#like back in september lol - its finally long enough now to be a mullet again

[gin-juice-tonic]

I've tried short hair a few times but it genuinely makes me so miserable. This guy needs mullets to survive

[qqueenofhades]

if you’re taking prompts (and from that September list which is GREAT) maybe #4 for the lovely immortal husbands? love your magical AU for them btw!! and DVLA of course!

Once again, I must note that I am not actively TAKING prompts, lol, and I reblogged that list several months ago (though yes, it is great). But also... flattery will get you everywhere?

Joe is innocently minding his own business – sitting on the balcony of their rented flat in one of the endless grey tower blocks, gazing out over the hazy skyline of Kyiv with its spires and tangled wires and hills and trolley cars, sketching in his notebook – when the door opens behind him and someone steps outside. He doesn’t look up for several moments, concentrating on shading in the green domes of St. Andrew’s Church just right, until he is prompted by a delicate cough. “Well, my heart? What do you think?”

Joe glances up – then drops his pencil and nearly knocks over his coffee cup (which would be a waste, since it is hard to get most things in 1986 Ukraine). “Ya Allah, Nicolò,” he stammers in Arabic, every other language momentarily driven out of his head by the magnitude of the horror before him. “What on earth have you done to yourself?!”

Nicky smirks at him. “What? Don’t you like it?”

Joe’s mouth is still open, so he shuts it, and concentrates on studying his lover in increasingly aghast fascination. Yes, well, Nicky’s hair was getting long and rather shaggy, since personal hygiene hasn’t been high on their list of priorities while working backbreaking, filthy, days-long shifts to help in the continuing evacuation of the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone and the clean-up and seal-off of Reactor Number Four. They’re taking a rest break in Kyiv right now, but they bus out to Pripyat again next week, and given the gauntlet of real horrors that they are elsewhere running, Joe would not have imagined that Nicky had the desire to inflict this monstrosity upon himself in their precious off hours. It’s a mullet, in other words. And it’s a very bad one. In Joe’s completely objective opinion, Nicky is the handsomest man alive, but even he can’t pull this off. The stringy bits on top, the badly shaved sides with a plastic razor – and that is not even to mention the mustache, often favored by gentlemen in explicit 1970s films. Joe keeps staring like a deer in headlights, in the crosshairs of a barreling fashion calamity. Finally he manages, “Nicolò, absolutely not.”

“Oh come on.” Nicky’s slightly wicked grin broadens. “You haven’t even seen the tighty-whitie shorts that go with it.”

This is admittedly an interesting bribe, though not enough to overlook the – everything else. “What?” Joe repeats faintly. “You want to look like Eurotrash out at the discotheque?”

“When in Rome…” Nicky remarks archly. “What? I said nothing when you had that Afro last decade, remember?”

“That,” Joe says with immense dignity, “is completely different. I am from Africa, so by any measure I have the right to wear an Afro. You are not a creepy extra in a Richard Simmons workout video. And we were working with the Black Panthers, so obviously – ”

“Exactly,” Nicky says. “Just fitting in to the local culture.”

Joe continues to sit there like a goldfish, still shaking his head in numb disbelief. “I can’t sleep next to you like that, Nicolò. It will give me nightmares.”

“Really?” Nicky crosses the balcony and perches on the arm of Joe’s chair, thus to let him appreciate it better at close range. “Isn’t every good relationship about making sacrifices?”

“Love has two faces,” Joe shoots back. “One of them is the face of devastation.”

“Mmm.” Nicky leans in. “Are you quoting Abu Nuwas again, my heart, or just being a drama king?”

Truly, this man knows him far too well. “You’re messing – ” Joe stares at him accusingly. “You are messing with me.”

“No,” Nicky pronounces, face completely straight. “No, not at all. I love it. I think I’ll keep it like this.”

Joe opens his mouth, about to say something else despairing, but stops. Yes, the mullet is an abomination of God’s earth (along with most hairstyles of the 1980s), but if Nicolò wants to wear this idiot look for a moment of levity in what they are otherwise faced with, what harm, truly, will it do? There were four horrible days after their first round of cleanup shifts, where even they were sick as dogs as the radiation worked its way out of their bodies, and the way Nicky looked then – Joe can still see it whenever he closes his eyes, so that mullet-related nightmares might be far preferable. Besides. He is very well aware that right now, there are other gay men losing their partners to a mysterious and unstoppable scourge, that in San Francisco and New York in America especially, the disease now called AIDS (but first known as GRID, Gay-Related Immune Deficiency) is ravaging entire communities while President Reagan sits idly by. Suddenly needing to make sure that any of that is very far away, Joe reaches out convulsively, catches Nicky’s head (stringy bits and all) and kisses him. “I don’t mind,” he says, just in case Nicolò thought he was actually serious. “I may have to wear a blindfold when we make love, but – ”

Nicky starts to answer, but is interrupted as the balcony door opens, Booker starts to come out, sees that the lovebirds are occupied out here, and beats a smart retreat. Even this, however, is not enough to stop him shouting, “Nicky, what the hell is that?”

“See.” Joe looks at his lover with wounded vindication. “I’m not the only one who has questions. Many questions.”

“Mmm,” Nicky says again, sliding into Joe’s lap. “Say that you love it.”

“No.”

“You do love it.”

“I love you, Nicolò. Not the mullet.”

“Shh.” Nicky leans in, and as they kiss, Joe can feel him smiling. “Just go with it.”

(Joe grumbles, but kisses him back, and doesn’t say anything else, and they go back inside as Andy returns from what can optimistically be called a shopping trip, and make dinner. Nicky entertains the entire team with jokes at his own expense as they eat, and Joe looks at him and understands exactly why Nicky did it, made a fool of himself to help them laugh, help them think about something else than radiation poisoning and piles of shot animals, and he loves this man so much that he can barely stand it. And so they go to bed that night after Nicky has removed the scissors and razor and sent the mullet and pornstache to their well-deserved grave, and love does indeed have two faces, and the other one, as always, is forever.)