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when-picnic-remember-snacks · 4 years ago

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Chapter 1

This is my newest fic, an AU of The Old Guard with everyone’s favorite immortal husbands! It is so far untitled. In this AU, Joe and Nicky are new teachers at an ///unrealistically/// liberal private boarding school. They live in adjacent apartments in a dorm. Joe teaches history, Nicky teaches Latin and Italian. Over the course of the year, the two grow close and a relationship begins to blossom.

DISCLAIMER: I am not Muslim, but I am doing my absolute best to write Joe as a multi-dimensional, imperfect, complex Muslim character. It is frustrating to me to see Joe’s relationship with his faith cast aside in other fics, and I want to portray him as someone with a real, complex relationship to his religion (without assigning my own narratives to it). Despite my best efforts, there may be times when I fall short, and I am not afraid to edit and revise my work (even after publishing it!). Please bear with me!

The new apartment was small. Really small. Nicky wasn't sure what he expected of an apartment that was nestled in a dorm for high schoolers, but he at least expected it to be clean. There were stains on the walls and carpets, and before he could settle in, he resigned himself to a day of literally scrubbing the remnants of previous occupants from his new home. Starting in the kitchen, he donned yellow rubber gloves to his elbows, grabbed a few rags, a sponge, and a bottle of spray cleaner, and got to work.

After an hour, he was satisfied with the results. The appliances gleamed, and there were no more food stains on the walls. The grout between the tiles was a more respectable grey color, and the whole room smelled of bleach. He leaned against the counter and wiped his sweaty forehead with his elbow, looking down to see that his grey shirt was visibly soaked in sweat. The early-August heat did not pair well with an apartment lacking central air conditioning.

As he moved into the living room, there was a knock on the door leading to the hallway. Cazzo, Nicky thought, hissing through his teeth. He crossed the room and opened the door, realizing one second too late that he was wearing a sweaty, bleach-stained grey t-shirt with old basketball shorts that had a giant rip near the hem. Sexy. He became extra aware of his bizarre, decidedly unattractive outfit when he found himself looking into the soft brown eyes of a very handsome man. He opened his mouth, completely lost for words.

"Hello," said the man in his doorway. His voice was soft and musical, and he had a gentle accent. "I'm Joe, I live right next door and I figured I should come to say hi before you think I'm a bad neighbor." He laughed, and Nicky realized how rude he must seem, staring at this man from his doorway.

"Hi, I'm Nicky," and he extended his hand to shake. Joe glanced down at it, one eyebrow cocked. Nicky sucked air in through his teeth, cursing himself, then pulled off the yellow rubber gloves. Thankfully, Joe just laughed again and shook Nicky's hand with both of his own. There was an awkward moment where they stood, still holding each other's hands, before Nicky said: "I would invite you in, but it's a mess in here right now and it smells like a swimming pool–"

"Oh, no, I don't want to intrude, please," Joe reassured him. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then, seeming unhappy with that, tucked them behind his back. "I just wanted to introduce myself." He backed up a step, rocking on his heels.

"I'll tell you what, though," said Nicky quickly. "I should be cleaned up by tonight, you should come over for a drink." He bit the inside of his lip, worried that he was coming off too friendly, but Joe smiled. It made Nicky's heart race a little.

"That sounds very nice, I would love to," he said. "I will bring a bottle of wine?"

"Yes, that sounds perfect," said Nicky. "7:00?"

"See you then," Joe waved awkwardly, then turned and walked the few feet to his door. "Bye," he said with a nervous laugh.

"Bye," said Nicky. He pulled the door closed and leaned against it, tilting his head back and blowing air at the ceiling. He looked at the apartment, suddenly panicking. He glanced at his watch. 10:26. Which gave him… seven and a half hours to clean and move into his apartment. "Fuck," he said quietly, then sprang into action.

6:30 rolled around, and after hours of diligent work, his apartment was presentable. The walls were clean, the carpets de-stained and vacuumed, and he had moved his furniture into place. There still wasn't anything hung on the walls, but he had installed all of his books on his bookshelves. Well, the books that would live in the living room. There were three whole boxes and another set of shelves in his bedroom.

He was still drenched in sweat and he smelled like bleach, so he stripped off his dirty, sweaty clothes and showered. He took a long time shaving his stubble and making sure that his eyebrows were tamed. Then he glanced at his watch, swore, and rushed into his bedroom to put on clothes. It was almost 7:00, and he was running behind schedule. He hurried to the kitchen. He was pulling out wine glasses when he heard a soft knock on the door. He crossed the living room, running his hands through his hair, and opened the door.

Joe was standing there, holding a bottle of red wine. Nicky admired how well his shirt fit, then remembered the situation at hand. "Come in, come in!" he said, stepping aside to let Joe in. He reached to take the bottle of wine from Joe, who handed it over and looked around.

"It's very nice in here," he said generously. His eyes widened when he saw the bookshelf. "May I?" he asked, gesturing towards it.

"Oh, of course, please," said Nicky, setting the wine on the counter. "Do you want anything to eat? I don't have much right now but if you like cheese I have some meat and fruit to go with it."

Joe paused, weighing his next words. "I try my best to keep my food halal, even if I do have a drink from time to time. So the meat… I can't eat it, I don't think." The corner of his mouth twitched, a little embarrassed.

Nicky kicked himself. "That's no problem at all, I have some shrimp in the freezer, maybe shrimp cocktail instead?"

Joe turned to him, smiling. "That sounds lovely. You Italians and your insistence on feeding everyone." At Nicky's questioning look, he laughed a little. "You have a very subtle accent. Only confirmed by the books." He gestured at Nicky’s extensive collection of Italian novels.

Nicky smiled. "You got me. I lived there until I was ten. Most people don't notice," he said, not including how he had tried his best to suppress it when he was a teenager and therefore lost most of it.

"I have an ear for them. Accents, I mean," Joe said simply, turning back to the books. "How many languages do you speak? I saw Italian, Latin, English, what else?"

Nicky felt himself blush a little. "Those are the main three. I know a little Greek, and if you know Italian it's not too hard to pick up Spanish, so I can get by." He paused. "I'm teaching Latin and Italian this year," he said. "I just finished my master's in Italian literature."

"Oh, congratulations to you!" said Joe, tearing himself away from the bookshelves and joining Nicky in the kitchen. "How can I help you?"

"Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. Have a glass of wine," he said, gesturing to the glasses and the corkscrew on the counter.

"You will have one, too," said Joe, deftly opening the bottle and pouring two glasses of wine.

"I can't say no to that," said Nicky, taking the glass.

Joe raised his glass slightly, his eyes trained on Nicky's, and said "To your master's degree! And to our new jobs." Nicky tapped his glass against Joe's, and they drank.

The wine was delicious, tart and full. It was much nicer than anything Nicky would have bought himself. Joe held eye contact with him as he took another sip. Nicky felt his heart squeeze and forced himself to speak. "So, what are you teaching?" He turned to the freezer and pulled out the shrimp, trying to conceal the furious blush creeping up his neck.

"History," said Joe, leaning back against the counter as Nicky grabbed a bowl, dumped shrimp into it, and filled it with water. "They have me down for intro to ancient world and a study of Islam elective." He took another sip of wine.

"Are you coaching anything?" Nicky felt like he couldn't control himself, he just kept spouting off questions. He was terrified of what might happen if he let himself sit in silence with Joe.

"Not much of a sports man," said Joe. "Not playing, anyways. I'm going to proctor after-school art this fall."

"Are you an artist?" Nicky raised his eyebrows and smiled. It made sense to him, that Joe would be an artist. He couldn't put a finger on why, but Joe had a certain warmth to him that made him seem like a painter. Or maybe a potter. "I would love to see your work."

"An amateur," said Joe, blushing a little. "I don't have a lot here, most of it is at my sister's house. Just a couple sketchbooks and a painting or two here." He paused, and Nicky could tell he was a little uncomfortable. So he searched for a way to change the subject.

His cat, Bruno, made a very opportune entrance. He had spent most of the day curled up on the cat tree in Nicky’s room. Joe's face lit up at the sight.

"Oh my goodness, what a handsome man that is!" he cried, setting down his glass and kneeling. He reached out his hand, and Bruno chirped as he rubbed up against it. Joe scratched under his chin. "What's his name?"

"Bruno," said Nicky, smiling. Bruno was a good judge of character, and Nicky always felt better about someone if they liked cats. Joe had plopped himself down on the tiles with his back against the cabinets, thoroughly entertained by Bruno, who had laid down against Joe's leg and was purring loudly. "He's a great cat."

"I can see," said Joe, grinning up at Nicky. He leaned down and kissed Bruno's forehead, then stood back up. He took another sip of wine. "What a wonderful little cat," he said, watching Bruno trot off towards Nicky's bedroom.

Nicky checked the shrimp, then pulled the cocktail sauce from the fridge. "These are ready, do you want to sit in the living room and eat?" He drained the water from the shrimp and picked up the bowl.

"Yes, please. Could I wash my hands first?" He pointed to the sink.

"Oh, of course," said Nicky.

Joe carefully washed his hands and dried them, then picked up Nicky's wine glass and carried it to the couch.

"Thanks," said Nicky, sitting down a couple of feet from Joe. Joe propped one ankle on his knee and relaxed.

"Where did you go to college?" Joe asked. He kept his eyes carefully trained on Nicky's face as he picked up a shrimp, dipped it in sauce, and popped it into his mouth.

"I did Northeastern for undergrad, and Middlebury for grad school," said Nicky. "You?"

"University of Chicago," said Joe. "I'm going to do some work this year towards my master's at Harvard." He blushed a little, embarrassed, then took another sip of wine.

"That's great!" said Nicky, taking the last sip of his wine. He set the glass down on the coffee table. "Where are you from?"

"Originally?" Joe said, raising his eyebrows. Nicky started to panic.

"Oh, no, jeez, I didn't mean–"

"I'm messing with you," Joe laughed. Nicky relaxed a little. "One immigrant to another? I'm from Morocco. We emigrated to New York when I was thirteen." He took a sip of wine. "And based on your accent, I'm guessing you moved from Italy to… Boston?"

Nicky laughed. "Can't slip anything past you, huh? Yeah, we moved around a little but we were always around Boston. You know, lots of Italian families there. And my family is pretty Catholic, so they liked being around other Catholics."

"Ah," Joe nodded. "Do you see a lot of them? Your family?"

"Not really," said Nicky, looking down. Joe seemed content to leave it alone.

They sat in silence for a few moments as Joe finished his glass of wine, then stood. "I will go grab the bottle," he said, crossing to the kitchen. Nicky watched his back as he went, watched how he tread softly and how his broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. He shook his head a little to clear it. He stared at his hands, clasped in his lap, and tried to calm his breathing. This is not happening right now, he told himself. You just got here. But he had a twisting, hot feeling in the pit of his stomach that was growing every second he spent with Joe. It hadn't even been an hour, and it was threatening to outgrow the limits of his chest and spill out into the world. He felt his cheeks burn with a familiar shame.

When he looked up, Joe had his soft brown eyes fixed on his face. He was a few feet away, holding the bottle of wine. There was a small crease between his eyebrows. "Is everything alright?" Joe said, sitting down and tilting his head to the side. "I hope I did not upset you, asking about your family. I know things can be… Well, things can be complicated." He smiled, and Nicky's stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

"No, no, it wasn't you," Nicky sighed, then rubbed a hand over his eyebrows. "I mean, yes, my family is... But I think I'm just tired. Long day," he finished lamely. His heart sank. He barely knew Joe, who was gentle and kind and seemed genuinely interested in being friends, and he was already shutting Joe out. Withdrawing deep into the dark space within him, where he kept all of his most secret feelings tucked away.

"I understand," said Joe, setting the bottle of wine on the coffee table. "Would you like to call it a night? I would not be offended." Nicky looked up and took a deep breath.

A quiet, insecure voice in Nicky's head screamed out for Joe to stay. To stay and look at Nicky with his incredible brown eyes and his gentle concern. To smile and listen to Nicky talk about his family, his life, his intense love for Italian literature. To stay and stay and stay so Nicky didn't feel so terribly cold and alone. But that voice was drowned out by the others, which called for him to shut the door tightly behind Joe and never let him back in. To force the warm feeling growing inside him back down until it died.

"I'm really sorry," said Nicky. "It's just been a long couple of days. I feel so rude inviting you over and then kicking you out after one drink–"

"No, please," said Joe, reaching out and clasping Nicky's shoulder. He smiled gently. "Remember, I just finished moving in myself. I completely understand." He stood, and Nicky looked helplessly up at him. "Nicky, really, don't worry. Actually, here. Come over tomorrow for coffee, at 3:00," he said.

Nicky stood up and tried to hand the bottle of wine back to Joe, but Joe waved him off. "No, no, you keep it. Maybe we can finish it another night," he said, smiling.

"Coffee sounds great," Nicky said, forcing a smile. "Again, I'm really sorry." Guilt was washing over him in waves; guilt about being a bad host, guilt about kicking Joe out, guilt about the rising tide of warmth in his chest that swelled every time Joe spoke. Or looked at him. Or pushed his dark, curly hair back off his forehead.

"Nicky," said Joe. "You don't need to apologize. You were very kind to invite me over tonight. And I will see you tomorrow, for coffee." He crossed to the door. "Goodnight, Nicky." He gave Nicky one last, warm smile.

"Goodnight," Nicky said, and watched Joe walk out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Nicky collapsed back onto the couch and put his head in his hands.

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