#while people who don't are expected to have hundreds of thousands in cash for down payment

[awkward-teabag]

For the life of me I can't find a news article about how upwards of 100% of new developments are bought by investors or flippers but that's another issue. Supply doesn't meet demand but the majority of supply is bought before people who need it can get it (and is then rented back to them at a further inflated place if they're lucky).

A cabinet shuffle just happened so I don't know about the new housing minister, but the previous one had a rental property so had a vested interest in not addressing inflated housing costs (as did/do approx. 1/3 of the federal Liberal cabinet).

Then there's how more and more development is being put on hold because workers literally cannot afford to live in the area.

And that transit largely sucks so people get pushed further and further out to the suburbs—or completely different cities—because they can't afford to live even near the area they work.

The Canadian government got out of building affordable housing in the 90s so we're at decade 3 of relying on private companies with a profit motive to build all our housing with little control over what happens and politicians being happy to get kickbacks to keep it high (assuming they don't have investment properties themself). There's also zoning issues and NIMBYism which further restricts the supply.

And by the time anything gets built, what's considered affordable is now hundreds more a month while wages have stagnated since the 80s.

This doesn't even get into how while minimum wage is no longer enough to afford a 1 bedroom in some markets (nor a bachelor's nor studio) and disability is less than minimum wage. By a lot. It varies by province, of course, but some haven't seen an increase in decades and were considered low even back then.

There's also a societal view of it, by which I mean I've seen far more support for building institutions to forcibly lock up homeless folks and addicts than for building affordable housing and/or forcing housing rates to enter the same realm as affordable. To say nothing of how any mention of housing issues gets derailed to become xenophobic, racist BS about how immigration is bad and the immigrants are causing the housing crisis.

That last one is more anecdotal and could be my personal experience, but given the Americanization of our politics and the current Conservative party (to say nothing of the PPC...) I don't think it's just me.

tl;dr There's a multitude of issues that have compounded to make housing in Canada particularly bad. While in terms of landmass, Canada is one of the biggest countries in the world, much of our population is concentrated in a handful of areas while a lack of investment into public transit infrastructure further concentrates people into those areas or punishes people who leave them.

Is Canada's housing crisis as bad as people say?

* I'm a foreigner but the whole world is having this housing issue, is it actually worse in Canada

It is actually worse in Canada.

[imagineabrighterworld]

{Four Hundred Thousand Yen} Tamaki Amajiki x Reader

Tamaki had a lot of questions in life, but the list was reordered the moment he was chosen for the date auction of 3-A.

Why me?

Why was my name in the bid?

Why did no one look surprised?

Was this rigged?

His last question was answered fairly quickly, the class did in fact rig the polls. It was a tie between him and Mirio, but after some convincing from Mirio and Nejire, the class had filled the ballot box almost entirely with Tamaki’s name.

“Why would you do this to me?” He mumbles into his desk as he bowed his head to keep from seeing his traitorous best friend. Mirio was standing next to his desk with a huge smile on his face. Tamaki couldn't see it, but he could hear it in his friend’s voice.

“It’ll be fun! Don't sweat it, you're gonna be great!”

“I-I can't even- go on stage..” Tamaki lifts his head to show his lips were trembling as he was on the verge of a breakdown. The thought of being on stage for people to bid on- what if no one wanted him? What if it was just silence and he wasn't picked at all? How embarrassing would it be when he left the stage without a single bid? “What if no one picks me? I-I would be humiliated.”

Mirio pats him on the back. “Trust me, there are plenty of girls and guys waiting to bid on you, I did a poll!”

Tamaki’s face burns red. “You what?” He squeaks out.

“Well not an official poll, but I asked around the school and everyone was pretty excited to hear you might be in the auction.” Mirio rubs his chin. “I’d say you had a good seventy percent of the students I asked.”

The wheels in Tamaki’s mind stutter as he focuses on the thirty percent that must have said no. He groans and stands up from his seat. “I'm going to the workshop..”

“3-H?” Mirio asks.

“Yeah..” Tamaki slides out of the classroom with his head ducked low. His face was still a bright pink when he entered the third year’s workshop. It was enormous compared to the first year’s space. It had gear and tech that the first years were not yet trusted with.

He walks around the empty room, looking at the half built suits and the observation window that separated the testing room from the rest of the space. It was a special glass that was essentially bomb-proof, nothing could break the glass, which made it essential for testing costumes that needed to undergo massive damage.

“Tamaki!”

He turns around to find you dragging a massive robot by a thick metal chain. You were covered in scuff marks and grease, but you had a light in your eyes that made him smile. His thoughts were briefly distracted by the date auction and instead directed towards you. You were one of his friends since his second year when he needed an update in his costume. He still got shy around you, but talking with you became easier the more he visited you.

It was a small miracle that you didn't mind his silent days. You both would listen to your radio while you worked. You didn't push him, and it was greatly appreciated. Sometimes he needed a break and you were there to take it with him.

“Whatcha doing here Tama-chan?” You release your grip of the chain, unbothered by the loud boom as the heavy chain falls to the ground. It was startling sometimes to remember that your quirk was strength based. You lifted gear so easily, it looked weightless to him. “Got a problem on your mind? You look like a shrimp.” You brush your gloved hand over his flushed cheek.

Tamaki rubs his face while looking to the ground. “Iwasvotedinforthedatingauction..” He whispers quickly.

“What was that?” You tilt your head. “You lost me at I.”

He takes a deep breath and speaks a tad bit louder. “I.. Was voted in for the dating auction..”

“Oh. … Oh.”

You both stand in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock in the room.

You're the first to break the quiet. “Mirio was behind it wasn't he?”

“And Nejire.” He adds softly. His best friends other than you, both ratted him out. They knew he had trouble with the spotlight, with his.. His self image.. He couldn't do it. ���I think I'm going to call in sick. Mirio is more popular than me anyway, he’ll definitely get bids.”

“I think you should do it.”

He startles. “What?”

You smile down at him. With your work boots you were a good few inches taller than him. “You're really sweet Tama-chan, you're underestimating yourself again.” You tap him on the forehead. “Think of this as a mission. The goal is to get to the finish line. Don't think about how much you earn, think of getting to the end of the auction.”

“But I can't handle crowds-”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Tamaki.”

He looks you in the eyes, his heartbeat racing as he sees your normally nonchalant expression turn serious.

“You're Suneater, an amazing hero that always gets the job done. This is just another job. And you're going to rock it.”

He gulps.

Just a job. Not a game, not an auction, just a job. Another mission that needed finishing.

He nods his head reluctantly. “Okay.”

“Good.” You pull him in for a side hug, completely forgetting you were covered in grease. “Now help me figure out what the hell I'm doing.”

-

The day of the auction was hectic. It was a festival, which meant that the class was divided into doing different jobs, a sixth went to preparing the auction with the other classes while the rest went on to handle food stands and games.

Mirio was in charge of the money earned during the bids while Nejire was the announcer.

Which left Tamaki alone behind the stage with the other “volunteers”. Some of the students actually did want to participate, but he could see from some of the faces that some where plucked forcefully by their classmates.

At least I’m not the only one. He thinks to himself.

He mourns quietly as the students file in line. The first to go were the first years, then the second, then the third years. Which meant he was the first of his year to go onstage.

So far the highest bid was for Todoroki of 1-A who got fifty-one thousand yen.

I'll be lucky if I get one hundred yen.

Tamaki fiddles with the cuffs of his suit. It was black with gold sun cufflinks. If it were a different occasion, he would have liked the suit. It was comfortable and completely black, allowing him to blend in rather than stand out. But in this situation he would have no choice but to stand out.

He squeezes his eyes shut as he hears his name called out.

“Next up, Tamaki Amajiki from Class 3-A!” Nejire cheers from beyond the stage.

With a small pat on his shoulder from the boy  behind him, Tamaki steps through the curtain and walks on stage.

Faces. So many faces.

The crowd was bigger than he thought, it was full of people-

“Remember, keep your head up, eyes to the sky, it'll be over before you know it. Trust me.”

Your words ring in his head as he walks down the catwalk, his eyes on a distant tree as he tries to keep from folding over in shame as numbers are called out.

Ten thousand yen. Thirteen thousand yen. Fifteen thousand yen. Thirty thousand yen.

He stops at the end of the stage and keeps his hands clenched at his sides. He felt like he was going to collapse-

“Two-hundred thousand yen!” A familiar voice chimes from the crowd of people.

Tamaki’s gaze snaps to Nejire who had floated off the stage and was staring at Mirio with a look of wonder. Who- What? What! Who would bid that much!

No it had to be a mistake!

“Four-hundred thousand yen!” It was the same person. “You're twisting my arm here Nejire!”

Tamaki scans the crowd for the voice.

No, it has to be a joke-!

You stand in the center of the crowd with one of the bidding panels in your hand. You were grinning widely. “Neji, I could go on forever, just give him to me.”

The crowd parts around you as they whisper the number incredulously.

Four-hundred thousand yen.

Tamaki didn't even expect to get a percent of that!

Nejire lands on the stage with a small thump. Her smile was nearly identical to yours. “Any other bidders? Going once. Going twice?” The crowd was talking but no new bid came up. “Tamaki Amajiki, sold for four-hundred thousand yen!”

-  

After the auction, Tamaki finds you with Mirio, a thick stack of yen in hand.

He runs to you. “Wait!”

You look back at him just as Mirio tucks the cash into the metal box full of bids. “Yeah?”

He stands across from you, frazzled and in desperate need of a good cry. He almost ran off stage just to keep from collapsing in fear.

“How could you- why did you-” He stumbles over his words. “Why did you bid on me? Why so much?”

You smile as you zip your wallet shut. “That’s easy Tama-chan. I knew you wouldn't feel comfortable going on a date with a stranger, so I paid an amount I knew no one would be able to beat.”

“But, it's your money..” He squeezes his hands into fists. “You can't just waste it on me, I’m not worth that much..”

You step away from Mirio and stand in front of Tamaki, fixing his crooked tie from running. “I'm an engineer. I know how much each part costs and the cost of the overall product. You're worth more than I could ever buy Tama-chan.” You press a small kiss on the tip of his nose. “And I couldn’t pass up the chance of getting dinner with you in that suit.”

Finally, Tamaki collapses in a fit of pink.

You look at Mirio.

He laughs. “He's all yours!”

His plan went just as expected.

[qqueenofhades]

If anyone is an enabling mood..HI, I AM ALWAYS IN AN ENABLING MOOD, YOU WANT ENABLING? HERE IT IS. I have soft loving enabling tho cos I don't like being mean it makes me sad.

As we all expected, I am very, very easy to enable. Credit to @voidxces for the beautiful and inspiring edit. Mildly smutty bits, hence the full story is below the cut.

Valletta, Malta

December 15, 1999

The customs line at Malta International Airport is long, maddeningly slow-moving, and the one guard stamping passports looks to be about ninety, as Joe shifts from foot to foot and tries to remind himself that they have nothing but time. (Unless, of course, the Y2K nuts are all correct and they’re two short weeks from the end of life as we know it, but if nothing else, living for almost a thousand years means that he has seen countless doomsday prophecies come and go without so much as a whimper.) It was a crappy flight from Paris – overbooked, understaffed, the inevitable screaming child two rows behind them and now determined to keep up the racket in the passport queue – and Joe’s trying not to look as stressed as he feels. This is their getaway for the holidays and the new year, the turn of the millennium, a huge and significant milestone for any number of reasons, and he’ll feel better once they’re out of here. Nobody’s at their best in the cattle corrals and the fluorescent lights of border control, another reminder of how much things have changed over all the years they’ve been coming to Malta. The first time they were here in 1501, all they had to do was sail up, get off the boat, and pay a bribe to the port official. Joe votes they try that now.

The line shuffles forward another inch, the child behind them screams even louder, and as Joe is silently reciting the Bismillah and reminding himself that the Almighty values patience, Nicky turns around. He sizes up the mother ��� tired-looking, hungry-eyed, apologetically trying to corral the fussy baby and a toddler of about three or four – and smiles gently. “Hello,” he says in English, then glances at her passport and sees that she’s Italian. “Buona sera, signora,” he goes on, not missing a beat. “Hai bisogna di aiuto con qualcosa?”

The tired mother starts, her eyes welling with tears. Joe’s willing to bet that nobody has offered to help her for this entire trip, and has to smile softly to himself that of course Nicky has swooped out of the Maltese night like, well, a knight, her countryman in a time of crisis, to do exactly that. Joe is already feeling better just to watch Nicky be Nicky, as his lover takes hold of the baby, joggles him on his hip and tells him that he’s a handsome fellow and to stop screaming and to give his mama a break, as the mother tends to her toddler, gets herself sorted out, and thanks Nicky profusely in what sounds like Calabrian. Joe’s mostly able to pick out the specific regional accents, and he guesses that this woman is a migrant, one of the workers who travel around Europe in the growing season to pick fruit and vegetables in hot fields under hard bosses who only pay in cash and owe a cut to the Mafia. He takes out his wallet and quietly offers her all the Maltese lira they changed for back in France, and she shakes her head and tries to refuse. He insists – she looks somewhat surprised that he speaks Italian too, but not unduly – and while she won’t take it all, they manage to give her back her baby, some money, and reach the front of the line without actually noticing the rest of the wait. Joe hands over a French passport that reads Joseph Jones. Nicky hands over Nicholas Smith. The guard looks at them, asks a few questions in his quavering old-man voice, stamps the visa pages, and once more, they’re in.

Outside, Joe and Nicky collect their bags, help the woman to the taxi rank and make sure she’s on her way to wherever she’s staying, then go out to catch the bus. Valletta sparkles in the distance as they draw closer, this magnificent collection of fortresses and gardens and churches, domes and spires, palaces and piazzas, museums and terraces, city walls and citadels, Benjamin Disraeli’s city of palaces for gentlemen. The place was largely built by the Knights Hospitaller after their exile from Rhodes and the Great Siege of Malta in 1565, and Joe and Nicky have watched it transform over the centuries, but it has still managed to retain that unique spark of what they love about it. It is familiar, comforting, lovely. If the world is going to end, no better place to be than here.

The bus stops in downtown, they thank the driver in fluent Maltese, and get off, hauling their bags and suitcases. The December evening is cool and misty, fog floating over the cobblestones like elegant wraiths, the streetlamps casting pools of golden glow that look like doorways to another world. They walk casually hand in hand to a corner store that is about to shut up shop for the evening, buy a quick dinner, and then continue up the street. Somewhat appropriately, they are staying in a rented house near St Sebastian’s Bastion, Is-Sur ta' San Bastjan, on the northeastern tip of the Valletta peninsula near Fort Saint Elmo. They know the elderly owner well, who has left the key in the postbox for them, and they unlock the door, ascend the narrow, creaky stairs to the top-floor garret, and find that a small Christmas tree and a plate of imqaret have been left to welcome them. The windows open out over the city wall and the dark, glittering ocean. It is quiet, at last. Just the two of them.

“Finally,” Joe says. He picks up Nicky’s bags when he puts them down, and carries them into the dark bedroom, switching on the lights. They set down their convenience-store repast and eat, affectionately nudging each other’s knees under the too-small table. They’ll do more shopping tomorrow; they will be here at least until January (assuming, of course, no apocalypse). Joe smiles at Nicky, happy to be here, happy to be with him, happy to be sharing this small and unremarkable meal with a soft rain pattering on the steep slanted roof. When they’ve finished and tidied up, Joe murmurs, “Not too tired, are you?”

Nicky answers with a devilish quirk of his eyebrow, as if to say that of course neither of them were actually planning to go to sleep without celebrating their return appropriately. He wraps his arms around Joe’s waist, and they waltz into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them and drawing the curtains, sinking down on the amply-sized bed and undressing each other with slow and leisurely care. Even after a thousand, a hundred thousand times, it never fails to thrill. Their mouths meet in the dimness, their hands trace the well-loved lines of the other’s body, the faint scars and lines that never go away even through all the regenerations, the secret places, the curve of lips, the plane of shoulders and spines, the tensed tightness low on stomachs, the bend of a knee or the bone of an ankle. Joe pushes Nicky down beneath him, and Nicky arches his back, wrapping his legs around Joe’s waist. In quiet and tender and timeless communion, they find their way back home again, in each other and with each other, in touches and kisses and slow thrusts turning faster, and finally, sated, they sleep.

They wake in the morning with slants of winter sunlight filling the room, the high white ceilings, the gauzy curtains fluttering in the constant draft that they’ve never found, the way they’ve woken up in this room since they first met the owner in 1973, and which makes Joe think poignantly, as he always does for just an instant, of their lost home in Constantinople. They get up and dress, then leave the house in search of breakfast. The stone of the streets is pink and amber and gold and fawn, and the light has that particular early-morning quality where it seems to shine through sheets of bleached linen. The city is already awake and bustling, and Joe and Nicky make their way to their favorite café. They can sit overlooking the water and eat as much pastry and drink as much coffee as they like, and they make a good several hours of it. The sun comes up over the street, the palm trees rustle in the breeze, and a few tourists wander by with fancy Nikons around their necks, looking lost. One asks in English if they know where the Grandmaster’s Palace is, and Nicky is happy to point them in the right direction.

“You know,” he says, when they have finally finished breakfast and are wandering happily through the baroque streets, hands and shoulders brushing, “it’s 1999. This is our nine-hundredth anniversary, strictly speaking.”

Joe raises an eyebrow at him. “More like our eight hundredth,” he says playfully. “If we’re going from when we actually figured anything out.”

Nicky shrugs, grinning sheepishly, even as both of them fall contemplatively silent. 1099 is a long, long time ago by anybody’s measure. Joe thinks of himself, kneeling in prayer in the Tower of David, the dread whispers that the Franks were coming, the way he can remember parts and pieces and that first death bright as flame, but the rest of it has faded into the soft greyness of endlessly passing time. They did go to Jerusalem earlier this year, in July, since it seemed like the thing to do; there were a lot of First Crusade remembrances going on, some of which they wanted to be associated with and some of which they didn’t. There was a tweed-jacketed history professor who was deeply appreciative of the detailed account that Nicky was able to give on the breach of Jerusalem’s walls (he asked if he had published any articles on the subject, Nicky said hastily that he was just an enthusiastic amateur), and then there were some whackjobs who were trying to inflame religious tensions, as usual, and basically acting like it was a good thing that the heretics got what was coming to them. Lots of Americans with placards. Lots of Israeli secret service and bearded guys who were probably covert Hezbollah. Lots of people who all think they know exactly what the crusade’s legacy means, and which Joe and Nicky couldn’t help but regard warily. Everything seems twisted up these days, poised on the brink. That guy named bin Laden whose pals tried to bomb the World Trade Center in 1993, he’s been talking as usual. Death to the Western crusaders. So on and so forth. Thus far, nobody’s really listening outside the Middle East, but when you’ve seen this so many times, it’s harder to ignore.

Joe shakes himself, not wanting to think about this on their long-awaited getaway. They’ve been in Kosovo on and off this year, even if the last thing any of them really wanted was to go back into the Yugoslavian wars, and Andy and Booker are off to enjoy the last few weeks of the twentieth century elsewhere. Someone like Andy, the turn of a millennium is old hat, but even for as long as they’ve lived, this is Joe and Nicky’s first new set of a thousand years. The Year Two Thousand. Sounds appropriately science-fictiony. How, Joe thinks. How on earth did Yusuf al-Kaysani from Cairo end up here.

That, however, is only incidental to his enjoyment of the rest of the day. They walk on the city walls, they go up to the Grand Harbor and take in the sea view, then to the Barrakka Gardens. Nicky gazes pensively on the monument of remembrance and out over the glittering blue water, as Joe sits down on a bench and watches him. He has always simply enjoyed looking at Nicky, watching him breathe, watching him be, watching the way he leans on the railing and shields his eyes against the sun with the casual, unconsciousness elegance that permeates everything he does. Whether the name is Yusuf al-Kaysani or Joseph Jones or anything else, it doesn’t matter. Even among all the change and clutter of the modern world, this adoration, this soul-deep delight, is the one thing that remains constant.

That is how the next several days pass. Joe and Nicky visit their usual old haunts in Valletta, eat well, make love, and catch up with the apartment’s owner, Ġużepp, who is now in his eighties, has known them for over twenty-five years, and never seen them age a day. He has never asked why. His wife died a long time ago and they never had children, and perhaps he sees them as sons, as a strange but poignant blessing for a lonely old man, two people who clearly love this place as much as he does. He asked them once when they first came here, and Joe wondered if they should just tell him that it was the sixteenth century. Somehow it seems as if Ġużepp might not be surprised.

A few days before Christmas, a storm blows in from the Atlantic just as dust blows in from North Africa, and the world turns silver and ocher and rust and wet, the windows sparkling as if stained in silver nitrate and the streets and domes and splendid churches of Valletta painted in watercolor impressionism on the blurry glass, anything or anyone outside the bedroom barely seeming to exist. Joe and Nicky spend the time productively, which is to say they have so much sex that they can barely walk. They twist into each other, explore and challenge and unstring and repair each other, touch and caress, kiss and lick and suck and mark their territory all over again, leaving no inch of flesh unexplored and no sinful act undone. “You know,” Nicky murmurs, eyes closed, smiling, sweat beading on his brow, hand stroking up the line of Joe’s spine as Joe nips at his neck. “We really are a pair of heretics, aren’t we.”

“Speak for yourself, Nicolò.” Joe leans down to steal another kiss from his lover’s bruised, teeth-marked lips. “Heretics according to who?”

Nicky hums, as if to say he is happy to get into a theological argument at a later date, but can’t be arsed to do so right now. Joe slides down next to him, sliding his hand across Nicky’s chest and stomach, curling lower, as Nicky whines and reflexively tries to pull back. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Joe laughs, as he always does, pressing a kiss into Nicky’s shoulder and thinking – as he also always does – Allah and all His angels forbid. He has always secretly, shamefully prayed that if that terrible moment came, if one of them lost their immortality first, that it be him. He knows this condemns Nicky to live on without him, but he cannot face the prospect of doing it himself. Dying for good, even after this long, somehow seems easier. At least he’s done that before, often. Living without the other half of his soul, not so much.

The rain clears on Christmas Day, the light is fragile and golden and perfect as heaven, and they call Andy and Booker (Andy’s somewhere in Argentina, Booker is on a beach in Thailand) and wish each other happy holidays. Nicky mixes up a feast, Joe helps (if by that you mean stirring the occasional pot and taking full advantage of Nicky’s “Kiss the Cook” apron) and they open their door and visit with the neighbors who drop in to bring more pastries and Christmas wishes. Ġużepp turns up, they invite him to stay for supper so he won’t be alone, and after the token protests, he agrees. As he is insisting on doing the washing-up, he asks, “How long have you two known each other?”

Joe and Nicky glance at each other. They’re fairly sure that Ġużepp knows they’re a couple, even if they haven’t said so openly, just in case an old Maltese Roman Catholic would prefer to know it implicitly but not have it confirmed. Finally Nicky says, “A very long time.”

“I thought so, somehow.” The old man reaches for a dish towel. “You seem that way. Have you been happy here? All the times you’ve been to Malta, to my house?”

“We’ve been very happy,” Joe assures him. “This place has been special for – for many years. I am Arabic, Nicky is Italian, it is like it was made just for us.”

Ġużepp smiles. “Your families?” he asks. “They are happy with it?”

Joe thinks of his mother, far off and so very long ago, and how Maryam al-Katibi always wanted him to be a better man. How he forgot about time and its passing, and never saw her again after he left. It remains one of the greatest regrets of his life that she never met Nicolò, as he thinks that they would have liked each other very much. But as far as their family goes now –

“Yes,” he says, thinking of Andy and Booker. “Yes, they are.”

“I am glad,” Ġużepp says stoutly. “It is good for a man not to be alone.”

(It is, and both Joe and Nicky have clung to that, and they don’t know now that this is the last time they will see Ġużepp, as he will die before they return here in 2004 when Malta becomes a member of the EU, but on this sweet, poignant night, as time speeds on its passing, as they both reflect on all those many years, and God said that it was good.)

The last week of 1999 and the twentieth century and the second millennium count down to its inevitable end. There aren’t exactly prophets in sandwich boards shrieking on the streets about the end times, though it’s undeniable that there’s a sharp-edged anxiety as Y2K draws closer. On December 31, Joe and Nicky sit on the beach at the famous Blue Lagoon, watching the sun go down over the island of Comino, holding hands. At last Nicky says – half joking, but only half – “If the world does end tonight, I want you to know that you are still the best thing that ever happened to me. Except for that pastry the other day. That was really very divine.”

Joe laughs, takes his hand to his lips and kisses it. “Always, my heart,” he says. “Always.”

The world gets softer and darker, and lights come on over the bay and the archipelago and the boats bobbing at anchor, and Joe thinks that it must be the year 2000 somewhere else, and everything still seems to be fine. He wasn’t really worried, but he knows that fear that the next year might bring with it something too terrible to be gotten around, and that if you could just cling to this moment now when things are all right, they might stay that way forever. Finally he and Nicky get the water taxi back to Valletta, and it’s getting closer and closer to midnight, and they sit down on a bench and count down with the rest of this sliver of the world, all the way into the next stage of forever.

When it becomes plain that the world has not ended, nor indeed does it seem likely to do so, everywhere seems to let out its breath at once. Huge and glorious fireworks thunder in the dark sky over the city, in riots of color and noise and sound, and Joe and Nicky can hear cheering and toasting from what seems like every house in the city. They kiss and then kiss again for good measure, swept along on a tide of jolly and relieved and mildly (or well, considerably) inebriated strangers, an impromptu street party that both of them feel down to their nine-hundred-and-fifty-year-old sinews, the sort of magic that still catches them dead to rights even after so long in this beautiful, stupid, dangerous, exasperating, maddening, heartbreaking, filthy, glorious, transcendent, irreplaceable world. They throw their arms around each other’s necks and gaze deeply into the other’s eyes, as even all the gaiety and festivity and bacchanal falls into nothing, passing over them like waves. “I love you,” Joe says, as he has said it so many times in all the languages he knows. “Ti amo.”

Nicky smiles that smile that makes the world shine, and spins Joe lightly on the spot, and the next thousand years seem, just then, like the greatest blessing that any man has ever had. “I know.”