Chapter Text
Booker is alone for 14 long years.
He takes the time to travel the world, to visit all the little nooks and crannies and niches he's never had a chance to explore. He finds himself settling in Mafia, off the coast of Tanzania. He finds work with the local marine park. He finds that he quite enjoys sharks, with their easy calm and gentle strength. The days are filled with seawater and diving and wildlife and an aching, deep loneliness that never fades, no matter how many people Booker falls into bed with.
It’s a warm July day when Booker comes home to find Joe sitting on the stairs leading to his front door.
Booker feels like he could sob. Joe looks the same as ever, casually gorgeous, effortlessly breathtaking, beautifully sloe-eyed. His eyes crinkle when he smiles up at Booker, and the creases of his crow’s feet feel like a home Booker has never let himself have. His curls blow gently in the breeze, occasionally falling into his eyes. His shirt billows away from his torso when he stands, arms outstretched.
Booker falls into his arms and it’s so easy, so effortless to be embraced by Joe, despite everything in Booker telling him he shouldn’t have this, shouldn’t want this. He does, though, with every fiber of his being, with every atom that makes him up. Joe’s arms are solid, warm, and real; after over a decade of dreaming about this, it feels like salvation.
“There you are, aleaziz. I’ve missed you.” Joe says into the crook of Booker’s shoulder, breath warm and beard soft. Booker sinks into the warmth of him, inhaling the smell of cloves and oil paint.
“How did you find me?” Booker asks, trying to avoid clinging to the older man. He fails, miserably, as he tightens his arms around Joe and relishes the solidity of him. It’s not like he’d been trying to hide where he was, but there’s a not-insignificant part of him that doubts the others care enough to look for him in his absence.
Joe smiles and says, “We have our ways,” as he gently pulls away. He holds Booker at arm's length and squeezes his shoulders with strong hands, looking him up and down appraisingly. “You look good.” He says, and it feels like ash on Booker’s tongue. He knows it’s not true. He’s worn thin and world-weary, lonely and sad down to his bones. Isolation has not been kind to him.
“You look…” Booker trails off, unable to find the words he needs. Joe looks perfect, like always, like salvation and forgiveness in human form. He settles for smiling hopelessly at Joe, hoping that gets his point across.
“Thank you, aleaziz.” Joe returns the smile, and Booker’s heart flips in his chest like a fish out of water. “I have a favor to ask of you, if you don’t mind.” He continues, dropping his hands from Booker’s shoulders. His tone is convivial, light as the breeze gently swirling around them. The scent of ocean water tickles Booker’s nose.
“Anything.” Booker breathes without thinking, but he finds he means it wholeheartedly. Joe smiles at him again and laughs gently, like windchimes on the breeze.
“Come with me to Malta. Nicky and I have missed you so. Let us apologize for whatever missteps we’ve made.” Joe says, grabbing Booker’s hands within his. There’s an urgency in his voice, like he’ll die if he doesn’t get an answer, the answer he wants.
Booker’s heart leaps into his throat. “Anything.” He says again, mouth dry with the intensity of Joe’s desire. “Anything for you.”
Booker doesn’t have many affairs to wrap up. He tenders his resignation with the marine park and packs his meager belongings and then he’s off, ready to follow Joe to the ends of the Earth just because he asked. The flight to Malta is nearly a day long, but even something like Booker’s disdain for flying can’t keep him from feeling giddy, like a little kid on Christmas.
Booker has been to Joe and Nicky’s house in Malta a few times over the years. It’s a wonderful property, complete with an overflowing garden and private pool. Booker could care less about the amenities, though, would stay in a hovel if it meant being near his companions.
He can see Nicky through the kitchen window, puttering around in a well-worn apron. His hair has grown longer in Booker’s absence, currently tied into a messy bun at the base of his skull. A thin beard hugs his jaw, wiry and light against his sunkissed skin. His breath catches in his throat, just like it did when he first saw Joe.
“Habibi, we’re here!” Joe calls, carrying Booker’s bag behind him. He sets it down in the foyer and turns towards the open kitchen, where Nicky is adding spices to a boiling pot on the stove. Nicky turns to greet Joe with a kiss before he moves past to greet Booker.
“Sebastien!” Nicky’s whole demeanor lights up, his smile growing into a grin as he envelops Booker in a warm, all-encompassing hug. His strong arms hold Booker securely as he gently rocks them side to side, chin hooked over Booker’s shoulder.
“Hello, Nicky.” Booker says back, arms limply hugging back. He feels overwhelmed, having both these men so excited to see him. He thought he ruined everything when he left, thought they’d harbor some kind of hurt or scorn for how abruptly he abandoned them in Reims all those years ago. It still stings, that Valentine’s day in the opera house, but it fades as Nicky gently cards his fingers through the hair at the back of Booker’s head.
“Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself at home, please.” Nicky says as he pulls away. He returns to the kitchen, slapping Joe’s hand away from the pot. Joe smiles at him indulgently and slips by him, a practiced dance between the two of them.
Dinner ends up being stuffat tal-Fenek, and it’s delicious like everything Nicky cooks. The atmosphere is warm and jovial, and Booker finds his apprehension bleeding away under the weight of good food and better company. The aged wine paired with the food fills Booker with a soft warmth, edging away the last of his reservations.
It’s easy to slip into a routine with Joe and Nicky. Booker finds himself working in the garden frequently, happy to have something productive and positive to throw himself into. He helps around the house and with running errands, happy to make himself useful. Nicky cooks every evening, and it’s always delicious. Joe sits at the table and draws the two of them, the landscapes out their window, the mediterranean sea from the bluff by the house.
Booker does his best to ignore his feelings. It’s hard, when he’s so surrounded by Joe and Nicky like this, but he makes a valiant effort. He ignores them when they kiss, ignores the way they seem to orbit around each other when there’s nothing else to do. He sticks to himself when he can, tamping down whatever emotions bubble up like bile in his throat. He’s not going to delude himself; he’s never going to fall out of love with them, not when they’re so easy to love, but he can do his best to move on with his life instead of wallowing in his lost chances.
It all comes to a head in September.
Booker has been out running errands, picking up food for the house and a new sketchbook for Joe. He returns as the sun is beginning to set, the air warm and humid as he walks through the Maltese streets. He unlocks the door and lets himself inside, carefully balancing the bags in his arms. “I’m home!” He calls, setting his bounty down on the kitchen table.
He’s so wrapped up in picking up the groceries that he doesn’t register the lack of response until he’s already done. His brow furrows; he knows Joe and Nicky are home, given the lights on inside. He carefully walks through the house, cursing himself for having stopped carrying a weapon.
He finds them in the den, and his heart stops in his chest.
The first thing he notices, because it’s pretty fucking impossible to miss, is Nicky suspended from the ceiling by beautiful red ropes. His legs are folded at the knee, ankles tied to the backs of his spread thighs. His arms are bound behind him, with ropes winding from wrist to elbow in practiced cuffs. A thick rope is tied around his ponytail, hooked to the ropes suspending him, exposing his throat, the vulnerable arc of which is wrapped with a thick column of ropes. His eyes are closed, his mouth hanging slack as he breathes slowly.
Joe is sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs, feet propped on the footrest. He’s holding a worn book, carefully flipping the well-loved pages as he reads. Candles light the room from the end tables and mantle, casting everything in a warm, homey light. Joe’s wearing a grey henley that Booker knows is softer than sin and fraying sweatpants, feet bare against the warm air. Nicky is naked aside from the ropes adorning his skin.
Booker freezes at the entrance to the den, body forgetting how to move. Joe looks up at the sound of his booted footsteps and smiles warmly at him, carefully marking his page with an old bookmark before setting the book aside. “Welcome home, Booker. How were your errands?” He asks. The unceremonious tone of his voice, completely at odds with the situation, fills Booker’s brain with static.
“They were fine.” He stammers out, torn between staring at Nicky and burning a hole in his boots. He settles on something in between, settling his gaze on Joe’s feet, his ankles crossed delicately. “I’m sorry, I’m intruding. I’ll be in my room.” He manages, shaking his head as if it’ll clear the cobwebs filling the space between his ears. He’s in the middle of tuning when a noise stops him.
It’s from Nicky, a barely there groan of disapproval. He sways precariously in the air, abs twitching as he tries to twist himself to face Booker. “Don’t leave.” He mumbles, words running into each other like molasses. His arms are shifting restlessly in their ties, fingers flexing around nothing.
Booker feels like a deer in headlights, pinned in place by indecision. On one hand, he very clearly does not need to be involved in these proceedings, is very clearly not supposed to be involved. On the other hand, he’s helpless in the face of Nicky’s request, of Joe’s easy conversationalism. His hands twitch restlessly at his sides as he contemplates what to do.
Eventually, his resolve crumbles, and he follows Joe’s easy offer to sit in the armchair next to him. He crosses his legs in hopes of fighting his erection, but he knows it’s a lost cause with Nicky hanging there like a piece of art. He sits there quietly, hoping to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. He resolves himself to remain an onlooker, as far from a participant as possible.
After a moment, Joe rises from his seat and stalks quietly over to Nicky. He places a hand on the Italian’s flank, chuckling under his breath as Nicky flinches towards the touch. He pushes, ever so softly, causing Nicky to swing in the air gently. Nicky makes a noise in the back of his throat, startled like a baby bird pushed from the nest for the first time.
“You’re so beautiful, mio caro. Look at you.” Joe murmurs, stilling Nicky’s gentle swaying. He places his hands along the sides of Nicky’s neck, tracing the ropes crossing from pulse point to pulse point. He kisses his husband, mouth gentle but insistent, slow strokes of his tongue as he rubs the ropes with his thumbs. When he pulls away, Nicky strains his neck to try and follow, wounded noises falling from his lips. Joe laughs, not unkindly, and promises to return as he takes a step away, leaving Nicky unmoored.
Joe circles Nicky, appraising him with sharpened eyes, not unlike the way he views a target before he goes in for the kill. He grabs a rope hanging from the ceiling and carefully gives it slack, lowering Nicky’s body until he’s level with Joe’s crotch. He shoves his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, cock already hanging hard and heavy. Nicky’s eyes dilating is visible even from Booker’s vantage point, as is the way his mouth floods with saliva.
Booker doesn’t blame him. Joe’s cock is a thing of beauty, thick and uncut, surrounded by dark curls at the base. He finds himself salivating, too, thinking what he wouldn’t give to lick the taste of sweat from Joe’s most intimate skin.
Nicky’s mouth hangs open, tongue peeking out between bitten red lips. He strains forwards, trying his best to get Joe’s cock in his mouth on his own. He can’t quite reach, and the desperate sound he makes rattles in Booker’s chest. Joe chuckles, low and rough, as he grabs the rope tied to Nicky’s hair. He uses it to pull him closer, his other hand steadying his cock to feed into Nicky’s mouth.
Joe groans, deep in his chest, as his cock sinks into Nicky’s mouth. He uses the rope to swing Nicky back and forth in time with his thrusts. Nicky’s throat makes gurgling noises as Joe pushes in, neck bent too far to allow him to fit in all the way. Booker squirms in his seat, giving up on the idea of restraining his arousal.
“That’s it, Nicolo, just like that.” Joe sighs, gentle voice a juxtaposition to the brutal pace of his hips. Saliva drips from Nicky’s mouth, down his chin, to stain Joe’s skin and soak his pubic hair. Joe traces his fingers around the seal of Nicky’s lips, pressing against the reddened skin to watch it flush with blood.
It doesn’t take long before Joe is moaning unabashedly, fucking his hips burtally against Nicky’s face. He pulls out as his moans get higher in pitch, quickly striping his hand across his length. He comes with a deep groan, come spilling across Nicky’s upturned face. It drips down his nose, his cheeks, some gathering on his lips. He licks them clean with a swipe of his tongue, pulling in deep, panting breaths as he acclimates to breathing uninhibited again.
Joe spins Nicky, stopping him once he’s settled between Nicky’s thick thighs. Like this, Booker can see the glass plug holding Nicky open, hole stretched obscenely, dripping with lube. Joe nudges the base of it, gently fucking it into Nicky as he makes a noise akin to a sob. “Are you ready to be my good whore, Nicolo?” Joe asks, gripping the base of the plug. Nicky moans and nods as best he can with his neck strained, fingers clenching around nothing.
Joe pulls on the plug, slowly spreading Nicky’s hole around the widest part of it. He sinks it back in slowly, watching with rapt attention as Nicky’s body swallows it back in. He does this a few times until Nicky is begging, incoherent pleading for Joe to do something already.
Eventually, Joe obliges and pulls out the plug. He sets it aside and grabs a tube of lube, slicking his cock further. He’s already hard again, thanks to their shortened refractory periods. He grips the ropes golding Nicky aloft and thrusts into him, hips vicious in their pace. He doesn’t let Nicky adjust, just starts using him like he’s nothing more than a fucktoy.
“Fuck, aleaziz, you should feel how hot he is inside. My own little furnace.” Joe’s words send a shock of heat through Booker’s core. He’ll never get used to being addressed during these moments. Being brought into the fold, being made into something more than a hapless voyeur, rattles his brain in his skull. He reaches down and squeezes himself through his pants, just trying to take the edge off. It doesn’t work, instead serving to spark his blood until it ignites under his skin.
“Do you see that, hayati? You make Booker hard. You turn him on. I bet you wish he was the one fucking you right now.” Joe hisses at Nicky, accentuating his words with a particularly savage thrust. Nicky moans helplessly and stares at Booker with lidded eyes. The sight of him, mouth open and red, face covered in cooling come, is enough to make Booker nearly come in his pants. He has to pull himself free from his jeans, wrapping a hand around himself to alleviate the burning pressure inside himself.
Booker strokes himself in time with Joe’s thrusts, calluses catching on his delicate skin. What he wouldn’t give to be in Joe’s position, feeling the tight heat of Nicky’s body. He tries to envision it, but he comes up short, lost in the pleasure of his own hand.
He realizes with a shock that Nicky is openly sobbing, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he gasps for breath against the onslaught of Joe’s hips. Booker’s hips jump at the realization, pressing insistently into his grip. Nicky’s cock is drooling precome, hanging heavy underneath him, making a mess of the hardwood floor. Booker wants to be underneath him, licking him clean, adding to his pleasure. The desire strikes through him so hard he comes, cock pulsing in his tightened grip.
“Good job, Nicolo, you made Booker come.” Joe coos, voice nearly condescending in its sweetness. The jab of his hips sends Nicky swinging, unmoored from everything except the ropes and Joe’s bruising hips. Nicky moans, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He’s still staring at Booker, eyes dilated and nearly closed.
Joe comes a few strokes later, hips faltering before stilling against Nicky’s ass. He’s panting from the exertion, chest rising and falling unevenly under his sweaty shirt. He pulls out carelessly and hikes his sweats back up. He grabs a rope and lowers Nicky down to the floor, carefully maneuvering him to avoid dropping him directly onto his front. He begins to undo the rigging, exposing rope marks dug into Nicky’s pale skin. He unties Nicky’s hair, letting his head loll back against his shoulder. His legs come next, Joe carefully rubbing the circulation back into the skin. He keeps Nicky’s arms bound as he wraps a hand around his cock, slowly stroking him. He whispers sweet nothings into Nicky’s ear, barely audible to Booker despite how close he is to them.
Something ugly burrows its way under Booker’s ribcage as he watches them. The come cooling on his hand makes him feel dirty in a way he’s not expecting. He feels wrong, sitting there watching this tender moment. He looks away and tries to ignore the gentle intonation of Joe’s words. They’re not meant for his ears, clearly, and that thought makes his chest ache so hard he can’t breathe.
He doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until he starts crying.
He exits the room swiftly, ignoring the way Nicky groans in protest. He practically runs to his room and locks the door behind him, pressed up against the wood. He gasps for breath he suddenly can’t intake, chest burning for so many reasons. Tears fall from his eyes freely now, deep, hiccuping sobs that hurt in their intensity.
When will he learn? When will he realize that these fleeting moments that Joe and Nicky share with him aren’t worth the pain afterwards? He loves them, he knows, so deeply that it feels etched into his bones, but he knows with the same conviction that they will never love him back. He doesn’t know why they allow him to view these intimate moments; they aren’t cruel enough to do it to hurt him, but he can’t think of any other reason. To mock him? To show him what he’s missing?
Booker knows he’s alone, so thoroughly alone that it feels like broken ribs when he breathes. It’s a bitter, brittle feeling, one that coats his skin like frost in an unforgiving winter. He hasn’t felt so exhaustively alone since his time in the Russian wilderness, skin freezing together, every aching breath visible.
He closes his eyes, tilts his head against the door, and cries for the love he knows he’ll never have.