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“I love you. Infinitely and inexpressibly. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night and here I am writing this. My love. My happiness.” - Vladimir Nabokov
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It's 4 AM. His boyfriend is fast asleep.
Nigel rolls over in bed, careful not to disturb him, and reaches for the journal tucked under his pillow. Grabs an old pen from the nightstand; one of those shitty office ones that gather dust inside of front desk jars. He leafs through the dog-eared pages, lines upon jagged lines of dogshit attempts at describing his feelings. Mangled things, his emotions, taking too many fucking forms to keep track of. Adam rouses in his sleep, long lashes fluttering over his cheeks in a soft yawn and the need to wax fucking poetic about sleeping angels have Nigel's fingers clenching so tight around the pen it could be a neck he's about to snap. His teeth clench in frustration because these words, the real fucking words that Nigel aches to say, never fucking translate right from mind to fucking mouth. What isn’t he getting right? The pen's barrel cracks under his grip. Fuck. He'll have to steal a new one.
Squinting in the low light of the moon filtering through the closed blinds, he exhales and places the wobbly pen to paper. His grip is a little fucked and the blue ink is patchy but Nigel can't bring himself to fucking care. Most of his poems don't come out the way he wishes them to, anyway. Something's blocking his flow, yet goading it along at the same time. The fatigue, he assumes, playing chicken with his creativity. Not to mention the stress. To write something worth the risk of reading to his boyfriend on Dragobete's Day of all days, which is also the date of their first fucking anniversary, Nigel’s technique has to be perfect. Save the roadtrip to Joshua Tree they’ve planned, he’s hoping that Adam's first thought won't be that his poetry fucking blows. It doubles the pressure because Nigel’s well aware of Adam's hesitant stance around poetry. The metaphors are often lost on him, so it makes sense. Cue Nigel sweating fucking buckets over nailing the perfect balance of honesty and romance in his prose. The very last thing he wants is for his words to be misunderstood.
Could it be coming out all shit because he's thinking too fucking hard about getting it right? Probably, whether Nigel wants to admit it to himself or not. This is important to him. At least Nigel’s not going in blind. From random tales of Nigel’s childhood, Adam’s heard all about Dragobete's Day. He knows what this holiday means to Nigel. Lets him have his sentimental traditions, even asks about them. That fact alone should reassure him more than it has but no one can blame him for feeling nervous. So many firsts on one fucking day. Might as well be a blushing fucking virgin on top of it all, it wouldn’t make an inch of a difference. Maybe it would be easier to lay out what he feels into curse words and purple fucking prose that describes everything about nothing. Hide between the lines like a wuss. Or he could bullshit a Hollywood-esque monologue that sounds romantic in theory but holds as much depth as a fucking sidewalk puddle. He doesn’t want a cop-out, Nigel wants to play it fair. Insincerity won’t cut it. If he ever plucks up the courage to reveal his hidden hobby, that is. Adam doesn’t appreciate secrets.
Poetry is an unexpected choice for a man of his calibre, Nigel isn't stupid. Years upon years of reckless decisions stain his record, many of which haunt him still. He can't scrub the blood from his hands or take any of it back but his past somehow lends well to poetry. Twisting all the fucking pain and the pleasure into something Nigel can hold in his hands. Something tangible. Real.
And beyond the violence, the death, and the heartbreak, the light of Nigel's childhood keeps him sane. Sunlit visions of his father bringing Mama flowers after work, him teaching Nigel to play the guitar. Their hugs. Further back, the nights his bunica did tea leaf readings with Mama’s fancy fucking china whenever she visited, the warm rasp of her voice as she’d guide Nigel through her intimate knowledge of the planets. Or how on Dragobete’s Day one year, he tripped over a fucking tree root and broke his arm chasing after his first crush. Poetry lets Nigel weave the good moments together with the bitter, helping him process things. If anything, this shit works better than his previous methods.
Compared to Nigel's old lifestyle, the poetry route is a walk in the fucking park. Gives him peace of mind about his and Adam's security too. Wild nights back in Bucharest sleeping in street gutters was all Nigel knew before he fled to America. Took a bullet to the fucking head to do it, but Nigel’s glad it got him out of the gang life. Working alongside Darko had been his livelihood since he and Nigel left their hometown in search of brighter horizons. Two naive college dropouts, sucked in by the wrong crowd and spat out as unrecognisable monsters who never took no for an answer. Living a Russian Roulette life, dealing drugs and fucking strangers as the coke and the alcohol made rotten sewage of his insides. Nigel's fucking lucky to have survived as long as he had. Darko's still in the game.
Moving to California was Nigel's final chance to get his shit together and clean up his act. Pulling fucking teeth would've been an easier venture than sobering up but God forbid if Nigel wasn't determined to start fresh. He had reasons to, for once. After cutting ties with the criminal route (adding a few more impressive scars to his collection in the aftermath), he managed to land a solid job at a guitar store in Los Angeles with some help on Adam's end—the pretty little character who Nigel met by accident two weeks earlier at the local observatory. If it weren't for Nigel making an embarrassing spectacle of himself in front of an audience of asshole astronomers who knew fuck all about Pluto going retrograde, they might've never linked up. A fond memory, that one.
Regardless of how good life can be, emotions are unruly little pricks that demand unwavering attention. Nigel's consume him to a point of insanity if his involvement with Gabi was any indicator. Yeah, he was no fucking damsel in distress but he'd been nursing a broken heart. He'd loved his wife. He really had, and losing her drove him off the fucking deep end. Consequences were dealt out. Stitches sewed shut. When Adam asked him to be his boyfriend, Nigel vowed to never let their relationship go to shit as it did with Gabi. To experience it once was more than enough. So, following a particularly rough round of therapy, Nigel stole a pen from his psychiatrist's office, took out his earrings, and snagged a cheap notebook from the nearby store. Promised himself he'd write it all out. Well, here he fucking is.
'You have a supernova for a spirit.' Nigel centres his focus, looking back at Adam ever so often. He's fucking beautiful, impossibly so, and Nigel throws a silent thanks into the air for letting him be the lucky bastard who gets to love this angel. Heaven made an error dealing out soulmates and gave him one that was way out of Nigel's fucking league. That's the best explanation he can come up with. Hell, Nigel's journal could be a new fucking Bible, psalm upon psalm detailing the extent of his adoration. Fucking supernova spirit. Who is he? A fucking 80's reject? He crosses it out, goes to try something new. One would think that after all this time, Nigel wouldn't be so critical of his work. It's fucking poetry. There are no rules—which is why he likes it better than songwriting. No expectations are involved. Waking up at the ass-crack of dawn to compose some sappy fucking jingle every day? Nigel may as well parade himself around town with a neon sign that says he's a poet. And yet, he still loses sleep over fixing his work. Sleep that Nigel would do better having if Adam has any say in it. His boyfriend's arms are like a vice around Nigel's chest. Holding him in place. As he wants to be.
'I know the way you shock my soul.' Shock? Fuck, it works. Next line, next line. Nigel checks the time. It's 5 AM. An hour of nothing. Jesus fucking Christ. Let it flow, let it flow, let it fucking flow.
'’Cause every time, you take control.' Because it does, the love always fucking does. Forget white-hot adrenaline, it's love that laces up Nigel's limbs on strings, suspending his body in the air like a living puppet.
'And place my heart into his hands.' Adam’s hands, who’s shifted closer in his sleep. Half an hour until he wakes up. Nigel curses under his breath.
'Before I know—' You have. Something clicks. He adds those two words, rereads them. 'Before I know you have.' Being with Adam, he can only hope the man doesn’t crush Nigel’s heart in his fist. He holds the power to. The first time was near-fatal. A second time? Dead as a dog. Fucking Gabi. That fucking American son of a bitch who just had to get his fucking mitts on her. Fear only did so much to prevent the fallout and with that, Nigel shelves the thought. After all, the past is in the past. Gabi might as well be fucking thin air toying with a cock that fucking microscopic. See, Nigel is a poet. A real fucking wordsman. He just has to get better at conveying elegance within his fucking sentences. Hence the practising.
The arms around Nigel's ribs tighten in a subconscious effort to pull him back towards the sleeping body behind him.
5:45 AM. Poem fucking done.
In familiar motions, Nigel closes his journal and slides it back under his pillow, setting the broken pen on top of the nightstand where it was. Keeps his breathing even as to not alert Adam he's been awake for two fucking hours slaving over another B-minus poem that he'll never read aloud. Closes his eyes. Then the clock strikes 6 and Adam is up in an instant, hovering over Nigel with a fond sort of look in his drowsy gaze. Early morning sunlight dances across his unruly curls, turning them golden. Is he a dream? Nigel, pretending to wake up alongside him, brings up a hand to cup Adam's cheek, thumb stroking the warm skin. The answering smile is soft, slow. They lay facing one another, cataloguing each other's features as if ticking off a checklist. Getting lost in each other's eyes, as pathetic as the thought sounds. 'You're still every part of you. I'm still every part of me.' Adam loops an arm around Nigel so his head rests upon Adam's bicep. Gazing up at his boyfriend above him, Nigel's neck aches from the awkward fucking angle but he couldn't care less.
"Good morning," Adam murmurs, mirroring Nigel's touch. With his free hand, he traces circles across Nigel's cheekbone, following the outline of his jaw. Nigel goes mute in awe, hyper-fixated on the gossamer caress of Adam's gentle fingers making a path around his brow bone, his ear, the slope of his nose. The smile painted on Adam's bitten lips blooms so wide his eyes crinkle. Living fucking poetry.
"Like what you see?" Nigel winks, his soul soaring with affection. Adam snorts, a fingertip dragging over Nigel's bottom lip.
"No," He blinks, and Nigel's eyebrows furrow. His boyfriend shakes his head once as if to let him finish. "I love what I see. And what I don't see...too." The earnest undertone in his quiet voice; Nigel chokes back a sob before his face can rival Niagara fucking Falls. Adam is completely serious in his statement, albeit shy, and that's what fucking does it for Nigel. Lying has never been Adam's forte. There's no guesswork, no room for miscommunication. At the same time, Nigel can't help the sting of guilt that hits him in the face of Adam's unexpected moment of tenderness. He thinks of the journal still tucked under his pillow and berates himself for being a gutless fucking coward. So much of what Nigel feels about Adam is stashed within those crumpled pages like it's a locked safe.
Wearing at the edges of his self-control, the impulse to pull out the journal and repay Adam's affection in kind before the real thing tomorrow fucking hits him. Turns out he’s too chickenshit to do anything more than lean up to place a chaste kiss upon Adam's lips. Nigel should say something more. He should open his fucking trap like a real man. Yet, his mouth refuses to form words let alone coherent fucking sentences. Fucking sewage for thoughts, nothing of worth. Nothing that fits. It's like he's trying to write again, the pen of his tongue cracked in his inability to get it fucking out. The silence is telling and Nigel knows in an instant that he's waited too long to reply—as if Adam's endearing fucking confession didn't burrow itself into Nigel's smitten psyche for good. The guilt fucking triples at the tortured sight of Adam's smile falling.
"Oh." Nigel's stomach sinks. Adam probably thinks he's made Nigel uncomfortable when that couldn't be further from the fucking truth. Nigel rolls over onto his back, watching Adam crawl out of bed without saying another word. This is one of the many fucking reasons why Nigel once begged his heart to not fucking fall for someone ever again. As much as he wanted to save himself from dying at the feet of a secondhand Gabi, the stabbing pain in Nigel's chest after seeing he's hurt Adam is beyond unbearable. God. How is Nigel so fucking thick?
"Adam, gorgeous?" Adam clams up.
"I did it again, didn't I?" He says, blue eyes blown wide in apology. Following after him, Nigel strides up to Adam, arms outstretched. Adam's staring at the carpet. "I...thought...we—you—"
"—Hey, you didn't make me uncomfortable." Nigel stops him. No response. Fuck, come on, come on, come on. Not like this. "Fuck me, angel, my heart's fucking swelling like a helium fucking balloon right now because of you. Alright? I'm just...you...shit, how about this?" He gestures for Adam to come closer and thankfully, he does. They're not looking at each other, though. Begging his spirit guides to not let him sabotage their perfect fucking morning any more than Nigel already has, he wraps his arms around his boyfriend and settles his head on Adam’s shoulder. "Swear it on my fucking life, gorgeous, I'd fucking fly off into the fucking Sun if it weren't for you. My fucking anchor, you are." Forget making it fucking perfect this time around, all Nigel needs is for Adam to fucking understand. No, he didn't say the wrong thing and no, he didn't come on too fucking strong. Nigel is just a lovestruck fool with a heart several sizes too big for his fucking body. Somebody else should try sifting through the overwhelming emotions that clutter Nigel’s head with the likes of a fucking toothpick and see how much they enjoy it. Talking isn’t easy with a shredded fucking tongue.
"Why didn't you say anything?" Adam asks, his confused tone muffled against the worn fabric of Nigel's Queen t-shirt. He bites his cheek in shame. Why didn't he?
"I—You caught me off guard," The nerves are threatening to come back. Nigel stomps them out as he would a boot to the skull of some cunt sitting on the wrong side of luck. "Uh. Cupid's fucking arrow. You...you know."
"No, I don't know." Nigel can't cower behind any wishy-washy horseshit, can he? It won't reassure Adam that he loves him back just as fucking much. There's nothing that Nigel wouldn't fucking do for the man nestled in his arms. Does Adam know that? 'Come on, you spineless motherfucker, say it. For fuck's sake, just say it.'
"Let me...Jesus, this is hard," Nigel swallows, rolling his jaw. No time to panic about flawless fucking delivery, "I need you to know that you have me, gorgeous. You'll fucking have me 'til the end of fucking time. Like some...dirty fucking roach. I'll just keep coming back to you again and again when you think I've been stamped out for good this time around." Soft laughter pools against his collarbone and Nigel feels as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Adam doesn't seem so upset. Good. Thank fucking Christ. "That's if you want me around, Adam."
"You know I do. As impossible as it would be for either of us to stay alive that long since time is infinite and we...are not, the idea of spending the rest of my life with you sounds...it...sounds...comfortable. Peaceful. And please don't call yourself a cockroach, Nigel, that's wildly inaccurate." This time, Nigel joins in the chorus of laughter, the tense air around them loosening with every passing second. "Hm. I...I don't know what it is about you. I can't put my finger on it. You're just—" Adam breathes, tucking his head under Nigel's chin. "—I can't think about love anymore without thinking of you, Nigel." Lip trembling, Nigel hugs him tight in the hopes that Adam won’t see him fall apart in real-time.
It's the fucking love.
The once-in-a-lifetime kind of love he's searched for, fucking pleaded to find for as long as Nigel can remember. It takes every last fucking bit of willpower not to embarrass himself in front of Adam by sobbing his eyes out like a fucking war widow. Inspiration hits him like a punch to the jaw and leaves him reeling. Maybe Nigel could scrawl love letters upon Adam's skin instead of shitty notebook paper, spill ink over his spine and make him shiver with safety. They could exchange stilted lines for severed whispers, breathing poetry into each other's hair and promises into each other's mouths. Going as far as curling up beneath the open stars together tomorrow night, holding a paintbrush to the sky. 'Fuck it, let's paint our own constellations.' Nigel would say, grabbing Adam's hand and the brush. 'Let's carve our names into the night so that the Moon never fucking forgets you and me.' Nigel's chest floods with warmth, wishing he were writing this down. The words taste different from his previous attempts at being poetic. In a good way. A great fucking way. All these walls of fear built in his mind crumbling at the hand of Adam's quiet, thoughtful love.
"Imagine how I feel looking at you, angel. Just can't quit being gorgeous for two fucking seconds, can you?" Nigel fondly huffs, swaying them back and forth like he and Adam do while listening to Adam’s vintage Frank Sinatra records. He's thanking their fucking stars that neither of them has to go to work today. Holding Adam to his heart like this is everything; no one will hurt him as long as Nigel's stubborn ass is still fucking kicking. Nigel never wants this moment to end. "Say, we grow old together. Become one with the fucking Earth," He grins, twirling Adam to a nonexistent flourish of music, "I'll...I can be your fucking winter and you, well. You'll be my fucking...my fucking spring." Nigel groans, burying his head in Adam’s hair. The shampoo he uses smells so good. "Fucking—wait. Jesus. Just the spring, not the fucking—no, did I mean the fucking." Adam's shoulders jitter in silent laughter and Nigel sighs, letting him.
"Nigel," Adam pulls back to look him dead in the eye, a rare occurrence, his firm hands resting upon Nigel's broad shoulders. "Remember when we first met? You told me and my colleagues about Scorpio's influence over Pluto? The astrological effects of it going retrograde?"
"Do I," Nigel cocks his head, "First thing you ever fucking said to me was that Pluto wasn't a fucking planet. Just for you to up and waltz out of the room like my mother's fucking ghost. Thought I'd just...dreamed you up. Someone like you? Wasting all that fucking effort on some sad Romanian cunt you’d only just met? Fat fucking chance.” A hand smacks his shoulder and Nigel remains unfazed. “What? Forgive a man for knowing his worth.” They let go to fetch themselves breakfast from the kitchen down the hall, grabbing bowls and spoons. Adam's an oatmeal person and lucky for the two of them, Nigel likes to make it. Nigel’s a coffee person thanks to the night shifts. Every morning without fail, his beloved boyfriend has a cup of it ready beside Nigel's bowl of oatmeal every morning. It’s the little things, isn't it? Adam doesn't like coffee and yet he makes it for Nigel especially. 'I've made a place in my life for you.' The words clog up Nigel's throat as the two of them eat their breakfast in comfortable silence. Between bites, Adam hums a happy tune. 'A space to call your home.'
"My colleagues weren't very nice to you, Nigel," Adam continues where they'd left off, sipping from his glass of apple juice. "I struggle with that sort of thing, but I couldn’t...I had to apologise on their behalf somehow. I also found you very attractive, which made it...harder to approach you, actually."
"Think you did more than apologise, gorgeous," says Nigel, sending him a smirk.
"Gave you my phone number?"
"Made me fall head over fucking heels, more like." He gets an eye roll for it, but Adam's blushing like no tomorrow.
"Ouch?” he says, placing down his spoon. “Nigel, have I missed an anniversary or something else important? Um. Dragobete’s Day. That’s tomorrow, right?" Shit. Nigel makes sure to send him a nod in answer to the second question. "You've never been this...upfront about your feelings for me before." That's one way to say Nigel's been a shit boyfriend. Scratching the nape of his neck, he looks down in shame just for Adam's hand to find a resting place upon his cheek. Molten tar for a shy smile. "I—I like to hear it, though. You're good at being romantic, Nigel." Sucking in a deep breath, Nigel leans into the grounding touch.
"Well, I just...thought I should just...fucking...you know. Get it all out. The feelings and shit."
"Oh, that's great! It'll be good for you, I think." Taking their bowls over to the sink to wash them, Adam turns his head to see Nigel still sitting at the breakfast bar. "Does it have something to do with how you started journaling? Or, at least that's what it looks like you're doing—I'm not exactly sure. You're always so secretive about it, so I didn't want to say anything in case you'd stop." Nigel's mouth goes drier than an awkward conversation. Jesus fucking Christ. Is he kidding? He's not kidding, is he? It’s Adam. Who knows that Nigel's been writing for months now and has said nothing about it. Not a fucking peep. All just so Nigel wouldn't feel self-conscious. Fuck, he loves Adam. He truly fucking loves him.
"You...alright," Nigel crosses his arms. Well, going fucking grey over keeping his hobby under wraps proved to be a waste of fucking time. Funny that. The shock hasn't yet hit, mouth wide agape in disbelief. "Fuck me, this whole time?" Adam nods.
"I saw that you keep your journal under your pillow. So, I put it back under there whenever I make the bed." Gabi was never that considerate. Would've read the thing from cover to fucking cover the second she found Nigel's journal. Adam’s different; a little eccentric, but he’s also the most thoughtful, kind man that Nigel has ever known. The way he’s even thinking those cheesy fucking thoughts about Adam in the first place says it all. Has Nigel ever made it clear how Adam is the best thing to have happened to him? Nothing comes to mind. At that, Nigel stands up from his seat, striding into the kitchen. He and Adam lock eyes in an instant, a slow smirk pulling at Nigel's features.
"...Nigel?" Nigel doesn't reply save for a low hum and Adam visibly swallows, standing frozen in place. Fingers looping through the belt loops of Adam's dress pants—because only Adam fucking Raki would get dressed before 9 AM on a Sunday—Nigel yanks him close and presses his lips to Adam's. He sighs into Nigel's mouth just like that, their noses brushing as Nigel closes in, pinning Adam against the counter. Hunger pools in his gut hearing the little grunt that follows, the breath being knocked from Adam's lungs. "Hello."
"Hello, gorgeous." Nigel chuckles in answer, pausing to brush a stray curl from Adam's face. They grin against each other's mouths like infatuated teens between heated kisses, Adam's hand reaching behind his back for something Nigel doesn't care to look at. However, he all but fucking purrs at the sight of Adam's cock straining against his pants. Presses him further against the counter so that their hips are flush, breath hot in his boyfriend's ear. "Now I know you do like what you see. Hm. I know I fucking do." Adam shivers and reacts in tandem, biting back a needy hiss at the friction of Nigel moving to rut against him. The wash of pure want that rolls over Nigel's skin is electric, passing shocks between their points of connection; mouths, hands, chests, hips. One rippling fucking current of energy. It's their anniversary tomorrow, they're allowed to indulge. He thinks he could turn Adam into a poet of his own making, chanting lines of pleasured prose. When Nigel reluctantly pulls back to breathe, he's blinded by a dishtowel, a fucking dishtowel, being thrown at his face. Adam's resulting sly grin drives him fucking wild. What a fucking tease. Two can play that game.
"Oh, you're playing with fucking fire, darling," Nigel lunges for him but Adam's too fast, sliding off the counter with ease. "Come 'ere, Casanova. We're not done yet." He manages to corner Adam in front of the kitchen fridge and leans in to kiss him again. Adam melts into it, sliding his hands up underneath Nigel’s t-shirt just to shove him back towards the sink. Laughter erupts between the two of them. Nigel stumbles over in surprise, regaining his footing to see Adam beaming at him like the Sun. The ruler of Nigel's fucking heart. He likes that Adam feels comfortable enough to treat him a little rougher than he used to. It's hot. Neither of them are porcelain dolls, they're grown fucking men.
"We can't get too distracted now, Nigel." Teeth caught on his bottom lip, Adam leans over to place the rogue dishcloth in Nigel's hands. Nigel can’t fucking believe it. He smells like warm vanilla and something else Nigel can't quite define. Something cosy yet subtle. Whatever it is, it suits him. How long it would take for Adam to sweat it off, Nigel wonders.
"What do you fucking mean I can't get distracted?" Nigel raises his eyebrows, gesturing at Adam’s lithe figure, "Have you seen yourself? You're the main fucking attraction, gorgeous."
"I think...you...um," Adam's fists furl and unfurl as he gathers his thoughts, face flushing a deep red, "Come and find me after you've dried those dishes. Please." And with that, Adam walks out of the kitchen before Nigel can do so much as fucking respond. Every muscle in his body screams to follow after his boyfriend and finish what they started. Yet, Nigel shoves it down in favour of keeping their routine intact and picks up one of the bowls to dry. He's all riled up after their interrupted tryst against the counter, so the distraction is definitely fucking welcome. Despite how Dragobete's Day is tomorrow, Nigel has always preferred to ease in the spirit with small, meaningful gestures. The holiday is all about celebrating love and spending time with your beloved; he won't let any petty bullshit disrupt the harmony of the house. Papa's words come to mind, instructing him what to do should Nigel find someone to spend Dragobete's Day with. Making them upset brings bad luck. There can be no arguments, no negative tension. Just fucking loving on each other in every way possible.
Growing up, Nigel and his older sister would stay at their bunica's tiny cottage during the holiday so that their parents could have the hours to themselves. Elena would fuss over his hair before they'd meet the other kids in front of the church, combing product through Nigel’s fringe so it wouldn't flop over his eyes. She'd hated his taste in shirts with a seething passion and of course, that meant Nigel had to wear them with bold fucking pride. The older they got, however, the more Elena warmed up to the idea. Their polarising opinions on Nigel's fashion sense grew into a small tradition of their own making, adding another tacky pattern to his wardrobe every year. His favourite, the blue shirt peppered with cartoon dachshunds, was one of Elena's last gifts to him before she passed. He misses his sister all the same. Bunica got involved in her own way, speaking of the planet's positions in hushed tones and sticking warm pastries in their hands. She'd shoo them out the front door sporting a gummy grin, singing blessings over her only grandchildren.
Despite her and Elena's valiant efforts and their parent’s encouragement, Nigel never caught someone on the run back to town. Girls, he could never pin down. Boys, he couldn’t risk chasing. At least it spared him from the public humiliation of being rejected by the girl he caught. Small fucking mercies. Darko and the few friends Nigel did have used to try and comfort him by saying Nigel would find his girl next time—just to be ditched in the fields while each of them chased after their crush and got kissed. The other kids wouldn’t quit bullying Nigel for his bad luck, calling him ugly, and skinny, and fucking poor, and it triggered him. Tears streaming down his snotty face, thirteen-year-old Nigel lashed out and sent them home crying to their fucking parents with bloody broken noses and missing teeth. No one dared to tease him anymore after that. Looking back, Nigel knows he scared off anyone who might've liked him if he hadn't revealed his talent for throwing a wicked fucking punch. Oh well. Mama would sigh and shake her head at him whenever her son returned home, explaining once again how if Nigel wanted to fall in love, he couldn't keep making it harder for himself by disrupting the peace on that day. Fucks with your luck if you do—not that Mama would’ve appreciated him saying it like that. Her worried words got through Nigel's thick skull eventually.
Everybody knew what the kids were fucking doing if they weren't sitting in front of the bonfire on the evening of Dragobete’s Day. No one batted an eye. Nigel hated going because he'd end up sitting by himself in front of the fire. Watching the others cuddle up and kiss and dance together; it hurt like a bitch to spend the night alone year after year after fucking year. He remembers all of the nights he cried himself to sleep over it as a teenager, believing he’d never get to be loved by someone. Look at him now. After Nigel's disaster of a marriage to Gabi, he finally found someone who loves him, fucking flaws and all. The thought makes Nigel smile.
When Nigel first told Adam about the several fucking times he'd come across couples rutting like animals on his treks through the woods, he lost his mind over Nigel’s longstanding habit of throwing them a flat, "Congratulations." and going on his merry fucking way. It’s true. Now, they quote it to each other around the house. Popping your cherry on the night of Dragobete's Day was an unspoken right of passage in his hometown, the one local tradition that Nigel didn't get to take part in. He was a late bloomer in that regard. Didn't lose his virginity until his second year of university. Tassa Pichler, a third-year drama student who snorted more lines than she fucking memorised. The story that Nigel saved for last, his favourite, happened during one memorable night when he caught Darko in the act in front of the old oak tree. Bastard didn't last thirty fucking seconds and the girl ditched his sorry ass before Darko could even pull up his fucking pants. Nigel lost his shit laughing at him until he was blue in the face and always fucking will. Fucking priceless.
By the time Nigel puts away the last spoon into the cutlery drawer, it’s early afternoon and his breathing’s even. He’d be lying if he said he hadn't entertained the idea of picking up from where he and Adam left off while placing the dishes back in their respective spots. Thinking about his childhood helped settle down his blood flow, at least. Helped him forget about the impending stress of his and Adam's upcoming anniversary too. The drive to Joshua Tree, the fucking poem he hasn’t yet written. Clock’s ticking like a time bomb. Leaving the kitchen, Nigel makes sure to open the blinds covering every window he walks past. Let some light into the house, despite the low-hanging clouds outside. The halls are quiet save for his own footsteps and the springtime rain pattering against the roof, but it’s warm in the living room thanks to the heater. Nestled atop the windowsill is none other than Adam, looking out at the silver sky. A book lays flat across his lap.
"Should clear up tomorrow," says Nigel, leaning his weight against the nearby wall. Adam spares Nigel a glimpse, a hint of a dimple showing as his lips quirk in acknowledgement. "The weather, I mean."
"I don't mind the rain. It's soothing." Adam replies, leaning his head back against the window frame. A closer look and the window is wide open. Branches of drenched pear blossoms hang overhead, water sliding through them. Hidden under the cover of the leaves is a mother finch, sitting atop her nest. His bunica used to say it was a good omen. A sign of positive change. Something else Nigel could tell Adam about when the time comes.
"Can't see the stars for jack shit out here, though," Nigel adds, thinking about what he has planned for tomorrow night. Joshua Tree should be far out enough to escape most of the light pollution. Fuck, the website said so. He waits for a beat. "Right?"
"Yes. Right. The light pollution in this area is terrible. Less so than when I lived in New York, but still bad." says Adam, closing his book. On the fucking nail. Nigel’s proud of himself for remembering; his and Adam’s mutual interest in space has bloomed into a labyrinth of shared knowledge between them. "See, with the naked eye, the dimmest objects that we can see in a dark environment are around magnitude 6 on the stellar scale. There are over eight thousand, nearly nine thousand objects that shine at a magnitude down to 6," Adam gestures the numbers with his hands as he speaks, "But if you're in the middle of a big city with all that artificial light reflecting into the night sky, say around a 2 or a 1 magnitude, that reduces what you can see to about...a hundred objects out of the initial few thousand. Only a hundred! That's such a huge difference, don't you think?"
"Fucking massive, if you ask me.” Nigel nods, blinking in surprise. “I knew it was a lot but that fucking many? Are you serious?”
“I’m entirely serious,” says Adam, looking up at him in earnest. “And I...I know we’re going to Joshua Tree for our anniversary tomorrow and you said to bring my compound telescope with us. I know why and I appreciate your thoughtfulness, I’m just…I’m really excited to go with you, Nigel.”
“Me too, angel,” Nigel agrees. Neither of them has gone there in the entire time they’ve lived in California. May the weather stay fucking clear. “Me too.”
—
It's 5 AM. Nigel’s wide awake.
He and Adam shuffled to bed that night talking about stars. Bright stars and dim stars. Stars with weird fucking names. Cheek pressed against Nigel’s bare shoulder, Adam fell asleep listening to Nigel read aloud. The book they’d picked up was a guide on how to spot certain constellations within the night sky, filled with star maps and coloured photographs. As Adam dozed off, Nigel’s gaze fell upon the description of the constellation Taurus the Bull. Adam’s sun sign. Aldebaran, the brightest star in Taurus is said to be his fiery eye. Aldebaran means “The Follower” in Arabic, a hunter stalking a flock of doves. Just like himself on Dragobete’s Day, when the birds are betrothed. Chasing after love.
Wait.
Sparks had crackled from Nigel’s fingers, the spinning gears in his head now greased with inspiration. ‘I know what to write.’
Yet, there was an Adam-shaped issue preventing him from writing the poem nestled on the tip of his tongue. Wrapped around Nigel’s left side like a warm fucking snake. The living definition of a clingy sleeper is Adam, all tangled limbs and an iron grip far stronger than anyone of his build should fucking have. Meaning that Nigel can’t roll over as he would without waking Adam up and just his luck, he’s forgotten to replace his broken fucking pen from the previous morning.
“Motherfucker.” Nigel mutters, releasing a frustrated groan. Rubbing his temple with his free hand, he considers the options. They’re heading over to Joshua Tree after dinner, he still has a few hours under his belt. Technically. It’s Dragobete’s Day. He’d be wishing bad luck upon himself (without throttling someone to a fucking pulp for once) and his household if Nigel doesn’t spend it all with his beloved; none other than the intended recipient of this unwritten love poem. Sonnet? Nigel has no idea what a fucking sonnet is but it feels right to call it that. His cellphone pings and he reaches out to grab it from the nightstand, feeling around in the dark for a vaguely box-shaped object. “Hang on.”
Nigel can’t write but he can speak.
Before he can hesitate, Nigel opens the notes app and turns on text-to-speech. Watches the red line spike and fall like a heart monitor as he breathes into the microphone. Adam’s none-the-wiser, he sleeps like a fucking corpse. Both a blessing and a curse. In this case, it’s Nigel’s saving grace. “Happy Dragobete’s Day, gorgeous. You look so peaceful when you sleep. Can’t say that about you before breakfast though, can I? My cute fucking grouch,” He can just edit this shit later, it shouldn’t be too hard to steal a few minutes to spare. “Spirit give me strength,” Nigel gulps, “I’m your Aldebaran. Chasing after love, after you, my darling dove. I’m your Aldebaran because you’re all I see, all I want, want...to keep. I’m your Aldebaran, hunting for a home, and here I am, here am I, with a love you’ve never known. I’m your Aldebaran, baby, and you’re all I—” Blue eyes, wide blue eyes are peering up at him from the dark like stars. “Adam, I—”
“—Yeah?” Adam replies, stretching awake. 6 AM. Basic fucking knowledge! “Go on. I would like to know how your poem ends, Nigel.”
“I! You! Fucking god, you're gonna be the motherfucking death of me, I fucking swear,” Nigel clutches his hand to his chest, heart lurching in surprise. Patting Nigel’s cheek, Adam shakes his head. “I'm sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn't, don't worry,” He replies, “It’s our first anniversary today. I am very...I’m very anxious.”
“Can I ask why?”
“You can. I’m just worried you won’t like the gift I got for you. Or that you’d wake up and realise that you want someone else to be your boyfriend instead of me.” Adam mumbles, his knee bouncing where he's sat up. He switches on a bedside lamp, swathing their shadows in yellow light. Says nothing more. Several minutes pass and Nigel chews on his cheek in nervous anticipation. “You...it’s special. What you, um, what you said. I’m trying to make sense of it because I know it means something to you.”
“I love you, Adam,” In the visiting spirit of Dragobete’s Day, Nigel says it as is. The egg yolk sun dares to slide in past the blinds. Time to be in love. “And I’m inlove with you. That’s what it fucking means. Make no mistake, gorgeous, I couldn’t give two shits about anyone else. They wouldn’t be you.”
“You were...comparing yourself to the red giant, Aldebaran in your poem. The Follower,” Adam states, fingers brushing over the piercings in Nigel’s earlobes where his earrings used to be. Always so tactile. Nigel fucking revels in it. “It’s the brightest star in the constellation Taurus, too. Isn’t Taurus my sun sign?”
“Yeah, you’ve got it. It is.” says Nigel.
“And you’re an Aries Sun.”
“Yes, sir. Try having that alongside a Pisces fucking Moon and believe me, you'll have a real fucking blast.”
“Yes, I do believe you. So, um, you’re...my Aldebaran. Okay. Okay, I get it.” Tailing Adam on their morning trek to the kitchen, life goes on as per usual. At the breakfast bar, they eat their oatmeal flanked by a huge bouquet of sopping daffodils that Adam, in a brave attempt at being romantic, picked from their backyard minutes before the oatmeal was ready—just to knock on the back door looking like he’d jumped fucking feet-first into the ocean. Rogue sprinkler got him, Nigel discovered. Despite that, he’d kissed Adam at their doorstep in thanks and threw him a warm towel to dry himself with. Seeing Adam join him for breakfast in only his underwear prompted Nigel’s mind to circle back to their heated moment in the kitchen. Fuck him. Never did finish where they started, did they? Waltzing around with wet curls stuck flat to his forehead and long lashes dripping, Nigel was doomed from the fucking start. He's only human. ‘I'm in love with an angel.’ One’s eating oatmeal beside him.
“You know, when I was a kid, my parents made me and Elena leave the house so they could spend Dragobete’s Day on their own,” Nigel begins, sipping on his coffee. “Quality time and all that, they used to say. Sure must’ve been. Used to think they kicked us out because we ruined the holiday for them until I grew up and realised Elena was fucking conceived today forty-five years ago. They just wanted to mess around in peace.”
“Congratulations,” Adam offers with a grin, and Nigel lifts his chin in amused agreement. What puts the icing on the cake is that he had walked in on his parents once. Wanted to fucking douse his brain in hospital-grade bleach afterwards. Why has this been a thing all his fucking life? ”Oh, and happy birthday to Elena! I would’ve liked to meet her. You always speak of your late sister so fondly.”
“Oh, Elena would’ve adored you, that I know in my heart of fucking hearts. Always had a soft spot for the cute nerds,” On cue, he takes his and Adam’s empty bowls and washes them while Adam sits at the counter still. Refills Adam’s glass of apple juice. “She tied the knot with one, but not before she and Ali had my niece, Sofia. She’s living in my old apartment. Studies engineering, the sharp kid.”
“I’ve never met any of my cousins in person,” Adam studies the rim of his glass. Once the sink’s clear, Nigel returns to Adam’s side, resting his elbows upon the cold stone countertop. “They all live in England. My mom used to try and force me to talk to my cousins on the phone when I was a kid. I hated it because I knew they didn’t like me. Called me strange.” Lips pressing together, Nigel huffs.
“Little shits didn’t deserve to talk to you, anyway.”
“No, Kenza always stood up for me when her sisters used to bully me,” Adam continues, “Everybody likes Kenza. You remind me of her a lot because she curses in the same way you do and she knows how to fight. She can’t sing like you can, though.”
“Is that right? Something tells me she and I would get along.”
“I think so too. We’ve been sending each other birthday presents since I was seventeen and she was eighteen, actually. Kenza loves to knit. Three of my favourite sweaters were from her. They’re a lot better than the scarves she first sent me when we were kids,” Adam smiles, and Nigel’s entranced by gleaming white teeth. “These days, she lives in London with her partner, Camille. They, um, they video-call me on FaceTime every Christmas. I can...I can introduce you to her then if you’d like.”
‘I’ve made a place in my life for you,
A space to call your home.’ The lines replay in his head like a skipping vinyl.
“I’ll be on my best fucking behaviour for you, gorgeous,” Nigel tosses his boyfriend a playful smile. Last year, he flew home alone to his Mama and cousins to celebrate Christmas with them. Came back to Adam with what was left of Bunica’s tarot spread. “Can’t promise you anything tonight, though.”
“Hm,” Adam squints in thought, knee bouncing up and down. “Unlike your sister and her husband, at least you and I wouldn’t have to worry about either of us conceiving—if you’re intending to have sex with me tonight, that is.”
“Intending? As in planning?” Nigel raises a brow, “Who fucking am I? A fucking Jane Austen character?”
“You've read Jane Austen?” Adam cocks his head in curiosity and Nigel clamps his mouth shut. Regency novels are an acquired taste and Nigel has Elena and her past obsession with them to blame. “I thought you said you weren’t into romance novels.”
“I’m fucking not,” Nigel answers, taking that as his cue to migrate to the couch. “There’s no checklist I’m sticking to, but do share with the class if you have one. Just...” Nothing can compare to the hazy comfort of mid-morning sunlight warming your back, “...Sitting back and admiring the blessed fucking view in front of me. My angel. What do you intend to do with me, babe?”
“A few things. Um,” Adam swallows, disappearing into his study and returning a minute or so later. He’s holding out a small brown box for Nigel to take, tied with a neat red bow. “We can start with the anniversary gift I have for you. I hope it’s okay, Nigel. Thought I’d give them to you now so you could wear them to dinner. If you—that's if you like them.”
“Is that a special request of yours, gorgeous?” Nigel takes the box, shaking it next to his ear and hearing it rattle. “What did you get me?” Placed upon the satin cushion inside of the said box is a pair of silver earrings, made to resemble perching songbirds. Robins, Adam explains; they’re the last kind of piece most would pick for a man like Nigel. Too pretty, too feminine, too whatever the fuck. Back in Bucharest, he’d never taken out the gold hoops he’d worn since high school. In the clubs, the hoops were switched out for diamond studs. A symbol of status within that world. Taking them out meant severing the connection between his old self and the new. The old Nigel is six feet fucking under. It could mean something different, wearing ones that Adam gave to him. Something like hope for the future. Their future, together.
“I, um, I bought the gold ones too in case they suited you better. I just...you said that Dragobete’s Day is also called the day the birds are betrothed. And you told me how you used to wear earrings all the time in your youth, so I thought—yeah. Do you...like them? The birds?”
“I fucking love them, angel, thank you.” Nigel grabs onto Adam’s waist and pulls him down onto the couch with him, an arm slinging around his boyfriend’s hip. Taken by surprise, Adam stumbles but lets Nigel pull him in. “I’ll put them on and then we can have dinner together as we planned, yeah?”
“I want to get ready for dinner now but I realise that would be a waste of time.” Adam sighs, his eyes drooping.
“You can if you want to. I won’t stop you, gorgeous. We’ve got a few hours to kill before then, so. Let’s relax. Do whatever the hell we want.” Deciding not to move from their position on the couch, Nigel suggests they watch a movie. Adam, now warm in a chunky green sweater and sweatpants, picks Lord of the Rings—Nigel falls asleep around three-quarters through just for his boyfriend to rouse him awake with gentle taps. He’s a lucky fucking man.
By the time the credits roll, both of them are rearing to get ready for dinner. It’ll be nothing too fancy, just homemade carbonara and grape juice but Nigel’s giddy all the fucking same. He cooks it while Adam showers and gets ready in the bathroom, listening to “Fly Me to the Moon” under the light of the kitchen. Their song.
Emerging from the bathroom as a new man, Adam switches places with Nigel in the kitchen so he has a chance to spruce himself up. Nigel picks out his nicest shirt and matching slacks, a black silk number with an open collar. Fusses with his hair in the mirror, just as Elena taught him how to do. He uses about half the amount of fucking gel she used to slather onto his fringe—he looks less like a drowned rat that way. Adam's singing, loud and happy. Taking the robin earrings, Nigel puts them on and checks himself out in the mirror one last time. God, he hasn’t felt this fucking excited to wear earrings since Nigel was twenty-one.
Striding back out to the dining room where he knows Adam is waiting for him, Nigel stumbles back like he's been shot at the welcome fucking sight. His boyfriend looks...Nigel can’t rip his eyes away from the vision standing across from him. Adam’s dressed in a crisp blue shirt, the top button left undone where it normally wouldn’t be to reveal his clavicle. His curls are slicked to the side, falling over his forehead in soft waves. Adam just stares back intently as if he has no fucking clue how much Nigel wants him.
“You look fucking beautiful, gorgeous. Always undoing your buttons for me, aren’t you?” Nigel teases, soaking in the intimate atmosphere they’ve created with burning candles and quiet jazz. Face illuminated by the flickering light, Adam laughs and Nigel catches a glimpse of the gold glitter stars decorating Adam’s inner and outer eye corners. No fucking poem could do that sight fucking justice.
“That black shirt suits you too, Nigel. M—maybe I want to undo my buttons for you,” Adam shrugs in feigned innocence, sitting down. “Um, after we eat, at least.”
“Little fucking minx.” Nigel attempts to take Adam’s bold flirtation in stride to no inner avail. Call him Mr. fucking Darcy. The sun sinks below the horizon by the time their bellies are warm and full of good food. Adam goes to pick up the plates as always and Nigel latches onto his arm. “I love the stars on your eyes, angel.”
“Thank you, I wanted...I wanted to look good for you.” Adam turns his head, fingers rubbing the nape of his neck. Nigel pecks his cheek in a sudden rush of fondness.
“You always look good to me, gorgeous. Always. And thanks for taking the plates. I should leave you a tip like a real gentleman should.”
“I don’t want your mone—” Adam begins, trailing off at Nigel’s words, his collected smirk.
“So, you don’t want a kiss?” Adam shakes his head, bending down so his face is inches away from Nigel’s lips. Always so honest with what he wants. Nigel fucking loves it.
“No, I do want one.” Nigel takes hold of Adam’s jaw, stroking his cheekbone. “Kiss me. Please.”
“As you wish, gorgeous.” Nigel brings their lips together, pressing a lingering kiss to Adam’s plush lips. He tastes of grape juice. Adam leans in for more and Nigel, on instinct, follows after him. He’s Adam’s Aldebaran, after all. “Are you going to fucking throw another fucking dish towel at my face if I try to make out with you again?”
“No. I won’t,” says Adam, mirth sparkling in his eyes. “But you’re right, I should do the dishes before we leave.”
“I’ll clear the table and throw our stuff in the car.” With that, they pull apart before either of them can succumb to the growing tension between them. Their stargazing trip be damned otherwise. Nigel adjusts his trousers and does as he said he would, leaving the dining room spotless. Blame his fucking cock for functioning properly. Mama would cry in pride, considering how much of a messy brat Nigel was a kid. People change. Mostly. If one were to look at his car interior on any other day than yesterday, they would’ve shuddered. Gave it a good wash and took out all of the old discarded coffee cups. Caffeine is a true fucking godsend.
He and Adam meet outside in the front of their house, throwing on warm jackets and hiking boots. They go over the checklist Nigel had made beforehand, having done his research, and Adam lovingly packs the parts of his compound telescope into its bag. Everything moves like clockwork, them pulling out of their driveway and heading west. Nigel hooks up the aux cord to his cellphone and Adam oversees the playlist.
Travelling into the night, Nigel thinks of how all he’d told Adam was that they were going stargazing for their anniversary. That day, Adam kissed him deep before Nigel had a chance to say anything more, beaming from ear to ear. Switch the butterflies in his stomach for shooting fucking stars. About halfway there, he and Adam indulge in late-night sundaes, Adam wiping away the ice cream from the tip of Nigel’s nose with a cloth. Fly Me to the Moon is played a minimum of three fucking times, but who’s to say either of them gives a rat’s ass about it. The second time around, Nigel and Adam are screaming the words to each other as they near Joshua Tree and trek up to Cottonwood Campground. Adam has a plastic spoon for a microphone.
Once out of the car, Nigel takes their stuff from the backseat and Adam tapes red cellophane to their phones and flashlights. On the Joshua Tree website, it said to do that because the human eye takes 20-30 minutes to fully adjust to seeing in very dark environments. It also said that the skies were darkest here in Cottonwood Campground and that best serves their purposes. He and Adam won’t be camping overnight, but they've brought warm layers and sleeping bags in order to make themselves comfortable.
Where they choose to set up is near a rocky ledge, surrounded by blooming desert plants. There’s nothing else around for miles but desert and the road a little way back. Just what Nigel had hoped.
“Here we are. Joshua Tree,” says Nigel, placing a sleeping bag on top of the bedroll he brought. Adam does the same, smoothing out the edges so it’s level. From their perch on the top of the ledge, their view of the night sky is fucking stellar. It took a bit of effort to haul the heavy telescope up there but with the two of them working together, it turned out easier than doing so alone. “They say this is the place where it gets darkest. We should be able to find Pluto here. Easy.”
“Pluto?” Adam repeats, setting out a pen and the starmap Nigel had printed out. “You...you...Nigel, you set up this star-gazing trip so we could look at Pluto through a telescope. On our anniversary. Like we did the day I met you.”
“Yeah?” Nigel shrugs, scooting to sit behind Adam, arms looping around his waist. “Pluto’s not in retrograde right now but that doesn't mean it isn't out to fucking spite me still.”
“I...I love you, Nigel.” Adam whispers, looking back and forth between the lens of the telescope and Nigel, pencilling in the adjustments on Nigel’s starmap to spot Pluto.
“I love you too, darling,” Nigel whispers back, voice reverent and soft. Clearing his throat, Nigel psyches himself up. ‘You’re a poet. A real fucking poet.’ “Can I tell you a poem I wrote for you, gorgeous?” Adam murmurs a yes.
“Make sure you say all of it this time.”
“Oh, fuck you, you smartass. I will, I will.” Nigel laughs, thinking back to this morning. “Now, I wrote this at god-fucking-knows when, so you’ll have to forgive me.”
“Nigel, are you going to read your poem or what? We can…pretend that I didn’t hear you saying it the first time?”
“Yep, you didn’t hear a fucking thing. Keep peeking at Pluto for us.” Nigel nudges his cheek against Adam’s. Takes a deep breath. Spirit, don’t let him fuck this up. “I’m your Aldebaran. Chasing after love, after you, my darling dove. I’m your Aldebaran—” Nigel starts to place wet kisses upon Adam’s neck and behind his ear between every line, “—Because you’re all I see,” Another kiss. “All I want,” Another kiss, “Want...to keep.” Another.
Adam goes stiff in his grip, Nigel’s worshipful tongue lapping at the spots he kisses, Adam’s fingers crumpling the starmap in his hands into a fucking ball, “I’m your Aldebaran,” Nigel murmurs in Adam’s ear, hands slowly unzipping Adam’s jacket and pulling it off. Next is his shirt. One button. Two buttons. Three buttons. Four buttons. He feels warm smooth skin beneath his fingertips, trailing burning paths up Adam’s bare torso. Five. “Hunting for a home,” He sighs against Adam’s neck, smirking as Adam’s hands start to tremble. Six buttons. Seven. “And here I am.” He nips at the shell of Adam’s ear as Nigel undoes the last one and they pull off the shirt hand-in-hand, “Here am I—” Lit by the red light of their torches and the stars above, Adam whips around to hook his legs over Nigel’s thighs. Fucking giggles when Nigel drags his hands up Adam’s shivering spine and pushes him back with a soft thud, hovering over him. “—With a love you’ve never known.”
“Nigel,” Adam yelps, “I—you—”
“—I’m your Aldebaran,” Nigel endeavours to finish the poem, no matter how all of his blood’s rushing to his fucking cock. Leaning his weight on one hand at a time, he takes each of Adam’s thighs and wraps them around his waist. “Baby,” Adam’s hands snake up to Nigel’s face, fingers tucking behind his ears. “...And you’re all I want—” Nigel smiles down at his boyfriend, leaning down so they’re face to face. Adam lurches forward to meet him halfway but Nigel pulls back last second, his dog tags dangling over Adam’s open mouth, “—To follow.” He’s not expecting Adam to reach up and yank him closer by the chain, Adam’s impatient lips seeking his. “Like what you heard, gorgeous?”
“Yes,” Adam answers amidst the hurried fervour of their mouths dancing across skin, tongues, and teeth. White noise buzzes in Nigel’s limbs, fueled with adoration, devotion. Lust. Pure fucking lust. “Nigel, please don’t make me wait.”
“I waited all my life for you,” Nigel croons between kisses, drinking in the soft gasps he draws out of Adam with every fluid roll of his hips. Sparks of pleasure set their nerves aflame, the blessed friction of their clothed cocks rutting together edging Nigel on. At Adam’s nod, Nigel unbuckles Adam’s belt, cupping his growing erection. "But not any fucking longer,"
“I—I waited for you too.” Adam stutters in response, kicking down his pants and underwear before Nigel can beat him to it. Eager little thing. His hard cock springs free and Nigel bites back a groan at the size of it. Fucking hell, he’s big. The starlight reflects from the smooth planes of Adam’s bare chest, his pretty hip bones just beg to be licked. “You’re...you’re like a part...of me,”
“Will you let me be tonight, gorgeous?” Nigel unzips his own pants, letting them fall around his ankles. Fishing the bottle of lube from his jacket pocket, Nigel squirts a generous amount over his fingers and closes the lid. Tries and fails not to notice his boyfriend visibly shudder, “Will you let me make love to you under the stars?” Adam spreads his legs in answer, murmuring a stilted ‘Please’. Sliding a finger into Adam’s hole, Nigel takes his time in opening him up. There’s no rush, no other place to be in this world except here at Joshua Tree with his beloved fucking boyfriend.
When Adam’s ready, judging from the needy, frantic babble spilling from his kiss-bitten lips, Nigel slicks up his cock with the rest of the lube and lines himself up with Adam’s entrance. Rocking his hips in small motions, they moan in tandem as Nigel pushes in and Adam hooks his feet around the small of Nigel’s back. It’s a slow yet filthy grind, the two of them gasping into each other’s mouths as Nigel moves, fingers interlaced together above Adam’s head. In a futile effort to keep himself quiet, Adam bites down on the pendant of Nigel’s chain and doesn’t let go, eyes squeezed shut in building ecstasy. Nigel picks up the pace at Adam’s desperate request, fucking him in short, deep thrusts until Adam’s orgasm hits him full-force, Nigel’s name upon his parted lips like he’s personified sin. So much for keeping fucking quiet, huh? Nigel follows suit soon after, spilling his release deep inside of him with a low groan.
He pulls out and rolls over beside Adam, the both of them panting heavily in the afterglow. Sticking out an arm, Nigel gestures for Adam to rest his head upon his bicep as Adam had the day before and he does, curling into Nigel’s sweaty body. Cuddling under the stars. This is what Mama said it was supposed to be like. Being in love, giving yourself, your heart to someone who deserves it. Happy fucking Dragobete’s Day indeed.
“Congratulations.”
“What?” Nigel laughs, pointing at a comet as it shoots past.
“Congratulations,” Adam repeats, smiling wide. “You had sex outside on the night of Dragobete’s Day. The tradition you never got to take part in,” A hand reaching up to brush against his earring, Nigel laughs. “Until now. With me.”
“Hey, tonight was a two-way fucking street, gorgeous. And in my opinion? Pure...fucking...poetry.”