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The clap of thunder punctuated the break between songs almost as if it’d been planned by the heavens to remind Nicky that he should go to bed. He ignored it and let Frank Sinatra continue to croon to him out of the battered iPod and speakers he’d had since his tortured years at Apicius. Besides, he could sleep while the pastry was chilling.

It was rare these days that he got to be alone in his bakery, rolling out dough and choosing the music. He adored Nile but she was still young, full of questions about process and flavor profiles working together versus others. Sometimes he just needed to be alone, in the quiet.

Frankie started singing about being alone with his shadow and his echo. Nicky spread butter on the thin dough with a nod, “You get it Frankie. You get it.”

Another thunderclap almost muffled the sound of knocking, but Nicky caught it, twisting at his prep station to look at the door to the alley. He waited a beat, then two, sure he was imagining things.

The pounding came again. Nicky’s hands dropped to his apron, absentmindedly wiping the butter off his hands as he walked to the door. He looked through the peephole to make sure it wasn’t a mugger or robbers.

He would’ve been less surprised if it was the Queen herself.

Tall, unfortunately handsome, his shirt and apron soaked through in the rain and his curls dripping over his head. Nicky blinked but nope, it was still his arch-nemesis. Nicky rocked back on his heels, wondering why on earth Joe Al-Kaysani would be at his back door in the middle of the night.

He was tempted to ignore him but Joe knocked again, Nicky looked through the peephole and saw that Joe was wincing, looking up at the second level of the building, holding his hand over his eyes to keep the rain from falling into his gaze. The apartment Nicky usually shouted at him from when they saw each other in the alley.

Nicky opened the door, watched the unmistakable wave of relief crest over Joe’s face.

“Oh good, I figured you’d still be working, I need a favor.” Joe said, clapping his hands together.

Nicky wanted to point out that the last time Joe had seen him in the alley he’d shot off a stream of insults at him in Arabic, which Nicky had to respond in kind in the same language. Flipping Joe off as Joe looked on in mildly impressed shock. At that point they hadn’t actually had an argument in awhile and it seemed overdue.

“You do?” He said instead, because Joe looked genuinely distressed.

“The storm killed my electricity. My generator can only support my freezer. I have a cake for a wedding tomorrow morning. Would you have room?” Joe asked, glancing up at the lights still shining over Nicky’s prep table.

Nicky wasn’t even tempted to slam the door in Joe’s face. Any other favor request he might’ve. But Nicky knew the deep pain of being in the final stages of a wedding cake and the universe intervening to cause misery.

“Let me rearrange a bit, is it big?” Nicky asked, and saw Joe hold his hands out two feet apart. “Give me five. I’ll help you transport it.”

Because Nicky also had a wedding in the morning, his refrigerator was filled. The bride had opted for an array of patisserie. He managed to use cans to lift up trays into layers. Shifting around tiny babàs and zabaglione to clear room for a tiered cake. He checked the alley to make sure no one would zip into his bakery and take anything before he propped the door open with a rock.

All the buildings across the alley were as dark as the sky above him. Rain soaked into his collar as he dashed across to the other bakery that he normally tossed rude gestures at. A pinprick of light led him into Joe’s kitchen, a solitary flashlight rested on a metal table with a rag on it. The familiar scent of cleaning products hit him.

“You were cleaning up?” Nicky asked, and from the fridge he heard a response.

“A minute later and I would’ve been on my way home.” Joe said, from the fridge. Nicky stepped inside to see what they were working with. Joe had already boxed the cake up, and was taping down the top seam to protect it from rain.

“Good that you were still here,” Nicky didn’t add that a cake of that size probably cost the happy couple a fortune, and would be a bitch to refund. Let alone the way that people pin their everlasting happiness on every single detail of their wedding being absolutely perfect instead of just a good party.

“Yeah,” Joe tilted his head to the far side of the cake, “You can walk forward. I'll go backwards. I know this kitchen like the back of my hand.”

“Like every good baker should,” Nicky said, holding the far side in a way he’d done hundreds of times before, and taught Nile how to do it without tipping the contents. They stood up and Nicky groaned with the weight of it, “How big is this cake?”

“It’s the most ostentatious cake I’ve ever made.” Joe said, wincing as he stepped backwards, “five tiers, each one three layered with different flavors and different fillings. Plus it’s covered in fresh fruit. I almost asked him why he didn’t just get Carmen Miranda’s hat.”

Nicky couldn’t help but let out a huff of laughter. They managed to get as far as the prep table before another crack of lightning smacked over them.

“It’s raining too much, the cardboard will get soaked through,” Joe said, frowning out at the rain.

“Wait,” Nicky said, stepping out into the rain and tilting into it, scrambling up the back stairway to his apartment. It was dark and cold inside, but his rain jacket hung by the door as it always did. He grabbed it and returned to Joe, draping the jacket over the box.

Getting the box across the alley meant that the two of them surrendered to the soaking, the rain pouring down them in rivulets. Nicky coached him through the door and through to his refrigerator. The cake was set safely on the shelf.

He’d been nice this far he might as well continue; he grabbed a spare uniform shirt out of the closet, along with a clean rag and tossed it to Joe.

“Thanks, let me lock up and I’ll be right back.” Joe said, disappearing into the alley and leaving the shirt and rag behind.

Nicky wasn’t sure why, afterall the favor was done. Joe could just come back in the morning to get the cake.

Nicky stepped into his small office to tug off his soaked apron and shirt. With a quick check to make sure Joe hadn’t returned he took off his jeans as well, grabbing a back up pair of cargo shorts that Nile had banished to the office (they’re functional!) and had earned him an incorrect reputation of being a poor dresser. The shirt he’d grabbed was just a size too small, but he pulled on an apron to cover up what the cold was doing to his chest.

Joe had returned to the kitchen, and was wiping down his face with the rag, running it over his hair and five o-clock shadow.

“Dry pants, you’re so smart. I’ve got to keep a change of clothes here.” Joe said, and Nicky knew that by here he meant his own bakery across the alley. Nicky staunchly refused to investigate the odd pull in his chest.

“Well when you live above where you work, the clothes drift is inevitable.” Nicky said, washing his hands and glancing over to the butter and dough on his workstation.

“I live a 30 minute train ride away,” Joe said, and without further preamble pulled off his shirt. Muscles rippled into each other, far more than a baker should have. A pair of lines cut down his hips, arrowing to below where his soaked jeans probably hid a wonderful place. His jeans clung to his thighs, and it was either the zipper acting up or a bulge but Nicky was telling himself it was the zipper.

Nicky thought, not for the first time, that if they hadn’t met in the worst way possible he would’ve jumped Joe the second he smiled at him.

Joe’s head reappeared, his curls flinging water on the compliance standards poster behind him, droplets falling down the laminate.

“Sorry did you say something?” Joe asked as he pulled on the uniform shirt. Luckily the one Nicky had given him was a bit baggier so his brain cells could return to him.

“Uh, no, but that’s a terrible commute.” Nicky said, forcing all of his limbs to comply with his walk over to the prep station. “Are you going to head there now?”

“I figured one good turn deserves another and all that,” Joe gestured towards the dough, “I can help you make up for lost time with your uh…”

“Sfogiliatelle,” Nicky supplied, picking up the butter which thankfully hadn’t gotten too warm to work with.

“Sfogliatelle? Really? From scratch?” Joe asked, looking like a child in a candy shop.

Nicky shrugged, while it wasn’t one of his favorite things to make his reputation as a Italian baker preceded him. More than one couple requested it despite him pointing out that no one wants to eat something powdered with sugar when they were wearing a formal evening gown.

“I know the theory only but I can help with the process if you want.”

What he wanted to do was say I actually sent Nile home so I could do this in peace and think through some things that have been on my mind but what came out was “sure, there’s an apron right there, on the hook.”

Joe pulled it on, and Nicky directed him to his last batch of dough. He didn’t need to explain how to use the pasta maker, Joe stepped right up and began to feed it through.

As Fleetwood Mac’s album steeped in drama and cocaine played around them, Nicky tried to find something to say.

“This poor bride, her groom has an Italian family but he particularly didn’t seem to have a lot of strong opinions. So she panicked and picked three of my offerings,” Nicky kept the ends close as he rolled, trying not to lose too much dough.

“Was he one of those happy wife happy life men who are just covering how useless they are?” Joe asked, changing the setting on the pasta maker as he got ready to feed the dough through again.

“Yes. Definitely. She picked Rum Babà, Rum Zabaglione, then Rum Custard filled Sfogliatelle. To which I tried to gently steer her towards some other flavors. I suggested Amaretto, Limoncello, and an Irish Creme of sorts -” Nicky started.

“Is the alcohol your main thing here?” Joe asked, sending him a grin that made the whole kitchen seem warmer to Nicky. Which was just another reason why he was an unfair and cruel arch nemesis. Tempting Nicky with whom he cant have.

“No. Their main hobby in common is drinking so their dessert selection is all cocktail themed.” Nicky’s jaw clenched, he was sure of it.

“That’s… healthy. What if someone doesn’t drink?” Joe said, getting right to the first qualm Nicky had about it.

“”I’ve made cherry and lemon hand pies for the children, we’re calling them Shirley Temples. I’ve made extra in case there’s any adults who don’t particularly like the taste of liquor.” Nicky said as he stretched and rolled, keeping his eye on the dough and not on Joe’s smiles.

“She didn’t want the other flavors then?” Joe asked.

“No, I suggested them and she said I’ll take them all.” Nicky rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension of the last few days in them, “and not the reasonable suggestion I gave her of a fourth of each order is a different flavor. She wanted a full order of each -”

“How many people are going to be at this wedding?” Joe asked, he looked over his shoulder at the refrigerator, “how did you even have room for my cake?”

“I’m bringing along take home boxes as the bride thought it would be cute to have her guests take home dessert.” Nicky glared down at the dough, “which was her covering for the fact that she thought her groom would pipe up eventually and say which flavors he wanted, or how much he wanted. But he just sat there checking football scores on his phone.”

Joe chuckled, shaking his head and setting the long thin dough next to Nicky as he picked up the next batch. “Some of these people who come in, you can tell right from the tasting how long they’ll last.”

“I once had a couple bicker over the tasting for an hour and then I found them fucking in the bathroom, then it took them another hour to choose,” Normally Nicky stopped the story there, afterall he’d gotten Joe to laugh. But he felt the need to continue, “Which I’ve always thought of as a sign of my absolute patience, as the groom was an ex of mine.”

Joe snorted and pushed the back of his wrist to his mouth, trying to keep in a laugh.

“No it’s fine, it’s absolutely hilarious.” Nicky had gone out with Andy afterwards, giving her the play by play until she was nearly on the floor in tears.

“What a petty idiotic thing to do,” Joe said with another laugh, “was he just trying to get you back?”

“A bit of that I suppose,” Nicky shrugged, “Maybe a bit of the fact that I’m the best baker in town.”

“None of that tonight,” Joe said, elbowing Nicky slightly, “tonight we have a truce, and share the crown.”

Nicky made a small humming noise in his throat, and shot another look at Joe, “your worst couple then?”

“Are you telling me your ex fucking in the bathroom is the worst you can do?” Joe asked, arching an eyebrow.

Now this was the kind of competition Nicky could get behind.

They swap horror stories, they both have doozies, they both agree to share yet another crown. While it started with couples, it eventually devolved into divorce cakes, birthday cakes, reunion pastry selections. They managed to pin a couple bride and groom zillas who had bounced between their bakeries like nightmare tennis balls.

By the time they’re done with the sfogliatelle, Nicky was cutting the rolls even though all things considered he’d usually wait to chill the dough before he cut them. He just doesn’t want the talking to end. Joe is halfway through a story when he managed to hit upon a genius idea.

“- and that’s when he asked if the second layer could actually be cinnamon!” Joe said, gesturing with a water bottle.

“Twenty minutes before the ceremony?” Nicky asked, “as if you just have a fully decorated back up for every cake?”

“He wrote a review about it on my yelp page.” Joe held up the bottle and tried to do quotation marks with his fingers “‘Unreasonable about changes.’”

“What an asshole,” Nicky said, turning around to set an oven to preheat before going into the refrigerator. He pulled two rings from the already chilled dough and brought it to the prep table. “What's your favorite flavor?

Joe looked down at the dough, before looking up at Nicky, excitement in his eyes that Nicky hadn’t seen before that night and was quickly getting hooked on. “Of the four you mentioned earlier?”

“I figure you should reap some of the benefits,” Nicky picked up the tray of prepared dough, carefully not looking directly at Joe the same way he wouldn’t look at the sun when an eclipse was happening. He took the tray of dough into the refrigerator, putting it on the last available surface. He turned and poked his head out, “Do you need a reminder?”

“Uh, no,” Joe said, looking up from where he was cleaning the pasta maker, “what’s your favorite of the four?”

“Amaretto,” Nicky said, without even having to think about it.

“I’ll have that then.”

Nicky shaped the Sfogliatelle, politely ignoring Joe who was pretending not to watch. He set them on the tray and slid them into the oven. Setting the timer.

“Let’s go sit down for a moment, do you want some tea or a hot cocoa?” Nicky asked, approaching his espresso machine.

“I wouldn’t say no to some tea,” Joe said, stretching out before he dropped into one of the chairs beyond the register.

Nicky had tried to make his front room feel like the bakery he’d grown up over in Italy. Some days he felt like he succeeded, and his Nonna would come out of the back to give him whatever she was working on lately. With the rain pattering against the storefront, with Nicky’s lit by the streetlamps and backwards, he almost felt like he was home again.

Tea was easy enough. He made it complicated by making himself a hot cocoa, but he’d had a long few days.

Joe sat, alternating between smiling at Nicky and looking out the window towards the pouring rain.

“I’m excited for the dead months when no clients want to hire me for weddings. Then it’s all experimenting with flavors and textures.” Nicky said, setting the tea down in front of Joe, and holding his own cup of hot cocoa.

“You know I don’t think I’ve ever sat in your bakery before.” Joe cradled his cup, holding it to his chest. “It reminds me of a tiny one in Genoa that I went to when I was on vacation there.”

“Oh?” Nicky said, his heart leaping into his throat.

“They didn’t have any cannolis, my little sister had been craving them. The little old lady behind the counter winked at her and came out to our table with cannolis.”

“It sounds like something my grandmother would do.” Nicky gestured towards the room, “this bakery is based on hers.”

“Maybe it was hers, but I don't remember the name or the cross streets.”

“The bakery, and my Nonna, are still there. I had to go abroad to escape her orbit.” Nicky smiled, taking a sip of the cocoa, “If I had stayed there I would still be little Nicky, and that’s just a subpar Adam Sandler movie.”

“Oh, I loved Little Nicky.” Joe studied him for a moment, “you know I became a baker because of my grandmother too.”

“Really?” Nicky asked. It was nice, having that in common.

“Really. Everything I learned at her apron.”

“Didn’t you go to Cordon Bleu?” Nicky said, when Joe stared at him, tilting his head slightly, Nicky shrugged, “One of my clients called you that Cordon Bleu asshole.”

“Which one was that?” Joe asked, correctly assuming it was one of the nightmare clients Nicky had already discussed.

“The one who threatened to kill the server for making the slices too big.”

“Ah, I can imagine her now. Wasn’t it just a work party of some sort?” Joe asked, scratching the side of his head, “She’d wanted to have only the best. But my year at Cordon Bleu wasn’t enough for her because I dropped out to work in my mother’s restaurant.” A mischievous smile crossed his face, he leaned forward and held up a hand as if someone outside could read his lips, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yes,” Nicky said, matching Joe’s tilt with a forward tilt of his own. They were almost close enough that Nicky could kiss him.

“My mother runs a Three Michelin Star restaurant in New York City,” Joe said with a smirk.

“You asshole,” Nicky said with no heat, settling back, “you sent her to me didn’t you?”

“That's what you get for finishing your degree in the best culinary school in Italy,” Joe said, shrugging and smirking.

“If she ever comes back, I’m telling her that.” Nicky watched as horror crossed Joe’s face.

“It’s a secret that I’m telling you on truce night!” Joe reached out and nudged Nicky’s wrist with his knuckles, the feeling of fire shot up Nicky’s arm, spreading warmth all over him, “You can’t betray the sanctity of that.”

“Fine, but if fucks-in-the-bathroom ex comes back I’m sending him your way.”

“Deal, besides I want to see the man who would give up a lifetime of Italian patisserie for a town clerk.”

Nicky wasn’t sure if he meant the pastries Nicky created, or Nicky himself.

“Why did you dump him anyways?” Joe asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“You assume I dumped him?” Nicky shot back, unsure of how much he should elaborate on.

“While I’m sure you run into all the usual pitfalls of dating as a baker and small business owner -” which in Nicky’s experience was twofold you love your dough more than me and you love your metaphorical dough more than me in that he had odd hours and a task list as big as any one person could handle, while rarely feeling the need to put his previous relationships first “-I doubt anyone would willingly leave you.”

It's not true, but Nicky smiled anyways, “I’ve never been the one night kind of guy. But he was. With many men when we were supposedly in a committed monogamous relationship.”

Joe winced, “sorry.”

“Don’t be, his husband left him for one of the caterers after the wedding.”

“That’s karma,” Joe said, and Nicky smiled even though they both knew that wasn’t how karma actually worked. Just that it was satisfying and a good button for the story.

The conversation didn’t stick to clients after that. They talked about their childhoods in their grandmother’s bakeries. The first thing they’d ever cooked and the first thing they’d ever fucked up. Joe showed Nicky an inch long scar along his elbow from someone else pulling a cake out of the oven and whacking him while he was at school.

Nicky had to duck in the back to pull the tray out of the oven, setting another timer for it to cool. Joe was in the middle of explaining how Booker could only pipe rosettes if he was listening to a match on the radio when the timer dinged again. Nicky complained about Nile’s extremely young taste in music as he pulled out the pastry bags filled with Amaretto Cream (and Joe pointed out that he hadn’t heard anything younger than 50 years old come on the iPod since he walked in, much to Nicky’s shrugs).

Joe didn’t even bother to hide his gaze this time, watching intently as Nicky filled the Sfogliatelle carefully. When Nicky went back into the refrigerator to put away the custard, he let impulse carry him to take an extra couple of babàs and zabaglione. He didn’t bother with the shirley temple pastry as it was mostly alright, but nothing worth writing home about.

He set them out on the clean prep table, along with a couple spoons and forks.

“A tasting?” Joe asked, and Nicky wondered how far he’d go to see that excited look, “for moi?”

“You do good work,” Nicky said, pushing a Irish Creme Zabaglione, topped with slices of candied pear and apple, towards Joe. “The Sfogliatelle is best when still warm so we’ll have that first, but I think you’d like this. It’s very Fall in Central Park.”

“If you start by listening to what I’ve been saying then I’m going to think you might actually be able to tolerate me tomorrow.” Joe said, Nicky almost thought he was flirting.

“Just as long as you don’t continue to be the absolute worst when the sun comes up,” Nicky responded, definitely trying his best to be flirtatious even though it could go nowhere. He picked up his own sfogliatelle, and held it out. Joe picked up his and tapped it against Nicky’s.

They both took a bite at the same time. The flavor was no surprise to Nicky, as he’d spent months perfecting his menu in his Nonna’s house with her loitering around to offer unwanted (but very helpful) opinions. He had it down to an art, lamination that surrounded a custard just sweet enough to be addictive but not sickly. Along with the powdered sugar to accent it. The flakes of the crust falling apart in his mouth one right after another.

Joe, apparently was surprised, the way he let out a moan and dropped to his elbows on the table, folding his arms and resting his head on them. Nicky was happy Joe couldn’t see him, as a blush colored over the bridge of his nose, spreading to his cheeks.

“Alright there, Joe?”

“I need a moment.” Joe stood up, gesturing with the Sfogliatelle “How dare you hide this from me for years! I knew I was right to think you were a bastard.”

“I wasn’t hiding it, you could’ve come over any time to try it.” Nicky said, smiling despite his attempt at stoicism. Normally he had no issues with it, but tonight Joe just kept making him smile.

“An evil bastard. Tomorrow I’m going to bring you the best desserts you’ve ever had, and then we’ll be even.”

“I nap in the afternoon, so it’ll have to be after that,” Nicky responded. Taking another bite and hoping the harsh light and the shift of his head would disguise the blush. He didn’t particularly like it when people complimented him but he absolutely adored when people complimented his pastries.

“Whenever -” Joe took another bite and groaned, this time sinking back to look up, and bending at the knees, “Heaven! How dare you. If I promise not to use it in the bakery will you give me the recipe?”

“Hmm,” Nicky normally didn’t give out his recipes. He didn’t want people to botch the process and then say his recipes were at fault but he knew Joe’s reputation and had gotten Nile to liberate a few Tuiles for him to try. “Possibly, but we’d have to extend the truce.”

“I can’t go back to hating someone who creates such beauty.” Joe said offhandedly, as if bickering hadn’t been their identity for the last couple years. “I’m going to come back to this, I have to try these.”

The zabaglione elicited similar reactions, I feel like I’m walking to the cloisters, there were no words for the Limoncello Babà, just noises that made Nicky lean against the table to hide how they were affecting him. Joe worked his way towards the Rum Babà, took one bite and glared at Nicky.

“That’s it, I’m showing you what I can do,” Joe said, wrapping his hand around Nicky’s wrist and pulling him towards the door.

“It’s one thirty in the morning and your electricity is out,” Nicky reminded him, trying to dig his feet in. He was a tall guy, and strong enough thanks to a dedicated workout regime to offset his chosen profession. But he didn’t exactly want to stop Joe from tugging him along.

“Alright, I’ll just go get some ingredients and bring them back here,” Joe turned back to Nicky, “yeah?”

“No, tomorrow will come soon enough,” Nicky said, wanting to draw this out into another night. It’d be nice to stand in Joe’s kitchen and watch him make something Nicky had no experience with. Then they could make something suitably Mediteranean together. Maybe. Possibly.

Joe stopped, and stood in front of Nicky, smiling at him with a touch of whip cream at the corner of his lips. Between the smile, the harsh lighting, the lack of sleep, and the absolute splendor of Joe. No one could blame Nicky for what he did next.

His hand reached up before he could stop it, cupping Joe’s cheek, as his thumb reached out and brushed the cream off his face. The reasonable thing would’ve been to brush it off Nicky’s apron, or even Joe’s, or literally off anything.

Nicky stuck his thumb in his mouth, destroying all evidence of the cream.

Joe’s eyes flashed, humor disappearing to be replaced with something more fiery.

“You’re right though, it tastes good,” Nicky said, he looked at Joe, analyzing and figuring that if this went south what was he really going to lose anyways? “Although I’m not sure if it’s the cream or you.”

Joe’s eyebrows shot up, and let out a choked laugh before saying “Do you want a taste test to check?”

In response, Nicky took a step forward tilting his head up, Joe met him, his arms twining around Nicky’s shoulders as Nicky’s hands went to his waist. Their lips met, mostly aligned and entirely perfect.

Joe tasted like the limoncello, the candied pears, just a hint of amaretto, and beneath that something indescribably addictive that Nicky’s refined palette couldn’t quite pin down. Nicky tilted his head, trying to get a better angle to lick into Joe’s mouth, while Joe was doing the same. Joe cupped the back of Nicky’s head, threading his fingers through the short hairs there.

Joe took a step forward, and Nicky matched, taking a step back, they stumbled their way to the prep station. Empty zabaglione cups clattering to the floor as Joe picked up Nicky and set him down on the table as if he weighed nothing and damn if that wasn’t the hottest thing that ever happened to Nicky.

It was just delightfully jarring and fantastic enough that his brain screamed you’re in your kitchen! with the now dry compliance poster mocking him from over Joe’s shoulder.

Joe kept one hand wrapped around the nape of Nicky’s neck, tilting his head so he could lather kisses along the jumping muscles in his throat. His other hand dropped down from Nicky’s waist where he had lifted him, and was curled around Nicky’s ass as if he’d been dying to touch it forever. Even though it was currently squashed against a babà.

“Wait Joe,” Nicky said, twisting his hands in the baggy uniform shirt and pushing him slightly back.

Joe looked as if Nicky had just punched him in the face. Something that Nicky may have done two years earlier at a pub. Although to be fair he just looked angry in the pub, and not sad as he did as Nicky pulled away.

“What? Do you not want to-” Joe started, almost pulling away. Nicky hands curled against Joe’s shoulder blades, his wrists under Joe’s arms, and tugging him back.

“No I definitely want to, just not where we’re on security cameras and not on the same surface I prepare food for strangers.” Nicky said, crossing his ankles behind Joe’s back for good measure. Joe smiled up at him, “do you want to see my apartment?”

Joe didn’t even bother to say yes, he just pulled Nicky from the table. Nicky had just enough presence of mind to slap off the lights and lock the door, Joe crowding against his back the whole time and biting kisses into the skin of his neck.

Within seconds of the door being opened, Nicky found himself pressed against another surface. This time it’s his personal counter, just as spotless as the kitchen below it. The door refused to close that last inch as Joe switched all of his attention on untying Nicky’s apron.

“How much Arabic do you speak?” Joe asked him, kissing him before Nicky can even process the question.

Nicky kicked out his foot and slammed the door the last half inch - he’d be damned if he let Nile walk in on this and ruin the magic. “A lot,” he managed to say, before pushing his fingers through those beautiful curls that have haunted him for months.

“English is a really unsexy language,” Joe said, switching to Arabic.

For the first time ever he’s glad that the three star Michelin restaurant Nicky worked at had an irritable Arabic speaking Head Chef to his Patissier. If only to hear and understand Joe muttering in anything but English against his lips. “It’s a horrible language.”

“Where’s your bedroom?” Is Joe’s discordant but completely suitable response.

Nicky shifted, pulling Joe by the strings of his apron towards the room. This time it’s Nicky walking backward and Joe following but there’s no cake between them and Nicky desperately wished there were no clothes either.

They manage to lose the aprons and Nicky’s shirt on the way to the bedroom. Uncaring that Joe’s pants might still be a little damp from the downpour earlier, Nicky twisted him around and pushed him onto the bed.

Nicky, endlessly patient Nicky, who could wait hours for the perfect rise or pipe intricate flowers for days, finds himself desperate to get Joe in him, somehow somewhere. He hadn’t thought that passionate sex was on the to-list for his long Friday and hadn’t done the prep necessary. He finds he can’t wait for it to happen now. Instead he dropped to his knees between Joe’s legs.

Joe’s response is something between a whimper and a groan. The wet jeans must’ve been annoying to stay in but that’s okay because Nicky is going to help him out of them, unbuttoning them and unzipping them like they personally insulted Nicky’s ganache. Joe’s contribution is to pull off his shirt and of course Nicky gets distracted by that arrowing groove. His lips fastened to Joe’s right groove, as Nicky’s hand held down his left hip.

It didn’t work, Joe was still able to buck ever so slightly, his hardness brushing against where Nicky’s sternum met clavicle. It’s not the kind of throat fucking that Nicky intended, but he could roll with it as long as he got to taste the salt on Joe’s skin.

“Nicky, Nicky,” Joe said his name like a benediction, and Nicky is more than happy to be blessed. “Please, don’t torture me.”

Torture seemed on brand for how they were just hours before, but Nicky is in a kind mood, and Joe had said such nice things about Nicky’s pastries. He rocked back on his haunches, and finished tugging off the damp jeans, flicking them towards his own laundry basket so they wouldn’t get moldy in a pile on his floor. Joe hooked his thumb into his sinfully tight boxer briefs, lowering them for Nicky, which Nicky was okay with only because that means he doesn’t have to hesitate before wrapping his hand around Joe’s hardness.

Joe is thick, in a way that makes Nicky more eager to bottom than he usually would be, and long in a way that will put Nicky’s throat to work in a way he hasn’t bothered since college.

Nicky stroked him once, and then twice, wishing he’d bothered to buy any lube recently so that he could do more than just this. But they have all the time in the world and he’s not going to let Joe get away now.

“You don’t have to-” Nicky cut off Joe’s chivalry by wrapping his mouth around the tip of him, getting the weight of him on his tongue. Chasing away the hints of alcohol flavored cream that had been there and replacing it with something more delectable than Nicky’s ever had in his long and illustrious career. Joe moaned and threw back his head like he’s the one having all the fun. The sound arrowed straight to Nicky’s gut, and he’ll do anything to hear it again.

Although it’s been awhile, it’s more like riding a bicycle. He took in as much of Joe as he could manage, his hand making up the difference as his other still held Joe’s hip down. Nicky bobbed his head, making his tongue work for it as Joe’s stream of words switched to something Nicky didn’t recognize at all and found incredibly hot.

He’s hard himself, but he keeps the khakis on, too distracted with the feel of Joe’s soft skin under his hands to take care of himself. He’s not even whipping out his best techniques - if Joe wasn’t moaning so much he’d be embarrassed.

A millenia passes, or maybe just a few minutes before Nicky pulled his mouth off Joe, more to give his jaw a break than anything else, but also the desire to pass along some thoughts.

“I thought about this the first time I saw you,” he informed Joe as levelly as he could.

Joe was propped up on his elbows, gasping breaths rippling muscles between them, Nicky wanted to kiss him all over. “Yeah?” Joe asked, when he could regain his breath.

“Yeah, when you were yelling at me, I wondered if I sucked you off you’d shut up,” Nicky punctuated the statement with another lick, always one for showmanship and presentation, “or if I put my cock in your mouth-”

Joe dropped back, his hands going to his head, covering his eyes “you’re killing me Nicky!”

Nicky chuckled, stroking Joe a couple more times. Surely it wouldn’t be embarrassing if they both came incredibly quickly.

“Not yet I’m not,” Nicky said, and figured now was as good of a time as any to deepthroat Joe. Joe sat back up, his hands going to Nicky’s hair and brushing it back, as if that would help him see beyond his own chest.

“Holy fuck,” Joe said, switching to Italian in what Nicky assumed was a targeted attack against his sensibilites.

It worked, he moaned around Joe’s cock, and Joe, the utter bastard and evil man that he was, wrapped his hand around Nicky’s chin. Not to choke or cut off his currently limited airways, but feel himself inside Nicky.

Nicky’s cock jumped in his pants, desperate for relief. Maybe he could fuck Joe. Maybe that would be a shame against his house because surely if he got inside Joe now only his cockhead could make it before he was coming.

Instead he redoubled his focus on Joe, the taste of him, the weight of him, the size of him, pulling off ever so slightly to let Joe know exactly what he thought of him, how beautiful Nicky thought he was, annoyingly smart, endlessly good and kind, and of course - how great his dick was.

“Come for me,” Nicky finally demanded, his hand curled around Joe’s cock with a trail of spit connecting them, and then decided to add how amazingly good at following directions to the list when Joe tagged him on his cheek, dripping down his throat and on his chest.

Nicky had never seen anything more beautiful than Joe coming apart in his bed.

Once Joe was doing nothing more than gasping breaths Nicky stood up, turning to go to the bathroom and grab a washcloth, before Joe grabbed his wrist and tugged him down onto the bed. Joe’s semen managed to smear against his chest instead of Nicky’s sheets.

Nicky is quickly finding that he could kiss Joe forever, and beginning to set up detailed categories for all of them. These ones are possessive and rapturous in a way that made Nicky smile against Joe’s lips.

Joe moved them so he could be between Nicky’s knees. He refused to let Nicky up to take off the shorts while calling them abominable which surprised a laughter out of Nicky. Nicky had never laughed in the middle of sex before, and he was finding he quite liked it.

“They’re perfectly fine for working,” Nicky pointed out as Joe used Nicky’s boxers to clean up the mess on their chests.

“You’ve worn sexier pants before,” Joe pointed out before doing his level best to swallow Nicky’s dick whole. Joe’s hair is better than Nicky’s when it comes to providing handholds, and Nicky does his level best not to tear out Joe’s hair.

“I’m not going to last long,” Nicky managed to say, as Joe pulled back to lick him from root to tip, before pressing a relatively innocent kiss to the vein on the underside, “you’re too hot.”

“Good, I’m hungry for you,” which Nicky should’ve found corny, but he found unforgivably sexy.

It’s not long before he’s spilling down Joe’s throat, screaming Joe’s name and saying far more in Italian then he could manage in Arabic.

When he comes to, he's looking at his ceiling in a way he’s never done before, wondering if it always looked so beautiful.

The wet slap of fabric against his chest had him sitting up, “this is my job, I’m the host,” Nicky said, taking the washcloth Joe had tossed him and wiping it against his chest.

“You seemed a little out of it,” Joe said, definitely smirking but not bothering to put his pants back on. He looked a bit like a particularly sexy temptation personalized for Nicky’s sensibilities only.

“Come here,” he said instead of denying the truth. Joe smiled and crawled up the bed to him. He cleaned them best as Nicky could without stopping the press of kisses against Joe’s grinning lips. Joe seemed more than okay with letting Nicky pull him down. If they were both younger men, they might have tried to go again, but they’ve reached a suitable stopping point. For the night anyways. As soon as the washcloth is thrown in the general direction of the laundry basket, they both drift off to sleep. Joe curved around Nicky’s back, and Nicky feeling warmer and safer than he had in years.

The loud crash of rock music coming from entirely too close had Nicky lurching upright in his bed, ready to throw a shoe at whatever asshole -

“Sorry, sorry,” Joe’s hands smoothed down Nicky’s side, before reaching over him to grab his phone off the floor, “I’m a heavy sleeper my alarms are loud.”

“What time is it?” Nicky asked, the shock leaving him drained as he sunk against his pillow, Joe climbed over him to stand on the ruins of Nicky’s outfit. He rubbed an eye and tried his best to look up at Joe without opening them too much.

“Early, normally I have to commute,” Joe stood there for a second, looking around the room for his clothes.

“Get back into bed then,” Nicky said, managing to close one eye and keep only one open. Just because Joe looked beautiful fucked out and sleepy.

“I should go home and shower, get a change of clothes…” Joe trailed off and Nicky’s brain let him know there was something he should be saying but he didn’t know what.

“I got pants that would fit you. Come back,” Nicky would’ve lifted an arm, but he’s having trouble keeping slightly upright. Instead he smacked some of the sleep out of his throat, tasting the remnants of Joe around what ultimately was nap-breath.

“You want me to?” Joe asked, sounding a little shocked.

Nicky leaned back, realizing that they were having two different conversations. Joe was giving him an out, letting him know that if you regret this we’ll say no more.

Now that he knows what they’re talking about, he can shift a little upright, give Joe as good of a smile as he can handle this early, “I’m not a one night kind of guy, Joe.”

For a split second he wondered if he misunderstood - which given the time, wouldn’t be crazy. If maybe Joe was regretting it and sneaking away as best as he could.

But then Joe smiled. One of his earnest smiles that Nicky hadn’t seen directed at him until the night before (with the exception of the earnest smile he’d given right before punching Nicky in a karaoke club.)

“Me neither,” he said, crawling back into the bed. Nicky flopped on his back and waited for Joe to rest his head on Nicky’s other pillow.

The kiss Nicky gave him aimed for reassuring, but was probably mostly sleep lazy. Joe didn't seem to mind as he settled into the bed next to him.

The next time Joe’s alarm went off Nicky gave up on sleep and decided to tempt Joe into the shower instead.

“Why was there babà everywhere when I came in this morning?” Nile asked, sliding into the passenger side of the delivery van.

Nicky stopped looking at the trail of hickeys on his neck in the rearview mirror and pulled down his shades, hoping they at least partially hid his blush. “Don’t worry about it.”