feet pressed up against the arm so his knees bend, but that's perfect for what he wants to do. He folds an arm up behind his head, gripping into his own hair so he has something to ground him, and reaches down to tease himself through his pants. He doesn't close his eyes, letting them go unfocused with imagination instead, and gazes over in the direction of the bed. He couldn't say how long he lies there, stroking his cock and stoking the flames of his desire up and up until he feels dizzy. But at some point, when he is so hard it almost hurts, and he's let go to take a break and calm himself down, Nicolò emerges from the shower.
In the soft white robe the hotel provided he looks delectable, but mostly huggable. Joe aches, but not in his dick—in his chest, or maybe his soul, at the soft and open look on Nicolò's face, the sated and slightly sleepy grin he shoots at Joe while heading over to his case to find clothes to change into, towelling his hair.
Joe figures later that, while that had perhaps not been the first sign that he was in over his head, it was certainly the clearest.
He dashes into the shower Nicolò has vacated, dropping his clothes and stepping under the hot water. Should he take the edge off? He isn't sure, and decides that any orgasm without Nicolò's skin somewhere against his will be wasted tonight. He cleans up and washes everywhere thoroughly instead, ignoring his arousal stubbornly.
He grins at himself in the mirror once he's stepped out, checking his hair, his beard, and his body in general. Joe has never been vain, nor has he been particularly insecure, but he wants—hopes—for Nicolò to enjoy him like he will enjoy Nicolò. He tries to remind himself that Nicolò has made it very clear he doesn't find Joe undesirable, but with this man he is more desperate and nervous than usual to please.
Perhaps that is part of that first clear sign, or perhaps it is a second sign, adding to the evidence that Joe will later see so clearly as marking out when and where his heart started to beat in time with Nicolò's. Joe doesn't notice either way and simply steps out of the steamy bathroom to where Nicolò awaits.
And with food, no less. Joe blinks, realising that Nicolò must have taken a lot longer in the bathroom than he'd realised while he himself was distracted by touching himself, but he isn't about to complain.
"It smells good," he says, leaving just his white robe and boxer-briefs on when he joins Nicolò at the table. Nicolò seems to have found his pyjamas, or loungewear of some kind—soft blue flannel pants and a simple t-shirt. He blinks at Joe, hand outstretched over the plates, and swallows thickly. All of Joe's nerves disappear in a heartbeat. "I imagine you do, as well. That's the nicest hotel shower-gel I've ever had, that's for sure."
"Yes," Nicolò agrees faintly, shaking himself out of his daze and continuing his goal of serving up. "Yes. It was, apples I think?"
Joe hums. "You used the other then. Mine was sandalwood. I would know, it seems to be the only scent for men's products these days, and I'm drowning in beard care gift sets at this point. Sometimes I wish my family would stop implying I smell."
"You don't smell," Nicolò tells him earnestly. "I mean, I'm sure that's not why they do it. Perhaps you should ask them to stop?" His worried frown makes Joe laugh, leaning over to place his hand on Nicolò's and soothe him. It has the double effect of distracting Nicolò from his worry and reclaiming his hand for Joe's own. He links their fingers, daring dinner to try and force them to eat with two hands.
"Your care is touching Nicolò, but I promise it's alright. Just a mild complaint in an otherwise lovely tradition." Nicolò nods, squeezing their fingers tight and looking up, though he can't be surprised, when Joe squeezes back.
Dinner is barely even tasted, they eat it so fast and so absently. Joe's risotto and Nicolò's ravioli were lucky choices that they can eat while holding hands and gazing at each other in near-silent communication. He wonders if Nicolò had chosen his meal for the same reasons Joe had.
They both consider and discard the idea of sharing food, setting aside that cliche in favour of getting to their real desires. When at last only the two dessert boxes remain, Joe pushes his fork decisively down and turns to Nicolò, waiting for him to take his final bite.
The teasing starts then, with Nicolò carefully not watching him as he slowly pierces the little pasta package with his fork, lifting and considering it, inhaling with a sigh and then sticking his tongue out to rest it on. He curls the tip, anchoring the ravioli in place while withdrawing the fork, and then closes his eyes and apparently lets the whole damn thing dissolve in his mouth, it takes so long.
Joe growls softly from frustration, whining behind bitten lips when Nicolò looks at him innocently. He still waits though, until he sees the Italian swallow, and then the interminable waiting is over and he pounces.
With the grip he has on Nicolò's hand he pulls, drawing Nicolò up from his chair with a surprised squeak that he muffles with a searing kiss. They crash together like waves onto rock, tasting the food and Nicolò's moans with his starving mouth. Somewhere to the side Nicolò's fork clatters down onto the table, and then there are fingers in Joe's hair and teeth on his lips and a strong jaw working in harmony with his own and they're off, the night young, ready and waiting.