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One
Nicolo should really have known better than to creep up in the dark and wake a man who, little more than a month ago, had actively tried to kill him several times. That got him a knife through the jugular. In his defense, he really did have to wake Yusuf, what with brigands making their way into the cave the both of them had holed up for the night. Later, Yusuf would tell him through halting words in various languages, pictures drawn in the sand, and lighthearted chuckles that, after he had killed Nicolo, he had all of three seconds to regret it before he himself had been skewered. Then, as he lay dying, he had regretted it even more as he understood why Nicolo had crept up on him.
After they had revived and dispatched the brigands, Nicolo decided to teach Yusuf more phrases in his language, first and foremost being ‘ wake up’ . Goodness knows there will be times when they will have to wake each other up quickly to flee from danger and Nicolo refused to have a repeat of the cave incident. Choking on one’s blood was—as far as his list went—a nasty way to die, second only to suffocation.
Yusuf, Nicolo could tell, had a knack for languages. It must be because he was a merchant. The more people he could ply his wares to, the greater the profit. In the days they had spent together, Yusuf had shown his familiarity with Greek, Latin, and English, though he only knew enough to do commerce. Still, he had begun to speak a little in Nicolo’s language. Gaps in his vocabulary were supplied by the languages he knew and drawings on the ground.
This time, a mime and a few verbal repetitions saw Yusuf speaking the phrase smoothly. Remarkably, Yusuf also seemed to understand immediately the intent behind the lesson. It was not just simply “ wake up” . It was--
It's me. Don't hurt me. Danger abounds. We must flee. Wake up! Wake up before they find us!
Yusuf tested the phrase again. In the silence that followed, it seemed the tenuous peace between them grew stronger. Nicolo nodded and smiled in approval.
Two
He has been with Yusuf for half a century now.
In that time, Nicolo has noticed that he is almost always the first to rise. He supposed it was a habit he carried over from his childhood on a farm and then his priesthood when they were obliged to recite the Liturgia Horarum daily, beginning at two in the morning. He supposed also that it brings a sort of balance to his--relationship? Friendship?--with Yusuf, the latter almost always being the last to sleep. And Nicolo has become acutely aware of why Yusuf chooses to fall asleep last.
In faraway lands, the Second Crusade rages on. Kings and other powers that be continued the call to arms for the deliverance of the oriental church. All that bloodshed and lost lives. All for the glory of one whose gospels speak of love.
Nicolo fears for Yusuf. He knows he cannot die. But he also knows that all the things that set Yusuf apart are made more apparent because he travels beside Nicolo. He has seen the glances, the condemning stares thrown at his--partner? Friend? There are fewer and fewer safe places for Yusuf. They have kept well away from cities, towns, and caravan routes the soldiers use, anywhere that will not welcome Yusuf. It does not show on his face but Nicolo knows that Yusuf is relieved by this, that he can travel without guarding his back. But when they prepare for bed, Yusuf’s watchfulness returns and he will insist on taking the first watch.
Also, there have been encounters.
Nicolo had once spent a frantic evening looking for Yusuf. He had found him, unarmed, being beaten by men who had wanted to punish an infidel for the defeat of the Christian army. Nicolo had seen red then. None of the men lived past that night. When they had returned to the abandoned farmhouse, he had tried to coax Yusuf to sleep but the latter refused, opting to sit by their meager fire, uncharacteristically quiet and watchful.
“But you must sleep.”
Yusuf had smiled wanly. “Later, when I know it is safe,” he had murmured.
Many times, Nicolo has tried to stay up with him, keep him company through his watch. Invariably, he is first to sleep. But he is also first to rise. And in those early mornings, he guards Yusuf, making sure nothing disturbs his sleep. In this peaceful state, Nicolo finds that Yusuf is beautiful.
Yusuf has always been beautiful, more so when the world does not weigh heavily on him.
Nicolo finds that he constantly thinks he would do anything for a world in which Yusuf can live carefree and happy. He thinks it is unfair that Yusuf has to live through thinly veiled hostility, if not outright hatred. In the years they have spent together, Nicolo has learnt that there are more things they have in common than that which sets them apart. And of the latter, many are not of much importance in the face of eternity.
And maybe that is it. No one in this age will take time to learn more about the world around them, not when they have fields to plow and mouths to feed, not when war, famine and rising taxes are constant threats. Why stop a moment to think about whether your enemy has a family he is fighting for or whether your cause to go to war is just when, in that precious moment, your life may be ended?
But he and Yusuf, undying as they are, only they have the luxury to learn more about each other. Only they can take the time to do so. And he has learned so much about the man sleeping quietly beside him, and so much more about himself also.
Have I come to love him? Nicolo thinks. What is this I feel for him and him alone?
The answer does not come easily. Yet, no matter what, Nicolo has always ever guarded Yusuf, even in their sleep.
Three
The story about Lykon’s passing was not taken well.
“Excuse me.” Yusuf said, curt and gruff, the tail end of the phrase barely heard as he left the table. In his haste, his foot knocked against the table, causing a cup to tumble off the edge and spill wine on their new acquaintances.
Nicolo followed him with his gaze, tamping down the urge to run after Yusuf. What had once been an unshakeable truth—that they would live forever—was now revealed to be an illusion. It was understandable that Yusuf would be so affected by the news. Nicolo himself was barely holding himself together.
He turned back to the two women with a sheepish smile. “I apologize for that.”
One of them, the one with hair as black as tar—Quynh, that was her name—shook her head, “There is nothing to apologize for. It is not the most pleasant thing to hear, not for us who have lived so long.” She glanced at the woman beside her.
Nicolo knew what that look meant. He had seen Yusuf look at him the same way. He probably had looked at Yusuf that way too. In that brief moment, the women had given him an inkling about their past and what they meant to each other.
“You have other questions,” said the other woman, Andromache, her voice low, almost like the purring of a large cat.
“I do, though I suspect neither of you know the answers. Besides,” Nicolo mused as he stood up, “You have already told us what is important.”
Quynh raised a brow. Andromache nodded in understanding.
Nicolo drained his cup. The wine was sweet. His fingers shook slightly. “I have been thinking a lot about this, the why and why not, the how, all the possible reasons. But,” he looked at Quynh, then at Andromache, “I think we already know what matters, who matters. Everything else is surplus.”
With that, he excused himself to look for Yusuf.
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He found him far outside the walls of the Akhan caravanserai, standing in a field of wildflowers. There was a chill this Spring night but even in his thin clothes, Yusuf did not shift nor shiver. Above him, the clear sky was strewn with stars like precious stones sewn on velvet.
Almost two hundred years they had been together, first as enemies, then moving from tentative friends to lovers.
Nicolo stopped and stared at Yusuf’s figure, thinking how even in little light Yusuf stood out, a figure of strength bathed in moonlight and the soft twinkling of the stars. His presence had been noticed then and Yusuf made his way to him.
No, that was not quite right, Nicolo thought. Lovers didn’t neatly sum up what they now meant to each other. Yes, they had shared their beds and had given their hearts to each other but to describe them as such seemed quaint, almost shallow. Perhaps in another language, one he did not know, there was a word that could describe the breadth of his affection for this man, the height of his joy when he could make Yusuf laugh without care, the depth of his newly found fear that they may be inexorably and eternally separated by death.
“Beloved, are you well?”
He leaned into Yusuf’s hand that had cupped his cheek. Despite the cool breeze, his hand was warm. He reached up and clasped it tightly as if to remind himself that Yusuf still lived.
" Close your heart to every love but mine," Nicolo whispered in Yusuf’s mother tongue, " Hold no one in your arms but me. For passion is more powerful than death. Love is stronger than death itself."
"Oh, Nicolo," Yusuf pulled him into his embrace, "Oh, my heart."
He tucked his face in the juncture of Yusuf’s neck and shoulder, breathing deeply the scent of home and safety. Two hundred years but they had only really been together for a little more than half that time. That was two lifetimes right there. But what a waste of time! All those days Nicolo wrestled with his conscience, the ingrained dogma grappling with his heart. All those moments he could have better spent truly loving Yusuf and allowing himself to be loved in return.
"I will not leave you,” Nicolo swore in a low but vehement voice, “Not while I still breath, not even when I do not.”
Yusuf pulled away, just enough so he could look Nicolo in the eye. His gaze was gentle, the corner of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “ Ah,” Yusuf replied, “Make the most of what we yet may spend before we too into the dust descend .”
So saying, Yusuf kissed him. His lips were dry and cracked from their travels. Yet Nicolo did not pull away. In another lifetime, the very thought of kissing a man would have offended him. Not here, not now with Yusuf. He responded in kind, his hands moving to hold Yusuf closer to him. At the back of his mind, he was aware that they were out in the open, that anyone on the walls of the caravanserai would see them. He found that he did not care.
Let them see! Let the world know that he, Nicolo di Genova, at this moment, with the stars and moon as his witnesses, pledged his troth to this man, Yusuf Al-Kaysani who would hold him body, heart, and soul for all eternity.
Yusuf broke the kiss only to plant quick ones to his forehead, each of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, on each cheek, the corners of his lips.
“ Ah, Love! Could you and I with fate conspire to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire. Would not we shatter it to bits and then re-mold it nearer to the heart's desire! ” Yusuf threaded his fingers through Nicolo’s hair. “Come what may, I believe we will leave this life as we were reborn in it, beloved. You will not be alone. Ever .” And then, he kissed him again.
From the top of the walls of the caravanserai, two women stood side by side, holding each other’s hand as they looked out at the field of wildflowers, the sea of stars, and the two figures lost in each other’s embrace.
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“Come, Nicolo. Yusuf will wake.”
“I am not leaving him.”
“He will be all right!”
“We don’t know that!” Nicolo all but shouts. In a softer voice, he adds, “I need to be here. I need to be with him.”
Quynh stares at him, an unnameable emotion flashing across her eyes.
“Do not worry for us,” he tells her. “Go to Andromache. We will follow.”
She takes one last look at him, at the bloody gaping hole in Yusuf caused by the bolt of a springald going in and then being pulled out. Nicolo nods and gestures for her to go. She squeezes his shoulder as she leaves.
Alone, Nicolo breathes in deeply, trying to control his emotions. He can still feel the scream that was ripped out of him when the bolt had gone through Yusuf. The latter had stumbled backwards, his foot slipping against the edge of the wallwalk. Nicolo watched in horror as their fingers brushed against each other, no purchase to be found as Yusuf fell. Nicolo had jumped off the ramparts in his haste. He had paid for that stunt with a broken shin bone and twisted ankle but that did not stop him crawling to Yusuf. His Yusuf, who lay with blood pooling behind his head and abdomen. Quynh had come up behind him and had helped to pull out the bolt. Since then, Yusuf had lain dead and Nicolo had wondered if this was the occasion he would have to bury him. The thought is a heavy weight on his heart.
Suddenly, he hears a welcomed gasp for breath. He sees Yusuf’s grimace. He smiles, leaning down to press his lips against Yusuf’s forehead.
“Welcome back to the living, my love.” He jokes though his voice shakes with his relief.
Yusuf laughs, only it comes out as pained coughs. “How can you tease a wounded man?” he groans.
Nicolo chuckles as he peppers Yusuf’s face with kisses. Unconsciously, he had placed his hand on Yusuf’s abdomen, right next to the grisly wound. He can feel the warmth of Yusuf’s body healing itself. He does not move his hand until he can feel smooth unblemished skin. Only then does he shift to stand up, holding his hand out to Yusuf.
“Come! We must go or else Andromache will again complain that we are too absorbed with each other.”
At this, Yusuf takes his hand and stands up, laughing out loud as he did so, the joyful sound a counterpoint to the ongoing clangor of battle.
Nicolo’s heart soars.
Four
They have been together for nearly a millennium. In this era, they are now Nicky and Joe.
They have lost count of the days, of the sunsets and sunrises they have watched together. But even without keeping count, they have treasured each moment as if it were their first, as if it were going to be their last. There have been countless mornings spent waking each other up slowly, passionately. They have learned all the ways of loving each other, and yet each day surprises them with new possibilities.
“Wake up, my love.”
Joe groans and turns onto his front, “Five more minutes.”
“That’s not going to happen. Come on, wake up.”
Joe opens an eye and sees Nicky leaning over him, a smile lighting up his face. “Must I? No brigands here.”
“No, but there is breakfast and a surprise waiting for you.”
“A surprise?” Joe sits up quickly, “Will you finally let me read all those dirty poems you’ve written about me?”
Nicky rolls his eyes, “For the last time, Joe, I’ve written no such thing.”
“Oh? Then, what did I read in that—”
Nicky swoops in and quiets him with a kiss. So, yes, maybe he had dabbled in poetry here and there, most especially during the Renaissance. They had lived in Florence, for goodness sake! Who wouldn’t be inspired to wax poetic in the midst of the flourishing arts? And yes, a great deal of his poems featured or referred to Joe but they were elegant love poems. All right, maybe there were a few ribald ones but they were refined and tastefully done, if he said so himself.
To further distract Joe, Nicky curls his hand around his name. Gently, he threads his fingers through the dark curls. He knows Joe loves it when he does. At once, Joe moans and presses himself closer to Nicky. He moves so that his legs now bracket Nicky's hip.
Last night had started balmy, then moved on to be hot and humid, following a thunderstorm. They had slept without their shirts. Now, this close, they can feel the thundering of their hearts and the heat of their bodies. They are both definitely liking where this was going.
Truth be told, all this business with the smutty poetry had begun as an outlet for Nicky’s overwhelming and overflowing desire for Joe. By that time, they had had each other in all the ways they knew. Still, Nicky was insatiable. He wanted. Again and again. There had been times, after a night of passion, Nicky had stayed awake, contemplating the source of this longing and if it would ever fade. Only time would tell, he had supposed, but he couldn’t imagine a day when he didn’t yearn for the man beside him, limned in moonlight and loved so dearly.
He had long since learned to voice his desire, thanks to Joe’s patience and understanding. He still turned to poetry when the mood struck but they were put away and then forgotten.
(Honestly, though, his poetry, whatever its kind, is really bad. That he actually took time to put them to paper embarrasses him to no end. The thought of Joe reading them is, after all this time, utterly mortifying.)
Nicky slants his mouth over Joe’s, tilting his head for a better angle. Joe’s tongue slips into his mouth and Nicky knows, just knows, they’re not leaving the bed any time soon. Joe pulls him along as he lays back down. WIth one hand still cradling Joe’s head, Nicky tries to keep his balance with the other. He fails spectacularly, but even as he ungracefully falls on Joe, they do not break apart. He feels Joe’s laughter against his lips, which he tries to smother by tugging Joe’s hair.
Nicky feels Joe’s hands wandering over his body. One hand clutches at his shoulder to keep him in place; the fingertips of the other are grazing up and down his spine. When Joe arches, Nicky becomes aware that there are still layers of clothes between them. As if Joe had read his mind, he quickly shucks off his pajama bottoms and underwear. With a bit of maneuvering and still without breaking their kiss, they get Nicky fully naked too, and oh! The heat of their connection sizzles through their veins.
Joe pulls away. "What about breakfast?" He asks breathlessly.
"It can wait." Nicky mutters, then bites his shoulder for good measure.
The sudden pain sends a bolt of pleasure through Joe, drawing a moan out of him. Nicky coaxes more as he kisses a trail from behind Joe’s ear, down and down, stopping to tease each nipple, downward still until he reaches the juncture of his hip and thigh. He noses at the skin there, biting gently here and there. Joe has his fingers in Nicky’s hair, threading through it and drawing lazy circles on his scalp. At some point, he tugs and Nicky gets the message. He stops his kisses just long enough to get the lube from the night stand. He pours some on his fingers and starts to prepare Joe.
“ Si, si, cuore mio. ”
He watches Joe slowly lose himself with pleasure, how he arches and then bears down on Nicky’s fingers, how he has moved to grip Nicky’s arms. The bruises won’t last but Nicky revels in the thought that, for a few very real moments, Joe had left a mark on him. He shuffles forward and slowly pushes in.
This. This is the sweetest torture.
Even after centuries, Nicky has to steel himself from coming undone all at once. So much stimuli is making his senses go haywire. There’s too much and yet he wants so much more. At times, he feels so overwhelmed that all he can do is give and give and give. And Joe, bless him, holds him tight through the cresting waves of desire.
He collapses on half on the bed and half on top of Joe, sated and feeling loved. Joe is whispering soft nothings against his hair, calling him darling and love in all the languages he knew. Nicky snakes his arms around Joe and pulls him closer, their legs tangling.
After a few beats of silence, Joe nudges him with his foot, “So, breakfast? Also, I remember a surprise?”
Nicolo only burrows closer. “Five more minutes, Joe.”
Outside, the sunrise over Malta colors their garden in golden warmth.
(The surprise turns out to be matching rings made from the weapons they had carried away from the battlefield on which they had first met so long ago. Joe remembers that, days after, during their tenuous ceasefire, they had had a heated argument and they had again drawn swords and fought each other relentlessly until their blades were nicked and chipped.
That had been the last time they had actively tried to kill each other.
Still, they had continued using those same weapons until Joe had insisted that they had new ones forged. He didn’t know that Nicky had kept those swords as souvenirs, let alone had rings made out of them.
Nicky won’t tell him how long he had been keeping the rings or why he decided to give them now.
“You incorrigible romantic.” Joe whispers before kissing Nicky deeply.
They end up foregoing breakfast altogether.)
Five
It was like the rerun of a very bad movie Nicky wanted to forget.
They had come under fire almost as soon as they had rounded the corner. Warfare had come a long way and humanity had found more inventive ways of killing at close range. While weapons underwent design changes, their mechanics mostly stayed the same. Anything that resembled a gun still mostly worked like a gun would. Which meant that, at some point, their enemies would run out of ballistics and would need to reload.
In the silence that followed the spray of gunfire, he and Joe had ducked out of their cover and had commenced to clear the corridor. To anyone looking, it seemed like they were engaged in a dance, a deadly one involving bullets and swords. They were aware of their enemies and of each other. Even without looking, Joe knew when to duck to get out of Nicky’s line of fire; Nicky knew to stop the arc of his sword because he sensed Joe was nearby.
A distinctly loud bang caught Nicky’s attention. He whirled just in time to see Joe pull his scimitar out of his opponent. Then he stumbled backward until he hit the wall, grunting in pain. Nicky was by his side in seconds, helping him sit. The bloodstain behind Joe was stark against white paint.
“Fuck,” Joe groaned, “I think they got me, Nicky.
“You’ll be okay soon.” Nicky assured him.
Something flashed in Joe’s eyes. His gaze softened as he took Nicky’s hand. “No, my love. I don’t think I will.”
Nicky stilled.
That. That wasn’t something he wanted to hear. Not yet. Yes, he had always known that there would be an end for them. But he had hoped everyday that not even death could part them and this hope had carried him through the years. It couldn’t be, not this way. They couldn’t be separated at the end.
He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Hastily, Nicky peeled off the body armor and lifted Joe’s shirt to get a better look. He was bleeding from multiple places, and he was right. The wounds were not closing. Nicky pressed his forehead against Joe’s shoulder. As he took shuddering breaths, forcing himself to calm down, he felt Joe thread his fingers through his hair then kiss his temple. He felt Joe’s grip on his hand tighten.
Slowly, Nicky raised his head. Joe was still looking at him so gently as if he wanted to soften the blow. He raised the hand that wasn’t holding Joe’s but stopped when he felt a sharp burning pain in his arm. He blinked. Nicky looked at his upper arm, at the scrapes and a long horizontal gash where a bullet had nicked him. His lips twitched when the wounds did not heal. He also became aware of a dull pain in his chest that throbbed with every breath. Was something lodged there? Beside him, Joe eyed his wounds, then huffed out in relief.
“I thought I was going to leave you.” He whispered.
“Oh ye of little faith.” Nicky said, though he didn’t know if he was referring to Joe or himself. He scooted closer and laid his head on Joe’s shoulder, “I won our bet though.”
“Which bet?”
“The one we made that time in Malta.” Nicky explained, “You said I’d be the death of you and I--”
“You said ‘I bet you’d die happy.’” Joe finished through a breathless chuckle. “What was the prize again?”
When Nicky grinned, all teeth and naughty promise, Joe snorted though it came out more like a sound of pain. "You shameless flirt," he said.
“I learned from the best.”
They sat shoulder to shoulder for several silent moments. In another part of the building, they knew the others were rescuing the hostages. They’d been assigned to clear and guard the exit. Nicky sighed. They wouldn’t get here in time. What a shame. He would have wanted to see them one last time.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Joe suddenly murmured.
Nicky turned to him and his answer was immediate. “The best.”
“I’m so sleepy, you know?”
He patted Joe’s cheek, “It’s okay. I’ll be right here.”
Joe shifted so he could rest his cheek against Nicky’s head. Nicky looked at the far end of the corridor, his gun still in his hand. He didn’t know how many bullets he still had. Maybe it didn’t matter. Joe still had his pistol in its holster. He’d use that if he needed to. Right now, the most important thing was to guard the exit. He would wait. He would hold out longer. No one that wasn’t welcomed would make it past them.
Nicky looked at his wounds that were still bleeding. He glanced at Joe. The stain on his shirt had grown bigger and his breathing had become shallow. He could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest. Not long then. He tamped down the urge to cry. As he did, a sharp pain lanced through his chest. With every breath thereafter, it felt like a skewer was twisting through his heart. Not long then for him as well. All the better.
Moments later, he heard the shuffling of feet and the thudding of boots. Someone, maybe Nile, was urging people to stay together and move quickly. With a groan, Nicky sat up straighter, gently moving Joe so his head lay on Nicky’s shoulder.
“ Amore mio .” He nosed at Joe’s beloved curls. “ Destati .”
There was no reply.
Just then, Nile and Booker appeared, the hostages clustered closely behind them. Quynh and Andy rounded the corner then only to stop short.
Nicky smiled at them, laid his head against Joe’s, and went to sleep.
-Fin-