Chapter Text
The next two days, until it was time for Nile and Andy to leave, passed in the blink of an eye. Then suddenly it was just the three of them and that slightly uncoordinated, endlessly trusting golden retriever pup, of course.
In the days leading up to New Year’s, he tried more than once to determine who among them loved that overenthusiastic little creature the most, but every time he came back without an answer. Jarin adored her puppy, and the dog clearly loved her just as much, following her everywhere. Sometimes he found them sitting together in some sunlit corner of the house, lost in another excessive petting session. Usually Joe wasn’t far either. He had fallen head over heels for the pup as well or Rafīq, as he’d told Nicky one day at lunch. Apparently he had spent all morning suggesting names until Jarin finally nodded, accepting one of them.
And Nicky himself? He loved the little dog too, maybe more than he’d expected. Rafīq had a way of finding him whenever he drifted too far from himself, demanding cuddles, warmth, and presence. It was impossible to stay lost inside your head when a soft muzzle was pressed insistently into your chest.
His worries about Nile and Andy leaving had been completely unfounded, however. He’d half expected that the delicate peace between Joe and him might begin to crumble once the buffer of Andy and especially Nile was gone. But it didn’t. The silence between them remained deliberate at times but no longer sharp. They both stayed clear of dangerous territory, of topics that might tip the fragile balance, and if he ignored that, their closeness almost felt the way it used to, easy, instinctive, blindly trusting, and incomprehensibly deep.
And the longer this lasted, the more he realised how much he missed Joe. Not only the wordless understanding that had once been their native language, but the touch. The heat of Joe’s skin against his own, the reverence, the feeling of being worshipped. Joe had always touched him like he was something miraculous, something divine. It had never been anything less than that. Nicky could pretend he didn’t crave that, but he did. He wanted to feel that connection again, that kind of connection that burned and soothed at the same time. He wanted to feel whole, become one with Joe.
He kept writing about it in the journal he had gotten from Andy. Not just that. After a while words were flowing out of him, fast, uncontrollable, like he was simply the vessel putting them down on the page. He wrote about Joe’s present to Jarin and both their adverse reaction to it. He was wondering what it might mean, but deep down he knew the answer, he just wasn’t ready to confront that yet. He tried to write about the fog that came and went like a tide, about how he sometimes lost pieces of time but still knew where he was and what had happened. But the words were deceiving him. They never quite expressed what he was really trying to say. The words looked foreign on the page, stiff and thin, but once he’d started, he couldn’t stop.
Whenever he sat down to write his thoughts into the journal it eventually always came back to how much he missed Joe and how badly he wanted to reach out to him again, not just emotionally, but physically too. It was like a plan forming inside his head, restlessness returning each day a little stronger than the day before. And his determination was growing equally as strong until it became impossible to ignore. When Jarin came down the stairs just as the new year had started, carrying Rafīq in her arms, to do some yoga he assumed, he suddenly knew what he needed to do. What he wanted to do.
Silently, he watched her descend the staircase, cross the dining area, and disappear through the hallway toward the training room. He waited until he heard the distant thump of the door closing before he rose from the sofa. His steps across the dining room were deliberate, feeling his bare feet against the cold concrete floor, one hand on the railing as he climbed the stairs.
Time was simultaneously standing still and rushing past him, making it hard to know what was real and what wasn’t. But he had decided that he wanted to do this. He had to keep going. He wanted to keep going. He could do this. When his hand touched the bark of the tree at the foot of the stairs leading to the atelier, his chest tightened, but it wasn’t enough to make him turn around now.
The studio door was open as usual, and the scent met him way before he even turned around the corner so he could see Joe—linseed oil, the earthy sharpness of turpentine, and something more delicate underneath it. The trace of Joe himself, the lingering remnants of Jarin's scent, and citrus from the soap Joe used on his brushes. He didn’t know why, but it had always been citrus.
The room was flooded with afternoon light streaming through the glass front looking over the ocean, low and golden falling across the clutter of canvases and jars and drop cloths. Buckets of paint sat scattered like offerings.
Joe was in the middle of it all, shirtless, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of light linen trousers stained with every colour he had used in the last few weeks. He was frowning down at a canvas on the floor as though it had personally offended him. The painting itself was furious. All jagged smears of black, gray and rust-red, splashes that looked like they had been slapped on rather than brushed. It was chaotic and raw. He lingered in the doorway a moment longer before stepping in.
“You’re scowling,” he said. Joe turned, his face softening into a smile the moment he saw him.
“I thought you were doing yoga with Jarin.”
“I didn’t feel like it.” He hesitated, then added, “I wanted to see you.” Joe’s gaze softened even more. He knew where this was heading, but he didn’t move closer, only watched him quietly, leaving the decision to him. That patience, that waiting—it spread warmth through Nicky’s chest, though it didn’t ease the tension completely.
“I’ve been thinking,” he finally said into the quietness around them, eyes dropping to the canvas. “I want to try.” Joe’s breath shifted slightly before he spoke.
“Try?” Joe knew what he was talking about, but he asked anyway. He was trying to give him an out in case he had suddenly changed his mind, giving him plausible deniability. Nicky looked up.
“Us,” Nicky said. “If you do too.” Joe’s voice suddenly went soft like velvet, uncertain, maybe even a little scared.
“Of course I want to, but only if you’re sure, hayatī.”
“I’m not,” Nicky admitted. “Not completely. But I want you. I want to be close to you. I... I want this to feel like us again.” Relief rippled through him, light and dizzying. It was as if telling Joe the truth had lifted some weight off his shoulders. He exhaled deeply. Joe took one slow step forward.
“Can I touch you?” Nicky’s hands clenched at his sides, before he deliberately loosened them again.
“Yes.”
“Is there anywhere I shouldn’t touch?” The question made his throat tighten and suddenly he doesn’t know the words anymore for what he wants to tell Joe. “Breathe, Nicky. Breathe.” Demonstratively Joe breathes in and holds his breath. He did the same, his nervousness slowly ebbing down.
“For this to work, I need you to use your words, okay?”
“Yes, I… I’m not really sure what might not be okay, I think. I don’t know… I don’t have words for it yet. But I think I can say no.” His heart was beating to his chest as he was telling Joe this. He really hoped he would be able to say no when the time came.
“Okay.” No hesitation. Just Joe’s calm, anchoring tone. “Thank you for telling me.” They closed the distance carefully. Joe’s hands moved with a question in every gesture, reaching for his waist, stopping just short. He nodded, and Joe’s palms settled, firm and warm, grounding. Nicky leaned in, his forehead brushing Joe’s, their breath mingling in the space between. And for the first time in what felt like months, Nicky felt present. He knew that he might slip any moment, but he hadn’t felt this in his body in years and he wanted more of it.
“Kiss me?” Joe did, softly at first, carefully, like these two words itself had been fragile in Nicky’s mouth. The first brush of lips was warm and steady against the trembling in his chest. Joe’s mouth tasted like coffee, cinnamon, and a little sweet. The pastry he had made them earlier with some coffee and tea. For a second, everything inside him went quiet and his eyelids slid shut, then widened again as he drew back a little, studying Joe’s face, his also opened eyes. The low afternoon light caught in them, softening their edges, making them look much darker. Or was that his pupils being blown all the way? His breath trembled. He wanted to stay in this quiet, in this warmth that didn’t demand anything of him.
The second kiss came slower but also deeper. It wasn’t about wanting—not yet—but about remembering that he could want, that none of this meant any danger. Joe seemed to know as well. His movements carried no urgency. It was like he was waiting for Nicky’s breath to catch up at every step, every shift.
When Joe reached for him, fingers gently tugging at the hem of his shirt, asking, “Can I?” he nodded before he could find his voice.
“Yes,” he whispered, raising his arms. The fabric peeled away from his skin, and the air that met him was cooler, than he had expected, almost startling. He shivered. Joe’s gaze didn’t linger; it moved slowly, respectfully, never turning him into something to be looked at. He reached out, fingertips grazing up his shoulder, over his collarbones. Nicky felt the contact like an echo down to his bones, a thousand sensations waking all at once.
Then comes the familiar current under his skin. That invisible pulse of panic that never announces itself until it is already there, tightening everything, his whole body going stiff, stealing his breath. He can feel the hurricane building inside him, threatening to take him away. Joe’s fingers withdraw instantly.
“Not good?” He has to fight against himself to manage a stiff headshake. “Words, ya ʿaynī,” Joe murmured.
“No,” he chokes out.
“Okay,” Joe said softly. “Then we stop.” But the panic wasn’t what he wanted this to end in. Not like that. In a rush of frustration he shook his head fervently.
“No, I want to try,” he blurted, surprising himself. His own voice sounded far away, as if it came from the other side of the fog building in his mind. Or was he the voice inside that fog trying to shout out of it? Joe smiled then, faint but genuine, something for him to hold onto.
“Tell me where I shouldn’t touch you.” Nicky swallowed at that demand. And it was a demand, his head spinning slightly with his arousal. This wasn’t something Joe would usually want from him, but it was what he wanted from him now. He had to answer. He wanted to answer. He wanted to be good. His throat ached with the effort of finding words.
“My neck. My collarbones,” he muttered under his breath.
“Okay.” Joe’s breath brushed his ear as he whispered, “Thank you.”
There was a pause, then the lightest of kisses, not even a caress, more like the suggestion of contact on his chest. Nicky exhaled shakily, sinking his fingers into Joe’s curls. The room seemed to shrink around them, all light and sound muted, his awareness distilled into the warmth of Joe’s hands and breath on his skin, the slow rhythm of his breath and his fingers tangling in Joe’s soft curls.
He tried to map the feelings of trust, of permission, of being here, of being excited and aroused but also of losing his grip. It wasn’t linear. It came in flashes: Joe’s gentle hands exploring his sides, the faint scent of lemon, the softness of Joe’s mouth slowly dragging a hot burning path across his sternum, the thudding of his heart being way too fast. When he felt the wet heat of Joe’s tongue flick over a nipple just once, he gasped in shock and tightened his fingers in Joe’s hair, not pulling, just holding on.
“Too much?” Joe asked into his skin, pressing a soft kiss to the same spot.
“No. Good. Just... slow,” he huffed breathlessly, trying to regain control of his mind. Joe nodded, giving his nipples some more attention, gently kissing, licking and teasing them until he kissed his way back up. His brain had completely turned into mush under Joe’s attention, his hard cock pressing uncomfortably against his pants.
“You are the most beautiful thing on this planet, when you flush like that, did you know, ya qamar?” He felt even more heat run into his cheeks and chest. Joe smiled broadly, kissing the tip of his nose, as if that had been the exact effect he had wanted from his words.
“I highly doubt that, because there is nothing that could surpass your beauty,” he whispered, carefully exploring Joe’s chest now with his own hands. He took his time, feeling every muscle, every centimeter of this perfectly sculptured body that is his love’s. Until he got to his navel. Suddenly his fingers wouldn’t move further. He just stood there staring at his hands lying flat on Joe’s stomach, static filling the silence around him.
The edges of his vision began to blur, that familiar pull of disconnection threatening to take him again. But Joe noticed.
“Hey, it’s okay, stay with me,” he murmured, taking his hands in his own, moving them back up, kissing both of them before placing them on his own chest. “Breathe with me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel ready to do, habibī.” So they did. Slowly. Joe’s breath underneath his fingers was an anchor—in, hold, release, repeat. Nicky matched it, until the noise in his head began to thin again.
His pants and underwear were next, slowly undone, pushed down and off with a question and careful hands. Then Joe was back to the slow exploration of his body. When Joe went down on his knees, hands and mouth slowly dragging from his waist over his hips to his thighs and back up to his butt he took a step back instinctively. He barely registers his foot dragging along something cold, wet spreading all around his foot. His breath comes in ragged gasps. Hands pull off him again and he manages to look down, concentrating on Joe and not the panic fighting inside him, fighting against him to take control. They breathe together again until his nerves have calmed back down.
“How about you get down here?” Nicky exhaled relieved, not realising the breath he had been holding. He let Joe help him get down on his knees. His bare shin slid through something wet and he hissed softly at the cold shock of it against his skin. Joe caught his eye.
“Still with me?” He nodded, breath still shaky.
“Sì.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it was impossible to miss in the absolute silence around them. He let Joe lead him onto his back, gasping as more of the cold wet spread across his back. Deep down in his subconscious he knew that they had collapsed right onto Joe’s painting, but they were kissing again, deeper, more insistent this time and that was the only sensation he could parse right now. Nervously he opened up his lips, to let Joe’s tongue slip in. But he had no time to even consider how he felt about it. Joe’s thigh pressed between his, the angle just right. Nicky shifted, rubbing up against him, exhaling a shaky moan into Joe’s mouth. He could feel Joe’s lips curl into a smile.
“May I taste you?” Joe’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper but to his ears it was as loud as had he shouted it. Nicky freezes. His whole body locks, every muscle drawn so tight that even breathing feels dangerous. Joe notices instantly and stills, withdrawing his leg from in between his.
“Hey,” he says softly, hand cupping Nicky’s face. “Look at me. We don’t have to. It’s okay. We only go as far as you want.” Nicky blinks hard, his eyes darting somewhere just to the side of Joe’s face. It’s too close, his focus slipping like water through his hands. The edges of Joe’s face are already blurred, the rest following quickly. He can feel himself beginning to drift. The strange pull of losing time again, that sensation of falling out of his body. But Joe’s touch steadies him, firm and patient, like gravity. He fought with everything he had against the gravity pulling him back and finally Joe’s face shifted back into focus.
“We can stop,” Joe murmured, thumb brushing through his hair. “We can go shower, get dressed, and make some tea. Whatever you need.” He shook his head, words clawing their way out.
“No, I… just not like that. Not your mouth.” Joe didn’t argue. He simply nodded and pressed a light kiss to his temple.
“Okay. My hand?” Nicky exhaled shakily. His voice was raw and pleading when it came next. It sounded strange to him as if it hadn’t been his words at all.
“Yes. Please.” All he knew now was that he needed to stay connected, to stay here. Joe flashed a cheeky smile.
“Only because you asked so nicely.” Something about the teasing warmth in Joe’s tone slipped beneath Nicky’s guard. He startled at his own reaction, the lewd moan escaping his mouth, the quick jolt of heat in his lower abdomen, the way his body betrayed his need to be touched by Joe, when this little praise went straight to his dick, making him leak a bead of precome on his stomach, regardless of how scared he was. And in a way that scared him even more. Shame and want collided in his chest, and he could barely tell them apart. But it wasn’t just him that had been caught off guard. Joe looked at him in shock, retreating just a little, scared of the pressure he might have put on him, reassessing where they stood now.
Joe’s movements stayed unhurried, their bodies sliding side by side across the canvas a few centimeters with a smear of crimson and—green, where had that colour come from? Fingers wrapped around Nicky’s cock—slow and firm, no pressure, just a steady rhythm. Soft, sticky wet strokes. Nothing demanding. Nothing rushed, nothing forceful—he watched Nicky’s face the whole time, adjusting the rhythm whenever tension flared inside of him. He kept his own body light, never crowding, just near enough to feel warm and solid. Nicky gasped, forgetting to breathe for a moment before Joe whispered again, “Breathe, ya ruhi. Breathe with me.”
He did. He kept letting Joe guide the pace, each stroke deliberate, each glance checking in. Joe kissed him, feather-light up his arm, across his chest, his lips again. The friction built steadily, spreading throughout his body from his lower abdomen, warm and dizzying, making him squirm for more. He could hear Joe murmuring softly under his breath, half words, half hums, they sound like prayer or poetry maybe, but he wasn’t even sure what language they were in. His brain was too far gone to still comprehend nor did he need to understand. The cadence of Joe’s voice alone was enough for him to hold onto. Time folded in on itself leaving nothing but sensations—the slow pulse of his breath, the warmth of skin against skin, the awareness of being seen.
When he came, it was like suddenly breaking the surface after being far too long under water. A quiet, disorienting release that left him trembling and lightheaded, his fingers clawing at the canvas, dragging fresh lines through wet paint as he arched his back. His vision blurred, the ceiling drifting somehow above him. He didn’t know when he’d collapsed back against the floor, only that Joe’s hand was resting gently over his chest, steadying the rise and fall of his breath.
“You okay?” Joe asked. Nicky nodded, his cheek brushing against Joe’s fingers.
“I think so.” He became aware of the cool slickness beneath them when he moved to turn towards Joe and realized they were lying in the paint. He blinked down at the streaks of gray, red and green smeared across their skin. “Sorry about your painting,” he mumbled. Joe began to laugh wholeheartedly.
“Only you would apologize right now,” he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. But when he didn’t laugh with him, Joe’s smile softened. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t a masterpiece. I was just… airing out some feelings.” He pushed up on one hand looking at the mess they had created.
“I think I like it better this way. I would reinvent a thousand of my paintings with you like that.” He sat up, fingers absently tracing the line of Nicky’s jaw, before his gaze moved down their bodies again to take in the scene. His expression changed suddenly, head turning around toward the door. “Shit.”
Nicky sat up to be able to follow his gaze. Jarin was standing in the doorway. The air around him collapsed. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her face pale except for the flush rising high on her cheeks. His heart seized. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for his clothes.
“Jarin, cara, how long have you been standing there? Are you… are you okay? I’m sorry you had to see—” he rushed to say, stumbling over his own tongue until Joe’s hand touched his arm, raining him in before his words could trip further over themselves. Jarin didn’t move. She just stared, chin ducked down as if she could disappear into the fabric of her sweatshirt, arms wrapped tightly around herself. His breath hitched. How badly had they messed her up with this now?
“Let me,” Joe said quietly, stepping forward himself. “Jarin, habibtī,” his whole attention was on her now. “Look at me, please.” Her head tilted up slowly, reluctantly, as if it cost her every ounce of energy to move. Her eyes were wide and wet, but not with tears. The flush on her cheeks was still there. And her pupils were blown.
“You didn’t want to look,” Joe said gently. “But you couldn’t look away either, could you?” Her breath caught audibly in her throat. Her hands gripped tighter around her arms. Nicky felt a pulse of something, low and unexpected, flicker through him. Heat. His heart gave a jolt, confused by it. More heat. Pooling low in his abdomen. Wrong heat. Excitement. His heart started pumping acid through his veins. He wants it to stop. All of it. It’s too much.
Joe made another step towards her.
“Can you tell me where in your body you felt that?” he asked. “That pull to keep watching.” Jarin’s chin dropped again. She folded in tighter, instead of answering. But then, this was as much an answer as words would have been.
Joe placed a hand against his own abdomen, just below his naval. “Did you feel something right here?” A sharp, scared glance, then she pressed her chin back down onto her chest. Her hands clutched her elbows even harder. But he saw it, the tiny flicker of shame in her gaze.
Something twisted deep in his gut, making it feel like the ground underneath his feet tilted. Watching her recoil from herself, from that involuntary spark of wanting, did something strange to him—it makes something in his own body light up in response. A wave of his own shame followed instantly. He felt the heat bloom inside him again, unwanted and confusing, tangling with guilt. He looked away quickly, trying to force the air back into his lungs. The sticky cling of paint and fabric on his skin was suddenly too much, too intimate. He wanted to claw it off. He wants to feel her, her skin against his skin. He wants…
No. He didn’t know what he wanted.
“We’re not angry at you for watching, right Nicky?” Joe’s voice broke through the haze. He opened his mouth to say no, of course not, but what came out instead was low and hoarse, “Quite the contrary.”
For a heartbeat the room went silent. Joe blinked, startled, maybe even a little shocked. So was he. His pulse roared in his ears, blood rushing through his face, down his neck, betraying his emotions. Jarin’s gaze locked on him, unblinking. The weight of it made him tremble. He felt exposed, shivering slightly, wrapping his own arms around his chest now. Joe was the one to move first, brushing a reassuring hand along Jarin’s arm.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said softly. “Curiosity isn’t bad. Wanting isn’t bad either. Those are actually quite normal feelings.” The words seemed to float in the air, heavy and strange. Jarin didn’t answer, only stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes, beyond her shame. It was like they were having a mutual understanding of some sort. Nicky felt like an intruder inside his own body, watching, not acting, disconnected again from the very scene he was in, not understanding what was happening between him and Jarin.
“We should shower.” Joe’s voice reached him from somewhere far away. “And then we can continue this talk.” It took another long moment before any of them moved. Then slowly, like waking from a dream, they pulled their eyes from each other and Jarin turned around to make her way down the stairs.
The bathroom was warm with trapped sunlight, but Nicky still shivered when he stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of soap and damp wood. Joe turned on the taps and waited for the water to heat, the sound a steady hiss in the quiet, while he gently began to undress him again. It wasn’t sensual this time, more reverent. Practical, but still tender.
Paint peeled from his skin in cracked layers, smearing along his sides and ribs as the clothes came off. Joe leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth—barely there—and then stepped under the shower first, holding out a hand. He hesitated only a moment before taking it.
Warm water streamed over them. The paint began to dissolve, colour washing in muddied rivulets down the drain. His skin prickled under the spray, gooseflesh rising. The tension in his shoulders refused to ease until Joe reached for the soap, letting a pool of it dribble into his palm. He made space for him beneath the water, feeling a small wave of relief almost immediately. Taking a deep breath, he started soaping up his hair and body, while Joe observed him closely.
“She’s not a child,” Joe said at last. His voice was quiet but carried easily through the sound of the water.
“What?”
“Jarin. She’s not a child. This was inevitable. Feeling arousal, being confused because of it—it was going to happen sooner or later. What matters is that we give her the space to learn what it means to feel those things, without shame.” He leaned back against the tiles, noticing how the cold stone was pressing against his shoulders. His jaw clenched.
“She’s so vulnerable.” Joe nodded.
“Yes. Which is exactly why we need to talk with her. Not about her. We can’t make her keep feeling ashamed of her feelings. She clearly does already. We can’t make her ignore anything about herself.” Silence swelled between them, heavy, alive—the kind that makes Nicky’s nerves light up. He feels electricity pulsing through every fibre of his body.
“She’s too young. We can’t…” he starts, switching places with Joe again. He knows Joe will object, knows even as he says it that he is saying it for the sake of voicing his fear, not his conviction. He can’t help saying the words.
“I’m not talking about sex, Nicky,” Joe said, steady. “I’m talking about helping her understand herself. Her body, her feelings, what she wants, what she likes. She is confused and has questions about her body, about the way she feels. She never learned… anything probably, except how to survive. I doubt she has ever been to school and if she has, it has been so many years ago, that she even forgot how to write or hold a pen. She never learned to have a healthy relationship with her own body, with her sexuality. She doesn’t know what healthy desire and arousal look like.” Nicky shut his eyes, water running over his face.
“She needs guidance,” Joe went on. “Compassion, not correction. You should know what that feels like more than anyone. The circumstances were different, but the confusion, the guilt—it boils down to the same problem. You needed someone to help you find words to what you were feeling and experiencing. She needs that now as well. And we are all that she has. We can’t help her with everything else and then deny her her sexuality. That’s not fair.” His breath caught.
“I just… she should learn from someone her own age. Not from us—two men who’ve lived nearly a millennium.” Joe’s mouth twitched.
“If the age difference is your biggest problem, we’ve seen far greater ones in history.” The smile faded as quickly as it came. “She would be at a disadvantage with anyone, given what she’s lived through. She might actually be safer with us than out there, figuring it all out on her own. We just have to be careful, make sure she understands her boundaries and knows how to communicate them.” Nicky shook his head.
“How many men have claimed a woman would be safe with them, only to turn on her and use and abuse her?” The air thickened.
“Is this about you wanting to protect Jarin,” Joe asked, one eyebrow raised, “or about the fact that you were aroused at the thought of her watching us?” All of a sudden the electricity is gone and the water raining down on him feels too much, painful even. He can’t breathe, he needs to get away from the water. His vision blurs. Blindly he reaches out for the wall to guide him away from the steady assault of the pouring water above him. He presses his palms and forehead to the cold tiles, trying to anchor himself, but his skin feels like it’s on fire. Not from the water—he’d escaped that. He is burning from the inside. From shame, maybe. Or arousal. Or guilt. Or all of it tangled up together in a knot so tight he doesn’t know where one ends and the next begins. It feels like it might split his chest open. He can’t tell.
“You know that you don’t have to feel ashamed either, right? It’s okay that you felt aroused. It doesn’t make you bad, Nicky.” Joe’s voice is soft, distant.
He is still struggling for breath. The sound of water roaring in his ears or maybe it is his own blood rushing through his body. He can’t find words. Everything inside him is too loud. Joe hasn't moved, not yet. But he can feel his gaze, the weight of it—gentle, yes, but still unbearable, weighing him down. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, but the air keeps catching somewhere in his throat. Too much. All of it. Too much. Too close. Suffocating him.
He forces air in and out of his lungs, slowly, deliberately, counting each breath until the pounding in his head softened and the heat receded. Joe still didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch him. Just waited, until Nicky finally found his voice again.
“I… I promised her you were coming to get us out,” he said, his voice low. “I begged her not to give up. And she didn’t. She… she didn’t try to look away again after.” Joe said nothing. Just waited, that patient silence that never felt like judgement.
“I didn’t look away either,” Nicky whispered. “I couldn’t. I thought, if I looked away, I’d be leaving her alone in it. But if I didn’t, I was…” Joe reached up, brushed a strand of wet hair from his forehead.
“She saw you stay,” he said softly. “When no one else did. Even if you couldn’t save her, you didn’t turn away.” His throat felt so dry it ached.
“What if that’s what she remembers? Being looked at by me… and all the pain and humiliation that came with it?”
“Or maybe,” Joe said gently, “she remembers that you were the only one who stayed with her. And now she’s trying to understand what it means to look at you and for you to look at her. What it’s like to be seen by you, to even want that without all the negative feelings attached to it.”
The word want rang through him like a struck chord, shaking him to his core. He couldn’t stop circling it. Jarin’s want. His own. Something dark and unsteady inside him twisted around it. It felt wrong, but he couldn’t tell what it was or what to do with it. Just that it was dark and that it scared him. He wasn’t supposed to look at it. It wanted him to stop talking, but he kept going regardless.
“I didn’t just watch,” he said suddenly. The back of his skull throbbed like something inside was trying to claw its way out. He wasn’t really sure what he was trying to say anymore. Words were slipping away. “I think… she saw me, too.” Joe’s tense expression softened again in understanding, but Nicky could tell immediately it wasn’t the same he meant.
“I know,” Joe said gently. “That was the hardest part, wasn’t it? Being seen while powerless, having to watch her suffer. You’ve been carrying both your guilt and shame, haven’t you?”
“No,” Nicky said too quickly, too sharp. “That’s not…” But the words tangled. He couldn’t hold the thread. He felt his grip on the thought slipping, as if it were smoke in his hands. Joe stepped closer, concern etched between his brows.
“It’s okay, hayatī. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
“I think she watched…” The rest of the sentence wouldn’t come. It sat in his throat like a stone. It felt entirely wrong, despite him knowing somewhere deep down Jarin had seen him, some part of him. Just thinking about it scared the hell out of him. His stomach clenched, nausea and arousal curling together like snakes. He wanted to disappear. He was so confused.
Joe reached for a towel, wrapped it carefully around his shoulders. The fabric’s weight grounded him a little, though his skin still burned beneath it. He pressed the towel harder around himself, trying to hide from the memory of heat blooming low in his belly when she had looked at him. Joe’s hand rested lightly on his upper arm. It was a touch without pressure. Without demand. He was trying to ground him in the present.
“You were both made to see things no one should ever have to see,” he said softly.
No, he thought. She saw me—she saw the monster… monsters—and I don’t even remember what she saw.
“I don’t want to hurt her, Joe,” he said finally, voice breaking. “I don’t want to confuse her just because I’m confused. She’s had enough taken from her already.” Joe nodded slowly.
“She’s stronger than you think. She could’ve run when she saw us—but she stayed. She faced her feelings. She even admitted to feeling aroused. That’s not weakness, Nicky. That’s courage.” His head dropped, shoulders curling in. The towel slipped from his grasp for a second, heavy with water. He felt like a marionette whose strings had gone slack.
“I feel like I might fall apart any second,” he mumbled into the quiet. His voice didn’t even sound like his own. It came from somewhere further away. “Like one more thought and I’ll just…” He didn’t even know where he meant to go with this thought. Joe leaned in until their foreheads touched, the gesture careful, a wordless question.
“Then don’t,” he murmured. “Don’t think about it. We don’t have to understand it all tonight. Don’t try to name it. Let it be what it is—messy, raw. You are allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to just feel this. All of it. I’ve got you.” Nicky’s breath trembled against Joe’s skin.
“Even the part that liked it?”
“Especially that part.” Something uncoiled inside him then. Not gone, not forgiven, but less sharp, less cruel. Like Joe had pulled its teeth. The breath he pulled in was uneven and shaky, but at least it was a breath.
“I need to lie down,” he whispered finally, his voice cracking under the weight of exhaustion. Joe nodded.
“I’ll be right behind you.” He stepped out of the bathroom, the towel still clinging damply to his shoulders. The light in the room had dimmed to the golden haze of evening. Jarin sat cross-legged on the bed, Rafīq curled in her lap. She looked up the moment she saw him, eyes wide and awake. She had been waiting for them.
Nicky froze. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. The air thickened, congealed around him. All the things he’d managed to push down came rushing back—raw, unfiltered. His pulse pounded somewhere high in his throat. He still hadn’t moved when Joe followed him out the bathroom.
“Nicky, what’s the… oh.” His tone softened instantly. “Come on, ya qamar.”
He lets him take him by the hand, dragging him towards the bed where she is already waiting for them, pushing back the covers. Obediently he sits down. He feels numb. He knows what’s about to happen. He doesn’t want this. If only she wasn’t here. But he knows what happens next, what always happens next. And there is nothing he can do, but to do as he is told.
His eyes unfocus, the rushing in his ears rising, as the towel is taken off his shoulders. For a second he considers just doing what he knows he has to do, but he is much more scared of that than the inevitable beating he will get to make him comply. He feels his pulse in his palms, in the hollow of his stomach. The air presses in on him. He wants to vanish.
She reaches for his hand. Her fingers are small, tentative, warm. She tugs, guiding him back, further onto the bed. His body obeys, muscles locked in the old pattern of compliance. He squeezes his eyes shut. He just wants it to be over. He doesn’t want this. He hates this. Please, just let this be over quickly.
But nothing happens.
There is no demand, no pain, no harsh breath at his ear. Only the soft rustle of sheets, and then the warmth of a small body curling against his side. Instinct makes him turn toward her, wrapping an arm around her before he can think about it. Keeping her safe from whatever is waiting for them tonight.
He feels the mattress shift behind him. Another weight pressing close. But before he can feel trapped he notices fabric between them—clothes. Soft. Real—he is confused… and so, so tired.
The breath feels warm against his neck, hovering just at the edge of panic, but exhaustion is heavier. The tension in his chest begins to loosen, slowly, reluctantly. The world softens, blurring at the edges, his eyes long shut.
The last things he feels are the steady rhythm of breathing behind him, a heartbeat against his ribs, the warmth of bodies that embrace him and the quiet realization that he doesn’t have to brace for pain.
He is held. Not restrained. And then darkness comes. Not violent this time, but deep and almost kind, putting him down gently.