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Two days ago, Joe had bathed Nicolò, and Nico had blushed and given him a little smile. It had reminded Joe, sharp and painful, of how Nicolò had looked at him early on in their relationship, when they had first made peace after their bloody meeting. It had made him feel like Nicolò was coming back to him.
He tried not to hope, but it was useless. Now that hope had a foot in the door, it was impossible to ignore. Joe could not squash it. It grew and grew, tender and swelling in his heart. Too dangerous to look at directly.
They ate dinner together, as a family, and Joe's foot had brushed up against Nicolò's accidentally. Nicolò hadn't frozen or flinched away, as he often did at unexpected contact in the past year. Joe thought - though he wasn't sure - but he thought Nicolò had maybe even twitched his foot a little closer to Joe's. Maybe. Just for a second.
Joe's heart was lifted, and that night, for the first time in months, as he settled down to sleep alone (again, alone, still alone) he allowed himself to luxuriate in memories of Nicolò. Nicolò as he had been, before...before...
No. Don't think about that.
Joe knew he could use the release. He'd been on a knife's edge for too long. He wormed a hand under the covers and thought about Nicolò, long ago, spread out for him like a feast. Nicolò, crawling down his body and smirking and swallowing him down.
Joe's hand sped up. The bedroom door opened.
It was Nicolò. Joe froze.
The ghost of his lover sat on the edge of his mattress and gazed down at him. It was too dark to read his face.
"Nicolò," Joe said, trying to sound normal, as if he wasn't rock hard beneath the sheets. "Can't sleep?"
Nicolò didn't respond. That was normal. He just got into the bed and laid down beside Joe, silently.
God - for a year, Joe had hoped Nico would want to sleep next to him, would come to him of his own volition so that Joe could wrap around him and keep him safe - and now he was doing exactly that - and maybe he really was coming back to Joe, maybe his hope wasn't so terribly stupid and misguided -
Without conscious permission, Joe's hand shifted its grasp on his dick, and he gasped out loud. The warmth of Nicolò next to him - the weight of his one true love on the mattress beside him, just as Joe had dreamt of for 500 years - it awoke a fire in him.
What could it hurt, if he took his pleasure now? He didn't have to touch Nico. He wouldn't do anything to Nico. Just one orgasm and then maybe they could sleep. Joe would press himself to Nico's back, maybe...feel the contours of his precious body, right where he belonged, up against Joe, his back to Joe's chest, his ass pushed up to Joe's hips.
Fuck. Joe was sweating and trembling beneath the covers. He kicked at his sheet and blanket on top of him until his groin was exposed to the cool air of the bedroom and his hand could move freely, unencumbered. Still, Nico did not say anything, did not move. In the back of his mind, Joe was afraid to look at him. He could pretend, if he shut his eyes, that Nicolò was also touching himself - that they were bringing themselves off, enjoying the simple sounds of skin against skin and huffing, panted breaths - maybe racing to see who would finish first, egging each other on -
"N--" He choked back the name, turning it into a formless whimper. He didn't want Nico to run away and didn't want him to feel obligated to do anything. But it was so hard, when every atom of his being was crying out to him that his other half was right there, just one single inch away, and Joe could just - could just turn his head and press his lips to Nico's shoulder, maybe, could kiss him and feel that he was real and he was safe -
"Joe," Nicolò whispered, too soft to read his tone, but it was the first thing Nicolò had said all day, and Joe gasped at how good, how right it felt to hear the love of his life say his name. Joe rolled to his side, towards Nicolò, and buried his face in Nicolò's shoulder -
And God, yes, his flesh right there was so warm and perfect and real, his skin so soft and firm pressed up against Joe's lips, just as he'd known it would be. A shock ran through Joe, and suddenly, with very little warning, his orgasm caught up with him. He felt his balls pull up, and his hand stripped his shaft just once more, and then he was spilling against Nicolò's side, his come going everywhere - onto the sheets beneath them, onto Nico's stomach, all over Joe's hand. Joe could only gasp wetly, open-mouthed against Nicolò's shoulder, as pleasure seized his body, his toes curling and hips tensing in little abbreviated humping motions toward the man beside him.
Then it was over.
In the place of satisfied warmth, cold horror seeped in.
First a trickle, and then a rush. It chased out every last vestige of satisfaction.
He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. The room was totally silent. Joe forced himself to think as slowly and methodically as possible. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He wanted to shoot himself in the head. He wanted to scream at God. He could not do any of that. He had to control himself.
He sat up, slowly, and wiped his hand on the bedsheets as far from Nicolò as he could reach.
"Hayati," he murmured. His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he bit his tongue. "Are you alright?"
No, Joe. No, of course he's not alright, you absolute monster of a human being. He was gang-raped for literal centuries and then the one man he should be able to trust above all others defiles him just like every piece of shit predator in that wretched Church.
Nicolò did not move, and did not speak. He was lying on his back, his hands folded on his chest, staring at the ceiling. His face was slightly slack and far away.
"Nicolò, my love," Joe choked out. "I'm so sorry." The tears, implacable, began to roll down his face, then, hot and wet. Joe fumbled at his side and grabbed the corner of the sheet to wipe his semen off of Nicolò's body. "I was -" his breath caught in his lungs, and Joe suppressed a sob with pure, iron will.
This was not the time to break down. Nicolò needed caring for.
Speaking was too dangerous. He breathed carefully through his nose, and then patted Nicolò's hand, once, as if to say "Wait here."
Nicolò did not stir, and his gaze at the ceiling did not waver.
Joe maneuvered off the bed, each motion an effort, as if he were moving though molasses, or walking across sand dunes. He went to the bathroom. He could feel his hands trembling as he wet a cloth, but still he knew he must not break.
He splashed cold water onto his face and got a hold of himself.
Weeping openly in front of Nicolò was not an option. The man had been through enough.
Joe trudged back to the bedroom over creaking wooden floors. Nicolò had not moved. He wiped the semen from Nicolò's skin, then sat beside him. "Nico," he said. He was proud of how calm he sounded. "Are you tired?" He did not expect a response, but he paused anyway to give Nicolò a chance to answer. "You can sleep here if you want, or you can sleep in your bed. It's up to you." Joe swallowed, thickly. Nicolò did not answer.
Joe laid down next to him and stared up at the ceiling as well. After a long moment, he shivered, and pulled the covers up over both of them, tucking in Nicolò's still, silent body.
He reclined once more.
The room was totally silent but for Nico's quiet breathing and the wind in the trees outside. Joe tried not to think about what he had just done. It was impossible not to.
He thought he might throw up. He took another deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his mouth.
Tears rose up in his throat again. He choked them back.
Breathe in. Breathe out. He focused intently on the sound of the breath entering and leaving Nicolò's lungs.
It was good that Nicolò was here, alive, next to him. One of them should be alive, he thought, nonsensically.
Joe himself had never felt so dead inside.