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It begins the way their story always does – by not ending.
One of the godless, bastard invaders won’t die. Yusuf kills him again and again and again that July, and still, the other man finds a way back. For better or worse, Yusuf finds he can’t die either. It’s a sign. There is no other explanation in his mind. This is Allah telling Yusuf he has to defeat this evil. Yusuf will not be allowed his rest until the final Crusader has been defeated.
Long after the city has fallen, Yusuf knows it’s what he is supposed to do. He and this man are fated to fight forever. One man out of twelve thousand survives, but Yusuf knows the fight for his land and his religion won’t be over as long as Yusuf keeps returning to life, not as long as this other man still stands. The final Crusader in question is an eternal thorn in Yusuf’s side every single time Yusuf resurrects. Even long after the first Holy War has died down, the two of them hound each other out of city and country.
The years aren’t all bad, the immortality not a complete curse. Yusuf takes all the opportunities he can to travel, to see more of the world and learn new languages. He takes up painting and drawing and sculpting. Yusuf learns to take pleasure in the small things in life. He can never stay in one place for too long, though. Yusuf wishes sometimes for a few more connections, a community to call his own, but otherwise he finds himself content.
After ten years of peace, Yusuf travels to Tunisia. Tunis is his eventual destination, but Yusuf isn't in a hurry to get to the city. He's content to travel slower, to wander his way through the country and some of the smaller towns and villages. His exploratory nature doesn't always work in his favor, and tonight is one of those nights. Yusuf had found himself at duskfall in a city with two inns, both already at capacity. He's going to have to take his chances sleeping in the stable at the second one if he wants to sleep at all tonight.
Until then, though, Yusuf is welcome to eat and drink in the inn's tavern. He's situated himself against the back wall, with his back against the wall so he can see everybody in the room and so as not to make himself a target for mugging. It's easy for Yusuf to notice everybody's comings and goings from his vantage point. And though the room is full of people from all walks of life, eating and drinking and gambling and gossiping, it's easy for Yusuf to notice one man in particular as he enters the building.
Yusuf curses to himself, right hand going to the dagger on his belt. The Crusader of his nightmares hasn’t noticed Yusuf yet; he’s speaking to the man at the counter. The other man doesn’t have a beard this time, and his light brown hair is cut short. He looks clean for once. Yusuf feels a shock of heat low in his stomach, almost like being stabbed. He half expects to look down and see blood, but he knows with a sense of humiliation that it’s arousal. Damn his human nature.
The other man finally takes stock of his surroundings, glancing around the room with a practiced eye. He stiffens when his gaze falls on Yusuf, but his expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t react otherwise. The bartender hands the man his drink, which the traveler thanks him for, and then he crosses the room, heading toward Yusuf. To Yusuf’s annoyance, the invader chooses to sit next to Yusuf, on Yusuf’s right side with his back also to the wall. Yusuf huffs and ignores him, choosing instead to look out at the crowded main room.
They drink together in silence. It’s unsettling, being with this other man in public company. They usually confront each other alone, without witnesses for their hatred and violence. Here, surrounded by strangers, Yusuf finds it uncomfortable, adhering to the social rules. He wonders if he should ask the other man to take things outside. There isn’t anything to take outside yet, though, and Yusuf doesn’t want to leave the tavern any sooner than he needs to. He supposes he can feign indifference for another hour or so, until the other man gets bored of him.
Yusuf isn’t sure how much time passes before the other man asks, “How long have you been in town for?”
“A few hours,” Yusuf replies without looking away from the rest of the room. “And you?”
“Three days,” the other man says. Internally, Yusuf swears again. If they do end up fighting, either in this inn or in this city, the other man technically has more of a right to stay since he was here first.
“You have a room here, then?” Yusuf asks.
“I do,” his partner replies. “Are you – Do you have a room as well?”
“No,” Yusuf answers honestly. “I inquired, but they’re full, as is the other inn across town. They offered me food and space in the stable for the night, though.”
The silence returns as the other man seems to mull this over. He seems to be thinking on something. Yusuf pretends he isn’t bothered, that he doesn’t care that the other man has proper lodgings or that he can feel the other man’s eyes on him, the skin on Yusuf’s neck prickling hot under the scrutiny.
To Yusuf’s great surprise, his foe moves his left hand to rest on top of Yusuf’s right thigh.
“I could be persuaded to share,” he says quietly.
Yusuf jerks his head to the right to stare at the other man. Yusuf finds him looking back, looking up from under his lashes. In the low light, his pale eyes seem a darker shade of blue.
He should say no. Yusuf needs to say no. It’s a terrible idea. The man is a religious fanatic. He’s a murderer. He’s murdered Yusuf one hundred times alone. It doesn’t matter that Yusuf’s god abandoned him years ago; some part of Yusuf still views having sex with this man as a betrayal.
But maybe the years have changed him, Yusuf thinks. Maybe the other man has had time to reflect on his actions and this is some strange attempt at an apology. Maybe it’s only the way he looks in the low light that has Yusuf giving him the benefit of doubt. It’s a basic want, Yusuf knows, but he wants all the same. It doesn’t have to mean anything tonight.
On the same hand, a few hours in a bed is better than none. He can sneak out or leave while the other man is asleep. Yusuf could lie to him, even. He could agree to sleep with him and then tie him up or kill him once they’re alone. It would be underhanded, to be sure, but it’s a possibility Yusuf has to consider.
There’s also the fact that the other man is making the offer at all. He still has his hand on Yusuf’s thigh, and Yusuf has killed him just as many times. That takes confidence. That takes courage. Usually Yusuf is more sensible about when to cut and run, but something here makes him want to take a stand. Yusuf cannot have this man thinking he isn’t brave. Yusuf cannot let him win.
Yusuf takes a few measured breaths to steel his nerves. Then he leans over, putting his mouth as close to the other man’s left ear as he dares.
“It’s too loud in here,” Yusuf tells him. “We should discuss the matter further upstairs.”
The noise in the main room winds up working in Yusuf’s favor that night – the noises he makes in the bedroom are surely drowned out by all the other sounds. They move together a bit clumsily, Yusuf and his new partner. It takes some time and some concentration to feel each other out, to get a sense of how they want to work together. Not that the other man had any complaints based on way he had gasped and writhed under Yusuf when Yusuf had taken them both in hand. Yusuf forever remembers how his adversary’s hands looked clutching at the bedding, nearly tearing it apart before he had dared to grab at Yusuf’s arms instead.
It’s light outside when Yusuf awakes. He wakes up groggy, not quite sure what town he’s in or where he spent the night for a second. Then it hits him, the memory of he and his oldest enemy tangled together in the sheets, the memory of the other man’s typically-violent hands stroking Yusuf’s bare skin.
Yusuf looks to his left. The other side of the bed is empty. Glancing around the room, Yusuf doesn’t see any signs of the other man or his few belongings. Strange that he let Yusuf sleep here if he needed to leave, Yusuf thinks, even if Yusuf appreciates it. Hopefully the room is already paid for.
Yusuf feels something crusty and itchy on his neck. Before he can dwell on that, something bright red catches his eye, something in the sheets between his body and where the other man had lain.
It takes a few moments for Yusuf to realize what he’s looking at is a bloodstain. A rather large one. The sheets are definitely soaked through; it wouldn’t surprise Yusuf if it goes all the way into the straw of the mattress. The trail of it is narrower on the other man’s side of the bed. In fact, the stain gets darker and heavier the closer it gets to Yusuf.
With his right hand, Yusuf reaches up and rubs two fingers against the base of his throat. He draws them back to look at.
The ruby-red flecks of dried blood on the pads of his fingertips confirm Yusuf’s suspicions.
He looks to the ceiling and sighs. The sex changes nothing, apparently.
Yusuf ventures back out into the world on his own. It hurts at first. Yusuf is embarrassed at himself for thinking anything might be different after. Of course they wouldn’t. What was he thinking? That sex might take the edge off their enmity or even lead to something else, something more companionable? No. Of course not. Of course it was only a one-time thing. Of course the other man still hates him.
After a while, his resentment toward the other man grows. He’s an idiot, Yusuf’s adversary. He’s a barbarian and an asshole. Of course he’s incapable of rising above his evil nature. What was Yusuf thinking, entertaining him even once? He isn’t worth the trouble or the effort. It won’t happen again. Yusuf is better than that.
As the years pass, however, Yusuf starts to wonder. What if the two of them sleeping together wasn’t a one-time deal? It doesn’t have to be. As far as Yusuf knows, he’s still out there somewhere under the same sun and moon and skies.
Yusuf is still human, after all. Yusuf loves people, loves all of humanity, but his relationship with the mortal race is beginning to fray a bit. Already he feels himself unsticking from the natural flow of cultures and communities and civilizations. He feels weird about how old he truly is compared to the people he could potentially be bedding. He is and always will be separate in his own immortal way. So is this other man, the only other person of his kind Yusuf has found so far.
Yusuf wonders, every night that he’s alone under the stars. Just for solace, he thinks. Just every now and then, since their paths will likely cross until one of them dies for good. Just until Yusuf gets bored of it, he tells himself. It isn’t ideal, but it can’t be his worst idea.
Yusuf doesn’t make a plan, exactly. Not yet, at least. He doesn’t go out of his way to look for the other man, but he asks around when he happens to spend the night in a town or city. Yusuf figures he will have to make the first move this time. He’ll need to make his interest known; he doesn’t trust that idiot bastard to pick up on it on his own.
After twelve years of casual inquiring, their paths finally cross once more. Yusuf had been primarily asking after a room. Instead, he found an inn keeper’s wife who was all too happy to gossip about the handsome man staying here, about his pale eyes and how tall he is and how broad his shoulders are. She’s all too happy to offer up his name as well – Nicolò. Yusuf doesn’t know how true that is, but he takes it and runs with it, spinning a story most clever about his old friend and how long they’ve known one another, how often they meet to catch up while on the road. His friend is out at the moment, according to the matron, but Yusuf manages to charm the location of Nicolò’s room out of her before he leaves. He promises he’ll come back later to check in on his friend. Once another patron has her attention, Yusuf sneaks upstairs. The door to Nicolò’s room is locked, but it’s simple enough to pick and to relock behind himself.
The bed is nice, Yusuf notes. It has several pillows, a luxury in this day and age. If nothing else goes well tonight, at least Yusuf can appreciate the comfort while he’s waiting.
Yusuf goes to the table on the far side of the room and lights the lamp set out there. He sets his pack of possessions in the corner; after a few seconds of contemplation, Yusuf strips naked and leaves his clothes there too. He grabs his scimitar and moves to the bed, settling onto the far side and sitting up against the headboard. Yusuf sets his sword on the other side of the bed, between his body and the door, to show Nicolò what his options are. It takes him a few minutes to release his grip on the handle, but eventually Yusuf convinces himself to let go. Then there’s nothing for Yusuf to do except watch the door and wait, his heart racing all the while.
He wonders if this is worth it. Nicolò could kill Yusuf for good. But he hasn’t yet, and Yusuf needs to know. If Nicolò kills him this time instead of sleeping with him, Yusuf will regenerate, and the two of them will go back to how their relationship was in its earliest days. Hopefully. Allah willing.
Before he can worry himself out of it, a key turns in the lock. Yusuf sits up and watches as Nicolò opens the door and enters his room. He shuts the door behind himself before he notices Yusuf is in his bed, which is fortunate because Nicolò freezes in place at the sight. Nicolò’s hands fly instinctively to the hilt of his sword. Yusuf leaves his own weapon where it lies. He doesn’t enjoy letting Nicolò be the one to decide, but he knows better than to rush this. He watches and waits. He wishes it was easier to read Nicolò’s facial expression.
After handful of still seconds, Yusuf addresses the other man simply to break the silence. “Nicolò.”
Nicolò says nothing, only nods at Yusuf in return. He sizes Yusuf up for another minute, and then his hands leave his sword, traveling up to unclasp the neck of his cloak.
Yusuf waits until Nicolò is mostly undressed (and his sword and two daggers he had hidden on his person are on the floor) before he picks up his scimitar to move it off the bed. Yusuf turns over to his right and sets it on the floor, within his reach in case the evening takes another turn.
To his left, Yusuf feels the mattress dip, feels Nicolò’s bare knee graze the side of his thigh.
When Yusuf looks over, Nicolò is there, kneeling. He takes Yusuf's chin in his right hand, tilts his own head, and then leans forward to bring their lips together.
Yusuf startles, but he doesn't pull away. Apparently Nicolò has developed a taste for romance during their time apart. He isn't very good at it, Yusuf thinks. It’s a bit clumsy, a bit chaste, their brush of lips against lips. Nicolò is probably out of practice. Yusuf probably is as well. He can make this work once his initial surprise has passed, though.
Yusuf wraps his right arm around Nicolò's shoulders and upper back for leverage. He draws Nicolò a bit closer before further parting his lips, deepening the kiss.
Nicolò groans into Yusuf's mouth, and his left hand goes to cup Yusuf's cheek.
It’s good, then. Yusuf forgot how nice kissing could be. There’s the familiar warmth blooming in his chest, the heat of want and excitement sparking in his stomach and down his spine. It isn’t so hard then to let Nicolò take the lead, to let Nicolò guide him down onto his back and set the pace. Yusuf has a plan now, after all.
His plan didn’t specifically include getting off three times, but Yusuf isn’t going to complain about that.
Yusuf is still burning through the afterglow when he decides to act. It isn’t so much that he wants to kill Nicolò. He doesn’t want Nicolò thinking he’s a pushover, though. Yusuf can’t let Nicolò think that he’s all give and no take, that Nicolò can have all the power here. It does seem rude to kill the man who’s given him the best head in one hundred years, though.
Yusuf sighs, resigned, then turns onto his left side to face Nicolò. Nicolò turns his head to look at Yusuf. He’s still panting a little, which is good. That will make this easier.
Yusuf gets his left knee under himself. He gets himself halfway up and on top of Nicolò, then grabs the pillow that had been under his head a minute ago with his left hand.
Yusuf puts his pillow over Nicolò’s face and presses down hard.
He feels more than hears Nicolò’s attempted intake of breath, and then the other immortal starts grappling at Yusuf. Nicolò’s fingers claw at Yusuf’s arms, scratch at Yusuf’s back. He gets a few strong kicks in, nearly bucking Yusuf off of him before Yusuf twists his right arm to push his elbow into Nicolò’s chest. Yusuf grunts, trying to put as much pressure on Nicolò’s diaphragm as he can. He must succeed; the body underneath him goes still soon enough.
Yusuf is fully dressed and halfway out the door by the time a strangled, “Bastardo” comes from the bed.
The line they’ve drawn in the sand gets a bit blurred after that point. Their paths keep crossing, sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident. Their trysts never stop being strange and mildly terrifying for Yusuf, but they’re never not interesting.
Loathe as Yusuf is to admit it, sex with Nicolò is fun. Nicolò can meet Yusuf where he’s at, match him blow for blow or stroke for stroke in a way no mortal could hope to. Yusuf doesn’t have to worry about holding back his passion or hurting his partner. It isn’t usually fulfilling to Yusuf, hooking up with humans. He does sometimes, but it’s all too easy for him to think about their mortality, the brevity of a normal lifespan and how Yusuf will still be walking the earth ages after they’re gone. It’s a pensive sort of affection.
By comparison, sex with Nicolò is mindless. Yusuf doesn’t need to worry himself with what comes after. One of these days, Yusuf supposes one of them will end the other for good. That is not, unfortunately, a deal breaker for them. If anything, it becomes a game. It gets the blood thrumming in Yusuf’s veins, the frantic wondering of Is he going to kill me this time? Am I going to kill him this time? Depends on which one of us gets off first.
It is an incredibly stupid gamble, Yusuf knows. Nicolò can and will permanently kill him one of these times. It’s a stupid risk to be taking for a thing as basic as an orgasm.
The sex is fantastic, though, once they’ve had some practice. It’s like their bodies were made to go together. Yusuf had cried the first time he entered Nicolò, the other man tight and hot and perfect around his length. It had been difficult to hide, face-to-face as they were. Nicolò had refused to get on hands and knees, despite the endeavor being his idea. He had only stopped fighting Yusuf so much once he was on his back under the other man. Yusuf thought he could pass the tears off as sweat from exerting himself in the midday heat in their tent, or as being from the pain of how tightly Nicolò had been clutching at his shoulders and arms. For all Yusuf’s imagined excuses, though, Nicolò never once mentioned it.
Yusuf and Nicolò don’t have the world to themselves, of course. There are more immortals out there. There’s another man named Lykon who Yusuf meets first, as Lykon is traveling west and Yusuf is traveling east. It’s a similar story when Yusuf meets the two women in South Asia. It would have been nice to know they were similarly gifted before he swooped in to save the one he learns later is Quynh from a group of cultists intending to sacrifice her, but the three of them have a nice laugh about it later. They’re easy to get along with, and they always appreciate his help.
Andromache and Quynh appreciate his help maybe a little too much, Yusuf finds. After traveling together for a few months and stopping more than a few robberies, kidnappings, and assorted evils, the women offer to share their bed with Yusuf for one night. Yusuf considers it but ultimately turns them down. He assures them it’s nothing personal, and neither of them seem offended.
Yusuf assures himself it’s nothing personal either. The only reason he turned them down is because he doesn’t want to be mixing business with pleasure. Yusuf frowns to himself, realizing with revulsion and confusion that his logic means Nicolò counts as “pleasure.” It burns in him, heating up his cheeks and prickling along the back of his neck if he spares it too much thought, and so he doesn’t. It’s jealousy, probably. He’s only thinking of how nice it must be for Andromache and Quynh to have each other every night, to have someone they can rely on in that way.
Andromache and Quynh request his help again less than a year after meeting Yusuf. A messenger comes to him from Calais. Underneath the standard trades, all the staples like wool and cloth and lead, Andromache and Quynh have uncovered smugglers dealing in human stock. They haven’t discovered much yet about these slavers, but they know they have to put an end to it.
Fortunately for them, Yusuf had been in Holland, not too terribly far away. He had sent back a messenger, telling the women to expect him in town six days from then.
He arrives in Calais when the sun is just barely hanging onto the sky, the day before their rendezvous. They’re planning to meet at midday, down by the docks. Yusuf knows he could feasibly stay further out from the city. He could wake up early to travel in. Waking up early to walk for several miles when he’s already traveled so far sounds like torture, though, so Yusuf is willing to try his luck at finding an available room in town. Yusuf is striking out at his third tavern of the night when fate or fortune decides to have its fun with him.
“The rooms in these port towns fill up quickly, you know,” says a voice from behind Yusuf.
Yusuf groans, turning away from the counter to find none other than Nicolò. The other man is seated at a nearby table, smirking up at Yusuf. His hair is longer than the last time Yusuf saw him, and he has a bit of a beard situation happening. It’s not bad, Yusuf thinks.
Nicolò tilts his head. “I would think by now you would have some idea of that.”
Yusuf sighs heavily and pulls out the chair across from Nicolò to sit down. His frustration is mostly for show. Already, Yusuf is plotting.
“Two thousand beds in the city, the king says,” he starts. “I think I might be forgiven for thinking there might be room for me in one of them.”
“Two thousand four hundred,” Nicolò corrects, watching Yusuf with a keen eye. “I’m sure you could find somebody willing to share, if only for the night.”
“Is that so?” Yusuf asks. Somebody to spend the night with, or a few hours with anyway before Yusuf kills him and takes the room for his own. He can be out early in the morning and meeting with Andromache and Quynh across the city before Nicolò is any the wiser. Nicolò is a dead man. “Any volunteers that spring to mind?”
Nicolò’s lips quirk up further. “That depends. All the goods in the world are available here. What can you offer me that nobody else in this city can?”
Yusuf raises one eyebrow. “There are stables enough for two thousand horses as well, and you know I’m not above sleeping out there.”
Nicolò’s smile widens seemingly despite himself. Yusuf catches a flash of his teeth before Nicolò manages to school his expression into something more aloof. “I know. I know you don’t want to, though.”
“No,” Yusuf admits with a smile of his own. “But I’m sure I can find somebody else in this city who’s amenable to my company, regardless of anything else I’m willing to offer.”
Nicolò’s expression sours in an instant. “So you could,” he says.
He drinks in silence for a minute. Yusuf watches him before kicking the other man’s shin under the table. “Are you staying at this one then?”
Nicolò eyes him. “I am.”
Yusuf heaves another fake sigh. Leave it to him to do all the work here. “Well, I wouldn’t want to push my luck, venturing back out into the city. I might not be able to find anything else. And since I am here already…” He turns his best pleading eyes on the other immortal.
Nicolò hums in thought. “Fine,” he concedes after a minute. “You can sleep on the floor, I suppose.”
Several hours later, Yusuf finds himself grinning once more as he lies in Nicolò’s bed with Nicolò lying to his left. He’s thinking of ruining the excellent job they already did of cleaning themselves up by starting another round when somebody knocks on the door, fast and sharp.
“Nicolò?” a voice calls through the thick wood. “You had better be decent.”
Nicolò jumps away from Yusuf like he’s been burned. He jumps out of the bed, yanking the covers up over Yusuf to his neck despite Yusuf’s protest. Hastily, Nicolò throws on his discarded shirt and pants, and then he cracks open the door, only enough to show half his face.
Yusuf doesn’t move a muscle. It’s a small room, however, and it’s impossible not to listen in on Nicolò and whoever is on the other side of the door. Yusuf tries not to pay attention, tries not to pay too much mind when the other person says they wanted to be certain Nicolò arrived early and in one piece. But it’s a woman’s voice. It’s a woman’s voice that he knows, Yusuf realizes with a start.
“Andromache?” he calls from across the room before he can stop himself.
Nicolò freezes. The person out in the hallway goes silent. For a second, Yusuf holds his breath.
Slowly and stiffly, Nicolò opens the door wider. Andromache peers into the room over his shoulder; her eyes light up when she sees Yusuf under the covers.
“Oh good,” Andromache drawls. “The two of you know each other already.” The look she gives Yusuf has him wishing he could draw the blanket up even further. It has him feeling like she’s seeing through the past hundred years of Yusuf’s life, like she’s unearthing all of his oldest secrets.
“Well,” she says after another moment. “I have Quynh out looking for you right now, but I suppose I can save her some time.”
Nicolò looks over his shoulder at Yusuf, brows drawn together. “Are you coming with us tomorrow?”
“I am, yes,” Yusuf replies.
“We’re only scouting the area tomorrow,” Andromache says. “Getting a better read on the situation and the people involved before any of us go rushing in.”
“Right,” Yusuf says. “Did you still want to meet at the docks at midday or – ”
“Here is fine,” Andromache interrupts. “Since we’re all staying in the same place.”
“Right,” says Nicolò. “In the morning, then?”
Andromache shrugs. “Tomorrow morning is fine. Whenever you two get around to getting downstairs.”
“Right,” says Yusuf.
An awkward silence descends on the room, the three immortals trading looks as Yusuf wonders what the next move is here. Whatever the case, it won’t be his to make seeing as he is not presently wearing pants.
After a minute Nicolò asks, “Is there something else you need us to know, or…”
Andromache glances at him and arches an eyebrow. “You won’t let me watch?”
“No,” says Nicolò, starting to close the door in her face. “Grazie, have a pleasant evening.”
“It’s only fair,” Andromache argues. “After you saw what Quynh and I were doing together two months ago.”
“I didn’t ask for that,” Nicolò retorts.
“Fine,” Andromache replies, a laugh in her voice. “See you two in the morning. Get some sleep at some point!”
Yusuf feels himself flush in embarrassment. He’s grateful that Andromache is mostly out of sight and that Nicolò is still turned away from him.
Nicolò shuts the door. He stays facing it a few seconds longer. Yusuf can’t see what he’s doing, but Nicolò’s back and shoulders are tense and unmoving. When he does turn to look at Yusuf, his expression is hard and closed off.
“So,” he begins after a minute. “You know Andy.”
“I do,” Yusuf replies. “We worked together a few times before, in Hindustan mostly.”
Nicolò’s eyes narrow. “And did you sleep with her?” he asks. His cheeks and his neck look pink, which is odd. Yusuf thinks he should be recovered by now from their rendezvous. Maybe it’s a trick of the light – their lamp is almost burned out by now. More likely, he was also embarrassed by Andromache’s words, Yusuf thinks, remembering his own reaction not so long ago.
Yusuf shakes his head. “No. They offered, but I wasn’t interested.”
Nicolò exhales in a great, loud rush that surprises Yusuf. He’s still wondering about that and whether he should ask about it when Nicolò crosses the room, returning to him.
“Did you?” Yusuf asks as Nicolò crawls back into bed, getting under the covers to Yusuf’s left.
Nicolò laughs. “No, I’m not attracted to women,” he tells Yusuf bluntly.
“Ah,” Yusuf replies. “That’s… good to know?” Something Yusuf hadn’t realized was knotted untangles in his chest. It feels a bit like relief, and he has no idea why.
The feeling is quickly eroded by annoyance, however. Nicolò keeps fidgeting, moving around with no concern for personal space. He keeps bumping Yusuf, and Yusuf can only move so far out of his way before hitting the literal wall. Nicolò has him trapped, Yusuf realizes. Yusuf has the wall to his right and Nicolò to his left, while Nicolò lies between Yusuf and the door.
Nicolò lying on his back isn’t helping matters. His enemy got nice and comfortable there while Yusuf was distracted. Now Yusuf can’t move without jostling him. After a few pointed jabs, Nicolò shifts over to his left to give Yusuf more room, but it’s still not as much as he would like.
Yusuf props himself up on his left arm, looking around the room. His scimitar is on the floor underneath the bed as per usual. He could fight his way out. It seems unwise, though. Yusuf has to work with Nicolò in a matter of hours. If his time has run out and Yusuf accidentally kills Nicolò forever now, he’s going to be down one person watching his back on the mission. If Nicolò’s death is temporary and they still have to work together, he might be willing to throw Yusuf to wolves for revenge. Most damning of all though is that Yusuf just heard Andromache asking about Nicolò’s well-being. Andromache knows he was there when she said it. If he kills Nicolò now, she could have his head. She knows Yusuf knows that she cares about the bastard.
“Well,” Yususf starts after a minute. The mood from earlier in the evening is sufficiently ruined. He really doesn’t want to go back onto the street, but he should offer to get out. “I should – ”
“Sleep,” Nicolò finishes for him.
“Here?” Yusuf asks.
Nicolò grunts. “Well it isn’t like you can get a room of your own at this hour.”
Yusuf doesn’t necessarily want to, but he settles in alongside Nicolò. It isn’t comfortable. Both of them are large men, and the bed isn’t that big. It hadn’t been an issue earlier when he was on top of Nicolò, but there isn’t much room to lay side-by-side. Yusuf lies down on his left side, with his left arm under his own head. There isn’t anywhere for his right arm to go except across Nicolò’s body, so Yusuf holds it awkwardly against his own chest.
“Next time,” Yusuf says to break the silence.
Nicolò cracks his right eye open to look over at Yusuf.
“I’ll pay for the room next time," Yusuf tells him, "and then you’ll be owing me.”
Nicolò sighs, rather dramatically in Yusuf’s opinion. “I’m sure,” he replies.
“I will,” Yusuf argues. “I don’t want to you think I’m not capable of doing so.”
“I will believe it when I see it,” Nicolò replies loftily, closing his eyes once more.
Yusuf watches the other man’s chest rise and fall for a few seconds more. He can’t let Nicolò win here, Yusuf thinks. He can’t have the upper hand. If Nicolò is comfortable, then Yusuf has to get comfortable, too.
With a grunt, Yusuf shifts down in the bed. His feet hang off the end of it, but Yusuf thinks he’ll survive. He rolls further onto his left side then throws his right arm over Nicolò, ending up with his head on the other man’s chest. He does not feel comfortable doing so, but it’s hardly the most intimate place Yusuf has touched Nicolò in the past several hours, so he can pretend it isn’t that strange.
Nicolò startles beneath him. Yusuf feels Nicolò raise his left hand and then pause. Yusuf thinks Nicolò is going to push him off, but when he moves again it’s to push his left hand into Yusuf’s hair. Unfortunately, he cards his fingers directly into a tangled spot. He pulls on Yusuf’s curls, trying to get his hand unstuck.
“Ow,” Yusuf grumbles into his chest.
“Mi dispiace,” Nicolò says. He keeps his hand in Yusuf’s hair, though, which is odd. Yusuf is already overthinking this, so he takes it as his cue to close his eyes and pretend this isn’t happening. Yusuf doesn’t sleep well, but he sleeps.
The four of them work brilliant together, as it turns out. Andromache and Quynh are good at explaining what they’re looking for and they expect from the men, so there isn’t much confusion. It’s also easy for Yusuf to anticipate what Nicolò is going to do next, mentally and physically. When Nicolò goes off script while fighting or while feeling out dock workers for information, it’s easy for Yusuf to play along, to know how to support what the other man is doing. In the same way, Nicolò always has Yusuf’s back when he has to change tracks. It’s like they were meant to work together, side-by-side instead of across the battlefield from one another.
It scares Yusuf. It feels like seeing something he shouldn’t have seen. How could a heathen like Nicolò be someone Yusuf came to rely on? How could someone Yusuf saw as an enemy be someone who seems to understand him fully? How did something almost like trust grow between them while Yusuf wasn’t looking?
Yusuf is itching to put Nicolò in the ground again, but he waits. He waits until their group celebrations are done and the women have left the country, sailing for Great Brittaine next. Yusuf knows that if he kills Nicolò while Andromache and Quynh are still around, Nicolò will go to them with his sob story once he has resurrected, and the women will pity him more in the future. Yusuf had learned during their conversations on this mission that Nicolò is the youngest age-wise of the four of them, because of course he is. He’s a menace. He’s hardly the baby Andromache and Quynh tease him for being. Nevertheless, Yusuf wants to keep working with the women, so he plays nice and bides his time.
It isn’t something they discuss, but after they see Andromache and Quynh off at the docks, Yusuf and Nicolò walk back into the city together. They end up back at the inn with Nicolò’s rented room, simply going together without agreeing on it. Yusuf orders them drinks in the tavern downstairs while Nicolò stashes his sword and coin purse upstairs. He’s waiting at the table they had sat at his first night there with two cups of wine when Nicolò returns.
“To a job well done,” Yusuf says, pushing the cup toward the other man as he sits down.
Nicolò picks up the cup and raises it at Yusuf before taking a drink. “To a challenge well-met.”
Yusuf drinks from his own cup, watching as Nicolò looks down into his beverage with a frown.
Nicolò clears his throat. “Does this taste funny to you?” he asks, his voice rough and his brow crinkled.
Yusuf says nothing and takes another drink. Nicolò looks up at Yusuf, watching the other man’s face for a second. He clears his throat and looks down at his drink again. His expression clears up then, and Yusuf knows he’s figured it out.
“Oh, falla finita,” Nicolò manages to get out before he’s overtaken by a coughing fit.
“Is your friend alright?”
Yusuf nearly jumps out of his skin at the new voice. He glances over his shoulder to see a woman he doesn’t recognize, concern clear as day across her face.
Yusuf does his best to match her expression, to make himself sad in the eyes but not overly so. “Oh, you know how it can be,” he tells the woman. “Certain foods that make people itch or have rashes or lose their breath for a while. Something has disagreed with my friend, is all.”
“Yes, the poison disagreed with me,” Nicolò snaps. He says it in Farsi, though, Yusuf notes. It isn’t a language the local woman seems likely to know. His barb is meant only for Yusuf’s ears, then.
“Does he need help?” the woman asks Yusuf.
“He’ll be fine,” Yusuf reassures her before getting to his feet. Yusuf grabs Nicolò under his left arm and makes the other man stand too. “Come on, habibi, let’s get you upstairs.”
“You’re an ass,” Nicolò hisses. “The ass of a sheep. Not even something clean, like a horse or a cow.”
Yusuf thumps the other man on the back a few times, partly to cover up the sound of his own low laughter.
Despite his complaints, Nicolò lets himself be led upstairs. By the time they reach his room, he’s wincing in pain and leaning heavily on Yusuf.
“I’ll kill you for this, you know,” Nicolò tells him as Yusuf helps him into the bed.
“I know,” says Yusuf. He pulls the blankets up to Nicolò’s chin, a mockery of Nicolò tucking Yusuf under the blankets a few evenings prior. “You’ll need to find me first, though.”
Nicolò’s pile of belongings near the door gives Yusuf pause. Yusuf is running a little low on money, and this job, while noble, hadn’t paid. Nicolò’s sarcastic I’m sure from their first night here rattles around in his head, that doubt that Yusuf could afford a room of his own, and it makes him angry. It’s low, taking money from a dead man, but Yusuf roots around in Nicolò’s bag anyway until he comes back with a handful of coins. See if he ever relies on Nicolò for lodging again, just for those remarks. Yusuf doesn’t need the other man’s backhanded charity.
“I will.”
Yusuf turns to see Nicolò watching him with cloudy eyes, a scowl on his blue-tinged lips.
“I always will find you,” Nicolò adds, sounding serious, sounding strained but less hurt and angry than Yusuf would in his position.
For a moment, Yusuf wishes things were different between them. Looking down at Nicolò huddled underneath all the blankets on the bed, Yusuf wishes it wasn’t like this. That things were nicer, perhaps. That he didn’t always feel so wrong-footed and irritated around the other immortal. That they didn’t only use each other for sex and some sense of centuries-old catharsis. A shiver racks Nicolò’s body, and for a moment Yusuf feels sorry for him.
He sighs, and the moment has passed.
“I know,” Yusuf tells Nicolò before he reaches for the door. He inclines his head toward Nicolò before he leaves, but the other immortal is simply a body in a bed by then.
It takes Yusuf nearly three weeks to get from Calais to Cap-Vert. He’s there for one week before Nicolò catches up.
A massive storm rolled into the coast on Yusuf’s heels as well. Yusuf has been trapped in his rented room for a few days, and he’s itching to get out and go somewhere. He isn’t quite desperate or stupid enough to brave the elements yet, especially since he didn’t come equipped for rainy weather.
He has no idea what time of day it is, the sky a constant gray, and so Yusuf can’t say if he’s changing clothes in the late morning or in the early evening when he hears noise out in the hallway of the inn. Yusuf stops with his arms half in and half out of his shirt. Someone or something thumps against the outside of his room’s door.
Yusuf turns to look at the door. He removes his shirt all the way and tosses it in the direction of his bag without looking. The inn is full, Yusuf knows, and this storm is terrible. The room is a little crowded, given it has a bed, a couple chairs, a table, and a small fireplace. It’s especially cramped given Yusuf’s size. Still, he could at least offer someone in need his floor for the night.
There’s another, softer thud from outside, and then Yusuf hears scratching. It isn’t loud, and it isn’t constant. Yusuf considers this for a second before concluding the person outside is attempting to pick his lock.
It could be somebody dangerous, somebody who means him harm. Yusuf glances toward his satchel and his assorted belongings on the table beside him. He has a blade hidden underneath his bag, his scimitar on the floor nearby. Yusuf will try reasoning with this intruder first, try coming to an understanding with them before he resorts to violence. He isn’t defenseless, though. Yusuf knows how to protect himself; he has centuries of experience maintaining his own health and safety against all odds.
Yusuf’s head snaps toward the door. This could be somebody specific who is already a threat to his health and safety.
No sooner has that pin dropped in Yusuf’s mind than the lock clicks in his room. Any lingering sympathy and anxiety evaporates into exasperation as Yusuf watches a pale, white hand pry the door open, as Nicolò claws his way into the room looking like a cat somebody tried to drown.
“No,” says Yusuf. He points at the door behind Nicolò. “Get out.”
Nicolò glares at him as he unbuckles his scabbard. He lets his sword hit the floor. “No,” the other immortal argues. “This is my room, I paid for it.”
Yusuf raises his eyebrows. “You most certainly did not.”
Nicolò points at himself. He and his clothes are dripping water all over the place, Yusuf notes. Somehow that annoys him even further.
“You used my money that you stole from me,” Nicolò spits. “So at least part of this is my room, too.”
“That is not how money works,” Yusuf points out. “And I would have thought you’d be happy, you know.”
“Should I be?” Nicolò asks, eyebrows shooting up. He doesn’t yell, but he’s loud for how quiet he typically is. “And for what is that, hm? For you poisoning me, or for you robbing me?”
Yusuf turns his back on the other man. He reaches into his satchel and grabs a shirt, but he doesn’t pull it out, merely stands there with a handful of fabric while he thinks. He and Nicolò trapped together in a room tends to play out one of two ways. If it goes the good way, Yusuf shouldn’t bother getting dressed. If it goes badly, Yusuf is already very tired of washing blood out of his clothes.
“What is it you want me to do here?” Yusuf asks idly. “Do you want me to pay for my own lodgings or not? You seemed a little too interested in having me earn my keep last time. Do you want me to be in your debt forever, always letting you do me a favor so I’ll be sleeping in your quarters? I think you want me in your pocket, on a leash of your making. And what do you have to say about that, Nicolò?”
Nicolò stays silent. When Yusuf turns back around, the other man is pale- and blank-faced. His rain-flattened hair keeps dripping onto his shoulders and onto the floor.
They stare at one another for another second before Nicolò’s eyes narrow. Yusuf clocks Nicolò’s movement as soon as he starts crossing the room. Yusuf only has a split-second to grab the dagger from under his bag, but Yusuf makes that moment count.
Nicolò gets both hands around Yusuf’s throat at the same time Yusuf stabs him low in the stomach. Yusuf twists the knife as he pushes the blade in as far as it will go. Nicolò makes a gurgling sound, and Yusuf feels his fingernails break the skin near the base of Yusuf’s skull, but his grip on Yusuf’s neck doesn’t loosen.
Yusuf starts seeing spots around the same time Nicolò starts sinking to the floor. Yusuf has no choice but to sink with him. With what’s left of his waning strength, Yusuf growls. Then he yanks his knife out of Nicolò’s stomach. It clatters across the floor and under the bed to Yusuf’s left. Nicolò gasps. He finally loosens his grip on Yusuf’s neck, causing Yusuf to gasp in relief as well. Nicolò’s hands fall to the floor by his head with a thump. He stares up at Yusuf, the pair of them stuck looking at one another as they catch their breath. Yusuf sucks in more air and notices dully that he’s kneeling on top of Nicolò, straddling the other man’s hips.
After a few more breaths, Nicolò’s right hand shoots out. He reaches up and grabs a fistful of Yusuf’s curls. Yusuf could fight, he realizes, but in the moment he feels like he has no other choice but to bend where Nicolò pulls him, their mouths meeting in a furious kiss.
He draws back panting after several seconds. Yusuf moves so he’s kneeling in between Nicolò’s legs. He looks at the large, blood-soaked tear in Nicolò’s shirt; when he pushes the fabric up, the flesh of Nicolò’s stomach is already fully healed.
Yusuf brushes his fingers over the dried blood in the hair leading down from Nicolò’s navel.
“So, do I have to kick you out, or will you behave?” Yusuf asks him.
“No,” says Nicolò, although he spreads his legs wider at the same time. “Not on your life.”
Yusuf fucks him on the floor despite the perfectly good bed. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s worked up, and Nicolò deserves whatever discomfort he gets. Based on how smug Nicolò looks after he comes, it’s probably not as much discomfort as Yusuf thinks he deserves.
Yusuf is deciding how nice he wants to be, if he wants to offer Nicolò one of his rags to clean off with or if he should leave the other man to his own devices, when Nicolò strikes. His right arm shoots under the bed to grab the knife Yusuf tossed aside earlier. Nicolò stabs Yusuf in the left side of his neck, near the top of his shoulder. Yusuf hisses in pain, the shock of it shooting up into his head. He must pass out before he bleeds out because he doesn’t remember anything after that, a small mercy, Yusuf supposes.
Hours later, Yusuf wakes up on the floor. The room is dark, and he can still hear the wind and the rain whipping against the walls outside. Yusuf takes a moment to take stock of himself. He realizes his body feels clean. He can’t see shit when he sits up and looks down at his torso, but he doesn’t run across any dried fluids when he runs his hands over his neck, chest, and stomach.
Below the mess of the wind and the rain outside, Yusuf can hear a snuffling noise. It’s not snoring, but it’s a heavier sort of breathing.
Yusuf looks over to his right, squinting to make a familiar figure out of the shadows under the blankets in his bed.
Yusuf huffs and lies back down on the floor. He can kill Nicolò in the morning. Neither of them is going anywhere tonight.
He reaches out, fumbling in the dark until his hand grabs onto something made of fabric. It doesn’t feel familiar. Nicolò’s cloak, Yusuf thinks. He pulls it over his body anyway. It’s dry and it will keep him warm, and that’s good enough for now.
He still has the cloak wrapped around himself in the morning, which seems to be a problem.
“Hey.”
Yusuf doesn’t need to open his eyes to know the voice and the hands shoving at his shoulders, trying to make Yusuf roll over.
“Go away,” Yusuf grumbles.
Nicolò sighs. Yusuf hears his knees hit the floor with two dull thumps, and then he’s yanking on his cloak on Yusuf’s level, trying to untangle Yusuf from it.
“I need this,” Nicolò insists. “The storm is still going outside.”
Yusuf cracks one eye open to glare at Nicolò before rolling over. Nicolò is strong, but Yusuf knows how to make himself heavy. “Should have thought about that before you left it lying around,” he says.
Nicolò growls in frustration. “Dai. Come off it, you stupido pezzo di merda.”
“Just take mine,” Yusuf tells Nicolò before he remembers he doesn’t have one at the moment. The weather had been hot and dry when he arrived.
“You can have the bed back,” Nicolò reminds him.
“You can stay,” Yusuf says before his mind catches up to his mouth.
Nicolò stops pulling on his cloak. Yusuf chances a look over his shoulder and finds the other man much closer than Yusuf thought he would be. His eyes aren’t quite as blue in this light; there’s a touch more green to them than Yusuf realized before now. Something in Yusuf’s stomach swoops.
“It’s still storming out, you said,” Yusuf offers, the argument sounding weak to his own ears. “Where else do you need to be so urgently?”
Nicolò is still frowning. “I don’t…” He sits back on folded legs, hands coming to rest on the tops of his thighs. “Nowhere, I suppose.”
He backs away from Yusuf, giving Yusuf space to sit up.
“Alright,” Yusuf says. “Then don’t stab me again, and you can stay here until the weather clears up.”
“I – ”
“And no suffocating me, either,” Yusuf interjects. “Let’s just leave it, alright?”
“Fine,” Nicolò replies testily.
Yusuf gets up, leaving Nicolò’s cloak on the floor as he makes his way to the bed. Nicolò grabs it, and Yusuf worries for a moment that the other man is leaving regardless of Yusuf’s offer. He’s embarrassed he offered Nicolò that kind of generosity; Nicolò is going to think he’s weak. Nicolò only moves to hang his cloak up on the back of a chair before he returns to the bed and to Yusuf’s side.
The storm lasts for two more days. It isn’t terrible, Yusuf thinks. He’s hardly scared of the weather, but it’s nice having somebody in bed next to him at night while the winds rage and howl outside. During the day, there isn’t much to do besides screw and play a few incredibly awkward rounds of cards.
On the third morning, when the sunlight irritates Yusuf into waking up, he finds Nicolò already dressed and sitting in the chair by the fireplace. It’s his room, but Yusuf can’t help feeling like he has overstayed his welcome.
“You’re traveling north, yes?” Nicolò asks when he notices he has Yusuf’s attention.
“I am,” Yusuf tells him. Nicolò nods but says nothing else. He doesn’t say anything as Yusuf gets out of bed and gets dressed himself. He says nothing as Yusuf gathers all his possessions, and he follows Yusuf out of the inn in silence.
They stop to face each other outside. Somehow Yusuf knows Nicolò won’t be following him any further. Yusuf finds himself swaying forward, leaning an infinitesimal inch into his partner’s personal space. He catches himself before he goes any further, though. Yusuf shakes the insane urge to kiss Nicolò out of himself, giving Nicolò a nod of his head instead before turning away from the other immortal.
Things are strange for a while after that. They still kill each other. They still sleep together. Not every time they meet, though. Sometimes they rent a room with one bed with the intent to fuck after a mission but find themselves too tired to do anything but crawl under the blankets together. Sometimes isn’t worth the trouble or the effort. Yusuf and Nicolò are nowhere near as old as Andromache, but they’re getting on in years, and sometimes Yusuf just can’t be bothered with kissing or killing the other immortal.
They work together without the women sometimes, even. Those occasions are few and far between, only when they can’t find Andromache and Quynh and a problem needs solving immediately. The two of them can do it without killing each other… Well. Without killing each other a lot, anyway. If they arrive in a town at the same time, they still argue over who is paying for the room. Their relationship takes on a new shape every time, one Yusuf has trouble defining the angles and edges on. He’s content to keep moving forward, though. They can adjust and find new ways to fit together, Yusuf thinks. He can wait and see how things continue to play out for them. It might even be nice, someday. Eventually.
Yusuf won’t hold his breath for that day to come soon, though.
*****
Andromache’s missions are a good and noble cause, and Yusuf loves helping people whenever he can. He needs breaks sometimes, though. Sometimes Yusuf just needs a few years to himself, to focus on his art or to observe humanity or feign some semblance of normalcy. The women don’t begrudge him that; Andromache and Quynh never make Yusuf feel bad whenever he tells them not to call on him for work. They’re also good about getting the message through Nicolò’s thick skull. Heaven help them, Yusuf thinks, but they actually seem fond of the barbarian. At any rate, Nicolò has yet to bother Yusuf during one of his sabbaticals either.
Yusuf has a small house of his own this time, a few miles outside of Birżebbuġa in Malta. Yusuf has been there a little over a year, and he’s still deciding what exactly he wants to do and who he wants to be to these people when Nicolò sails into town.
Yusuf isn’t at the port to meet him. Yusuf isn’t expecting him. Yusuf is elbow-deep in the patch of vegetables he had planted on the east side of his humble abode. Everything above ground had been ravaged by insects over the past week and he’s finally going through the plot to see if anything is salvageable.
Yusuf sees Nicolò approaching from a distance, though. Even from afar, he recognizes the other man at first glance. His hair is short again, his beard gone as well, but his broad shoulders and steady gait are the same as ever. Yusuf spares a thought for his own appearance. His clothes are currently covered in dirt, and he can’t remember the last time he cut his hair. Yusuf snorts and pushes past his own vanity. It’s not like Nicolò is coming here for romance, arriving to sweep Yusuf off his feet.
Yusuf goes back to work, ignoring Nicolò until the other man is standing a meter away. Yusuf gets to his feet to face Nicolò, who stops in his tracks once Yusuf’s attention is on him.
Nicolò’s eyes are like the sea in a storm. He isn’t angry, Yusuf thinks, but he looks intense. His blue-gray irises remind Yusuf of the spray of waves, of storm clouds low in the sky. He looks the way it feels when there isn’t anything to focus on except finding a way through.
Yusuf brushes off his hands the best he can. “If you’re here to kill me, make it quick,” he tells Nicolò. “I have work to be done.”
Nicolò looks at Yusuf in silence for a few seconds more, the wind ruffling his cropped hair. Then he closes the distance between them. He reaches up to hold Yusuf’s face gently and kisses Yusuf like he hasn’t seen the other immortal in a century even though it’s been maybe a decade.
Yusuf crumbles under the weight of it. It would be embarrassing how quickly his resolve to fight leaves him if not for how ardent Nicolò seems. Nicolò kisses like he has nothing left to hide, like he has nothing left to lose. To push him away would be like attempting to push back the tides, Yusuf thinks. It’s a force of nature; it’s thrown him off balance, and all at once Yusuf wants to know what comes next in this strange dance they’ve been doing. He has no idea what to expect.
It’s easy enough to guide Nicolò inside in between kisses, to guide him to Yusuf’s bedroom. Once they’re there, Nicolò fucks him so slowly and so thoroughly that Yusuf almost wants to call it love-making. He touches Yusuf like they haven’t done this hundreds of times in hundreds of places and hundreds of ways. Afterward, Nicolò dozes while Yusuf straightens out his small house on unsteady legs in the warm light of the afternoon.
Something is not right. Yusuf has no idea what, but something unsettled Nicolò and now it’s shaken something loose inside of Yusuf. Part of him wants to wake Nicolò up and ask what happened while he was away; part of him is terrified to learn the answer.
Yusuf stands in the doorway to his bedroom and watches Nicolò sleep. The other immortal looks more vulnerable now, in the waning light of day, than he does when they’re curled up together in the dark. Yusuf watches Nicolò like he can spot the difference somehow, like it will be something tangible.
Shirtless and laid out on his stomach, Yusuf realizes with a start that this is the first time he’s seen Nicolò’s naked back. Specifically, it’s Yusuf’s first time noticing the silvery slivers of scar tissue that litter Nicolò’s back. Yusuf frowns. They’re old and faded, of course. How many hundreds of years has the other man been walking around with those marks?
He can’t kill Nicolò in his own bed, Yusuf decides. He doesn’t need the hassle of cleaning blood and guts out of his own bedding and mattress. Yusuf can wait until the other man is awake to fight him on equal ground.
Yusuf distracts himself by making stew for supper. Yusuf doesn’t exactly plan to invite Nicolò to stay for a meal, but he does make enough for two people, and he lets Nicolò draw his own conclusions about the arrangement when the other man finally reappears. Nicolò nods his thanks at Yusuf and helps himself to it. They eat and make small talk about their travels until it’s dark outside, the still of the evening even quieter this far from the city center.
Yusuf spends the whole time trying to figure out what Nicolò’s game is, what it is the other man is really doing here. He can’t see what Nicolò is doing, what his ulterior motive might be, and it unnerves him. Yusuf wonders if he should ask Nicolò to leave. It doesn’t seem like he would go anywhere of his own volition tonight. He keeps staring at Yusuf; Yusuf finds he can’t look away from Nicolò as well.
He should ask Nicolò to leave. He should kick the other man out before anything happens. Logically, Yusuf knows that’s what he should do.
Yusuf knows what he wants to do, though.
“Come back to bed with me,” Yusuf says finally. Nicolò is on his feet before Yusuf can add another word.
Yusuf loses track of where one of them ends and where one of them begins that night, all night. Yusuf loses track of the time, wrapped up in the dark, wrapped up in the sheets with his adversary. Maybe no longer – they aren’t talking about it, but something is different this time. Yusuf knows it. He feels it all the way down to his bones. Yusuf holds the other man tight, and he prays that he can trust Nicolò not to kill him after all of this, that things will stay different come the morning.
His faith is rewarded when he wakes up to Nicolò’s head on his chest, the other man tracing the veins on the inside of Yusuf’s right arm with his fingertips.
They never discuss it, but Nicolò never looks for a room of his own to let in town. He makes himself at home in Yusuf’s cottage, sleeping in his bed and cooking in his kitchen. Nicolò laces their fingers together when they walk around the market in B'Buġa and rests his head on Yusuf’s shoulder when they sit on the beach to watch the sun set. He seems troubled the first few days, but Yusuf doesn’t push him to talk.
One whole week passes before Nicolò tells Yusuf that Quynh is gone.
He tells Yusuf the facts plainly, sitting side-by-side on the beach one peaceful afternoon. Nicolò heard about the witches, about the women suspected of being immortal who had been captured, but he had arrived too late to prevent anything from happening. He arrived only in time to meet Andromache alone getting off the ship at the port, for Andromache to grab onto him with both hands and a haunted look in her eyes. She convinced Nicolò to go back out to sea with her to look for Quynh. It was a fool’s errand, of course. Of course Nicolò helped her. He stuck by Andromache’s side through some ugly-sounding fights and breakdowns.
“Where is she?” Yusuf asks. “Andromache, where did she go?”
“I don’t know,” Nicolò says. He’s still composed, staring resolutely at the horizon, but his voice thins, like it’s threatening to break. “We had a fight the last time. She said I wasn’t looking hard enough, that I wasn’t helpful enough. I know she didn’t mean any of it, but I thought…”
He looks down at his hands. “We talked a lot that night. I thought we had things straightened out. I even held her until we both fell asleep.”
Nicolò clears his throat and then looks back up at where the sea meets the sky. “And then I woke up and she was gone. All her belongings were gone. I tried tracking her for a week, but when she wants to disappear…”
“She can,” Yusuf finishes, hoping to show Nicolò he understands. He looks at Nicolò; the other man is mostly composed still, but there’s a shine to his eyes Yusuf doesn’t think he can attribute to the glare of the sun off the water.
Yusuf and the other immortals live to help people. Yusuf loves humanity. He loves people because he understands people. Yusuf knows what it’s like to feel vulnerable, to feel weak and frustrated and powerless because despite his gifts, he’s still just as human. Yusuf knows what it feels like to be a human, and he knows how to empathize with them.
Looking at Nicolò, Yusuf sees only a person in pain. He’s a man grieving for a friend before he’s anything else in this moment. Yusuf doesn’t know if Nicolò knew Lykon, if the other man has ever dealt with another immortal dying before. It’s funny, Yusuf thinks. He has known Nicolò nearly his entire life. He knows Nicolò has been around for just as many centuries. Here and now, though, the other immortal seems impossibly young.
Yusuf moves to kneel in front of Nicolò in the sand. Nicolò frowns back at him, confused.
He could be lying. Nicolò could be spinning this story about Quynh solely to hurt to Yusuf, to create this opportunity to stab his enemy in the back. Yusuf looks at Nicolò for another moment before pulling the other man into his arms. If Yusuf shows him kindness and Nicolò screws him over, then that’s on his conscience, not Yusuf’s.
Nicolò doesn’t react at first. He doesn’t hug Yusuf back, but he doesn’t push Yusuf away or wrestle Yusuf off himself. Yusuf holds him until Nicolò breaks, his crying silent at first but eventually building to sobs that wrack both their bodies. Nicolò’s hands clutch at the back of Yusuf’s shirt, and Yusuf keeps holding him, crying his own quiet tears.
Finally allowing himself to grieve seems to wipe Nicolò out that night. He’s asleep as soon as he lies down in the bed. Yusuf isn’t sure he shuts his eyes the whole night. What a horrifying fate. Yusuf holds onto Nicolò all through the night. He isn’t sure of what to think or feel other than a bone-deep certainty that he can’t lose Nicolò. Not to the sea like Quynh, not to time like Lykon.
It occurs to Yusuf then that he himself could kill Nicolò permanently. It’s always a fact he had been sure of. Nicolò could end him permanently, and Yusuf could do the same. For the first time in centuries, the thought terrifies Yusuf. He doesn’t want to kill Nicolò permanently. Yusuf’s feelings for the other man change from day to day, but he knows his world would feel empty without Nicolò in it. Yusuf hasn’t prayed in ages, but he finds himself wishing and hoping that night that Nicolò’s permanent death rests in his hands and his hands alone. Nobody else can kill Nicolò forever. He has to come back until Yusuf deals his final blow.
Yusuf’s feelings for the other man change from day to day, and so he keeps them to himself. Nicolò came to him, came to Malta to mourn for his own loss. He doesn’t need Yusuf burdening him or confusing him with whatever Yusuf finds growing deep within his heart.
For one whole year, Yusuf makes no attempts on Nicolò’s life. Nicolò extends him the same courtesy. Nicolò is making him soft, Yusuf knows. Maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world, Yusuf thinks, given the amount of violence and bloodshed both of them had endured through the ages.
The thing is, Yusuf loves humanity, but he doesn’t usually spend enough time with any one person to fall in love. He loves people sometimes in fits of passion and flares of drama, but this is something different. Yusuf isn’t used to being domestic, to feeling something softer but steadier, a flame that doesn’t flicker or go out. He isn’t used to holding or being held in bed every night, or of washing up with another person. He and Nicolò have bathed together before, sometimes when they were in a hurry and sometimes as foreplay. This is different, though, a settled kind of intimacy.
Yusuf isn’t used to anyone cooking for him either. His extended family is long gone, so Yusuf either cooks for himself or gets food from stalls in the cities he stays in. Nicolò enjoys cooking, though, which is a nice little luxury. Nicolò is good at it, Yusuf will admit, but even more than that it’s nice having somebody help him in that way.
Nicolò apologizes to Yusuf for his part in the Crusades, in invading Yusuf’s homeland in the name of a god Nicolò isn’t sure exists anymore. He confesses to a lack of faith and an abundance of remorse. Nicolò knows the deeds he’s doing with Yusuf and Andromache and Quynh can’t make up for everything, but he knows now he has to at least try. Yusuf grants him grace and thinks a bit selfishly to himself that maybe they could make a real relationship work sometime in the future.
Nicolò smiles, and Yusuf thinks it might be possible to love him. Nicolò laughs, and Yusuf thinks maybe he’s been in love with the other man for years. How can Yusuf be sure, given the way the timeline of their relationship stretches and warps and folds in on and repeats itself?
Whatever the case might have been in the past, it’s changing again. Yusuf thinks his relationship with Nicolò is building toward something unnamed and terrifying, and possibly even exciting. Yusuf waits and he hopes.
One week after the start of the new year, Yusuf wakes up alone.
He searches his house floor-to-ceiling, inside and out, but Yusuf doesn’t find any kind of note or warning. The kitchen is suspiciously clean, an apology of sorts Yusuf later figures.
Yusuf ventures into the city in the afternoon, on the off chance Nicolò went to the market for something and lost track of time. Yusuf doesn’t find him. He worries that something happened, that Nicolò might have been taken somewhere, but he isn’t sure what he can do even if that turns out to be true. Yusuf goes home alone. He goes to bed that night alone, too.
Another day passes that way, and then another, and then another.
Apparently Nicolò is feeling better about Quynh, Yusuf thinks bitterly. Apparently the other man wanted to play house for a year as an experiment, and now he’s grown bored of Yusuf. It wounds Yusuf to realize that Nicolò doesn’t care about him because of nebulous reasons like Yusuf’s religion or for being on the opposite side of a war thousands of years past in a land that no longer exists. No, any malice or indifference the other man holds toward Yusuf is solely because of who Yusuf is personally.
Yusuf spends one more year in Malta, hoping against hope the other man will return. He doesn’t. Yusuf hopes he’s wrong, but a part of him worries that no matter how many more centuries he sees, he will never be that happy again.
Another 24 years pass before Yusuf sees Nicolò again. Yusuf spies the other man across a crowded room, sitting at the bar of a tavern in Al-Fashir. Yusuf recognizes him from his back alone. There isn’t a doubt in Yusuf’s mind that it’s him. For one whole year, the back of that head and the span of those shoulders were the first thing Yusuf saw when he opened his eyes in the morning. In this moment, however, Yusuf only sees red.
With no consideration for where they are or who can see them, Yusuf strides up behind Nicolò. He wraps his left arm around Nicolò’s head then snaps the other man’s neck before Nicolò can react. He returns to the room he had rented, gathers his belongings, and leaves the city that night.
Nine months later, they both show up in Beirut for one of Andromache’s jobs.
They’re a pretty sorry group this time around. Andromache has found a new immortal, a French soldier who is still mourning the loss of his humanity and most of his family. Andromache is mourning Quynh. Yusuf is mourning the life he had with Nicolò back in Malta, and god only knows what Nicolò is upset about but he looks like shit (not that Yusuf notices or cares). They get the job done, though.
They also get new codenames. It is something they do sometimes, to blend in or to keep potential spies off their trails. Something about these nicknames is harder to shake off, though. It’s hardly the first time Yusuf has found himself ‘Joseph’ and found that shortened to ‘Joe,’ but it sticks through the next several centuries. It becomes a new normal, the way Sebastien becomes Booker and Andromache becomes Andy. The way Nicolò di Genova, the constant thorn in Yusuf’s side, becomes Nicky in the centuries to come.
Joe talks to Andy, but never about Nicky, not even when it’s only the two of them. Andy talks to him, but she doesn’t broach any personal topics. She doesn’t tease Yusuf about his relationship with Nicolò like her and Quynh did in the past. Joe wonders if she knows about Malta or if the teasing reminds her too much of the partner she lost.
Andy says nothing to him the night the rescue mission is over, when the four of them stop in a town four hours east of where they started to ensure they won’t be recognized. She leaves the three men in the lobby and does the talking at the desk in the hotel they decide on. She says nothing to Joe as she places one room key on the table between him and Nicky and walks off with the other room key and Booker.
Joe feels himself breathing faster. He knows what’s going to happen even before it does, even before he and Nicky both reach for the key at the same time. Joe gets there first, and then there’s smooth metal between his fingers and Nicky’s palm on top of the back of his hand.
Nicky startles, but he doesn’t pull away. Joe glances up at his face. Nicky doesn’t look back at him, transfixed by their hands together. His expression is blank, but his cheeks start to color even before he strokes the outside of Joe’s thumb with his own thumb.
Joe should leave. He should yell at Nicky, at least start to outline all the ways the other man has hurt him. But he missed this. Joe missed Nicky so much. He’s weak for any amount of affection he can get, and Joe knows what’s going to happen as he slides his hand forward so Nicky’s grip comes to rest around Joe’s wrist. Nicky grabs on and doesn’t let Joe go all the way to their room.
Nicky rides Joe hard on the starched white sheets that night, and with every slap of their hips, Joe bites back the question, why did you leave me why did you leave me why did you leave me. There’s no place for sentimentality, for wanting more in their relationship anymore, though. Nicky has made sure of that. Joe swears to himself then and there that he will never fall in love with Nicky again, no matter how long they both live.
Joe comes with all ten of his fingers digging into Nicky’s thighs. He hopes it hurt.
Nicky groans as he comes across Joe’s stomach. After panting for a few seconds, he leans in and kisses Joe on his right cheek. He breathes against Joe’s beard before moving to Joe’s lips. Joe kisses back weakly, confused by the affection.
Nicky pulls back to look at Joe’s face. He clears his throat. “Would you… You should wash up. With me.”
“Now?” Joe asks instead of “Why?”
He’s halfway asleep, and once Joe gets out of bed he feels dead on his feet. He follows Nicky anyway. Joe mostly just stands around in the bathroom in silence, watching Nicky clean himself off. Nicky probably just wanted to keep an eye on him. Joe doesn’t need to be doing anything except be here. After a few minutes, Nicky leaves Joe to finish up on his own.
When Joe returns to the main room, Nicky is under the covers on the right side of the bed. He’s on his side of the bed, Joe thinks. Nicky looks up at Joe expectantly. Joe feels ice in his veins and warmth in his chest and heat in both his temples and behind his eyes. He stays frozen to the spot.
Joe briefly considers sleeping on the bathroom floor, considers running from this in any way he can. They just had sex, but the thought of sleeping in the same bed as Nicky again has Joe off balance.
He isn’t sure how or why he does it, but Joe finds himself putting one foot in front of the other, moving slowly and surely back to the bed. He sits down on the edge of the mattress, on his side. As he settles in, Joe finds it hard not to notice the stash of knives glinting in Nicky’s overnight bag across the room, and Nicky’s sword propped up against the wall in the corner. There are a million ways to kill or be killed right here in this room.
Joe draws the sheets up over himself anyway.
Nicky watches Joe for a long time. Then he turns over onto his left side, turning his back on the other man. Joe traces the familiar line of Nicky’s spine with his eyes. For a moment, Joe considers grabbing one of their many weapons and stabbing him. It’s a vulnerable position. Nicky’s skin is smooth and clean, and the sheets around them are so white. It’s too clean here. It’s too quiet. One of them ought to ruin this peace.
Joe lets the moment pass. He lets the anger pass too, taking a few deep breaths before he rolls onto his right side, turning his back on the other man as well.
Joe wakes up alone, well-rested and unblemished.
It isn’t something they discuss, but from that point on a line is drawn. If Joe and Nicky sleep together, neither of them will kill the other afterward anymore. Either they kill each other or they have sex. Joe is mildly grateful he no longer needs to worry about Nicky choking him out during the act or waking up with a blade somewhere in his body.
He’s less thrilled when Nicky takes up sniping, a fact Joe learns courtesy of a bullet shot from across a town square finding its home between his eyes.
Fine, then. If Nicky is going to be sneaking in the shadows for his murder attempts, Joe decides he can pivot in the opposite direction. For every trick shot Nicky gets him with, Joe plans and executes something obnoxious and obvious. His personal favorite was the time he waited in Nicky’s hotel room in Tsaritsyn with a shotgun. The minute Nicky had opened the door, Joe had blasted him in the abdomen and sent him stumbling backwards into the hall. (It’s maybe partly Joe’s favorite time because Nicky had just enough energy to roll his eyes at Joe and his theatrics before sliding down the wall to the floor.)
No matter how many times or ways or places Joe dies in, he always comes back to life. Joe finds his love for Nicky lives in much the same way. Sometimes he loses that love completely. Sometimes it’s easy for Joe to kill Nicky. He walks away with blood on his hands and nothing but a sense of self-satisfaction. Sometimes they fuck, and Joe feels himself going through their motions, only in it to get himself off. Sometimes Joe hates Nicky for months or years.
The love always comes back, though. Just like Joe does, just like Nicky does. It always pushes up out of the soil and blooms in the light. Sometimes Joe kills Nicky and is immediately gripped by despair. Sometimes he waits in the shadows to make sure Nicky revives. Sometimes when he’s sure Nicky is asleep after they share an evening together, Joe will move closer and drape an arm around the other man, always careful to make it seem casual. Sometimes Joe will be seized by the desire to reach out and touch Nicky errantly while they’re working together, or to pull Nicky into his lap while they’re eating together. He can’t, though. He can’t move. It hurts too much.
It tears Joe apart, having Nicky so close and at the same time too far away. If this is the best version of their relationship Joe can get, though, he will take whatever scraps of it he can.
Falling in and out of love with Nicky for hundreds of years is a heavy burden, but like every other burden that comes with time, Joe learns to shoulder it. He knows he doesn’t have to – burdens are always optional, to some degree. Joe can opt out. He can stop having sex with Nicky. He can stop killing Nicky. He can cut off all communication and move to Tristan da Cunha or the Falkland Islands or somewhere far from home. He can stay forever one jump ahead of the other man, only seeing Nicky on accident or on Andy’s missions.
He doesn’t, though. Joe doesn’t walk away. Loving Nicky makes him feel like he’s dying. He wants Nicky dead. Part of Joe is convinced killing Nicky would put him out of his misery. It would finally end this interminable dance of the ages. Joe can’t move on from this until Nicky is gone. Nicky can’t die, though, not even when Joe is the one to kill him. Joe loves Nicky, and there isn’t a thing he can do except live with it. And so he does. What else is there to do?
*****
People other than Nicolò are willing to stick their knives into Joe, it turns out. He’s only surprised because of how long it has been since another person not only tried but also succeeded.
Joe fights as much as he can while being outnumbered as he is. He can’t stand the feeling of this many hands on him, the hands of strangers, the hands of villains. He tries not to let any of his captors kill him, although given the amount of armed security and armored cars they have, Joe doesn’t have to stretch his imagination too far to assume somebody calling the shots already knows what he can do.
He powers through meeting Steven Merrick. He soldiers through a blade through his chest and being treated like a human pincushion. Joe can take whatever gets thrown at him now. He has more power than this petulant miscreant ever will. Joe will be damned if they break him, at least this early on.
Joe’s heartbeat is thundering in his ears once Steven has had his fun, but Joe refuses to let go and let the darkness take him. The last thing he sees before he passes out will not be Merrick’s weasel face, Steven's eyes boring into Joe and his blood-stained body.
Steven sniffs, and Joe knows he’s being dismissed even before the CEO speaks.
“You can put him with the other one,” Merrick says to the nearest guard, like Joe is a toy to be put away.
Joe whips his head up so fast a nerve pinches in the back of his neck. Merrick looks at Joe, and then his face lights back up, slowly, cruelly. Joe doesn’t want to know what his own expression is betraying.
“Mister Jones can thank me for my hospitality later,” Steven tells him, smirking down at Joe. “Once he and who I assume is an old friend of his have caught up.”
For the first time since this trial and torture began, Joe feels like he might be sick. The other one. All the prophets and all the saints and all the stars above them, Joe thinks, are absolutely no help. It had better not be, but it has to be. It can’t not be him, Joe thinks, the stupid Genoese idiot.
Joe hasn’t seen Nicky in seven years. Andy had required all four immortals for a job in Buenos Aires. He and Nicky both arrived three days earlier than Andy and Booker, and they spent all three days screwing and lazing in bed. The only times they had fought was over who got to choose what was on TV since neither of them typically lived with one.
It had been good, almost like a real truce at times, Joe thinks. He’s getting sentimental in his old age. No matter how much he undoes the other man, though, Nicky always calls him “Yusuf” when they’re in bed together. It makes Joe’s chest ache. No matter how many aliases he’s lived under or rented rooms as, no matter how many codenames or nicknames Andy gives him, after nearly a millennium, somebody still sees him, Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn Al-Kaysani. For a minute, the sands of time are brushed away. For a handful of seconds, everything that isn’t the essence of him and the essence of Nicolò gets stripped away. Nicky knew him in the past. Nicky will know him in the future. Time can’t change everything. Some things remain.
There are other things Joe is rewarded to find stay the same. The way Nicky goes weak when Joe kisses behind his ear or down the side of his neck. The way Nicky’s back arches when Joe runs his hands down Nicky’s sides, or the way Nicky’s eyes go a bit distant when Joe runs a hand through his hair.
He would sooner die his final death than admit he’s going that soft, though, so when Joe found a flight that left Argentina only hours after their mission had ended, he had taken it.
Merrick’s guards have to basically drag Joe to Merrick’s laboratory, but he manages to cling to his last shreds of consciousness for the trip. Joe has to know if he’s right. He has to see who it is waiting for him, even if the clinical lights make his eyes sting at first glance.
He’s there, of course. Joe doesn’t even need to see his face to recognize Nicky; Joe has seen those hands and those arms and that naked torso hundreds of thousands of times. His ribs are starting to show, Joe realizes with a pang. It’s disgusting. Nobody should be experimenting on Nicky like this. Nobody else should be torturing Nicky like this. He’s Joe’s enemy to defeat. He has been for nearly one thousand years. Seeing Nicky like this isn’t right. This can’t be real.
Shirtless and thin, it’s easy to notice the way Nicky stops breathing when he sees Joe, when he recognizes the person his captors have brought to him. He remains silent as Merrick’s people remove Joe’s shirt, as they tie him down to an operating table too. They shine one of those stinging lights directly into his eyes. Somebody aims it toward Joe’s mouth, but he refuses to open it, even with another guard pressing on his jaw.
“Whatever,” says the person with the light as he turns it off. “The doc can run her preliminary tests later. Let’s let him get comfortable.” The goon squad leaves then, snickering amongst themselves on the way out. Nobody bothered to clean the dried blood off his chest, Joe notes.
When Joe glances over at him, Nicky is staring back, a twisted expression on his face.
“Joe,” Nicky says. His voice sounds heavy and rough. Joe assumes it’s because he hasn’t said much in a while. His hair is shaggy, but nowhere near as long as Joe has seen it get.
“Nicky,” Joe replies, using the other man’s nickname in case the room is bugged. There’s no need to let Merrick and his people know their whole life stories if they don’t know already. Joe doesn’t see any use in pretending they don’t know each other, though. Who knows how long they will be trapped here, and even their most basic acquaintance will be obvious soon enough. “How long have you been here?” Joe asks before realizing what a stupid question that is.
Nicky seems to consider it, though. “What is the date today?” he asks after a moment.
Mentally, Joe does the math. It was the morning of the 21st when he was taken, and Joe estimates it’s been over twenty-four hours since. “November 23,” he answers.
“2019 still?” Nicky asks.
Joe hates that that’s a valid question for him to ask. “It is, yes,” Joe tells him.
Nicky closes his eyes and breathes out deeply. He relaxes as much as he can on the table he’s strapped to.
“Nicky,” Joe prompts.
“26 days,” Nicky replies. He keeps his eyes shut. “Not even one month now.”
Joe wrestles down a wave of panic. It should be a relief. Four weeks means nothing in the grand scheme of their time. It bothers him, though. Joe missed Nicky, like he always does, but he’s also used to the other immortal coming and going from his life. Four weeks means nothing to him anymore. How long would it have taken Joe to realize something was wrong, that Nicky was gone more permanently this time?
“And what were you doing so incompetently that they caught you?” Joe asks before cringing at his own words. He doesn’t want Nicky thinking he’s soft, but that was over the line.
Nicky chuckles though. “I could ask you the same.”
Joe sighs. “I was buying groceries,” he replies. His safe house in London is fully-stocked, but he was planning to donate to local food shelves. No good deed goes unpunished, it seems.
“Ah,” Nicky says. “A rookie mistake.” He winces.
Joe stares at him, looking for visible injuries.
“Are you hurt, Nicky?” Joe asks after a minute.
“Not especially, no,” says Nicky. As if on cue, his stomach grumbles, and oh. Of course.
“They haven’t been feeding you, have they?” Joe guesses.
Nicky grunts in confirmation. “They’re experimenting with starvation, seeing how my cells regenerate without food,” he explains, his sardonic tone not doing anything to quell the spike of terror Joe feels.
“You haven’t told them what you know about how it works?” Joe asks. He’s fairly certain Nicky attended medical school at some point in the past. Joe also knows Nicky has died and come back from starvation at several points in the past. He had found Nicolò’s body at least once when they were both poor wayfarers. Joe had sat in the other man’s camp and waited for him to wake up purely out of curiosity, he told himself. He wanted to know if he could come back under the same conditions. That was all.
Joe didn’t have any good excuses for why he had left a share of his own food and water with Nicolò after the other immortal had started breathing again, though.
Nicky’s face pales, and his frown deepens. “I didn’t tell them anything,” he says in a rush, shaking his head. “I didn’t tell them about you or…”
He trails off. Joe assumes he was about to say “the others,” to say he said nothing about Andy and Booker but at the last minute realized their captors might be listening.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” Nicky repeats firmly.
“No, I understand,” Joe tells him. “I didn’t think you would.”
The crease between Nicky’s brows deepens, but he says nothing.
They lay like that for a while, Joe taking some time to survey and adjust to his surroundings. Joe isn’t sure how long the silence lasts before Nicky clears his throat.
“So,” Nicky begins. “Have you seen any good movies lately?”
Joe turns his head to look at Nicky. He has his eyes closed, the absolute weirdo.
“No,” Joe says. “I haven’t.”
Nicky must be able to tell Joe is looking at him because he reopens his eyes. “I was just resting my eyes for a minute,” he explains.
“You can sleep,” Joe tells the other man. “I won’t be offended.”
Nicky sniffs, although he does reshut his eyes. “No. A part of me thinks that I am already dreaming, that you aren’t really here and that I’ll be alone again when I wake up.”
Something inside of Joe’s soul cracks. A part of him has been falling in and out of love with this man for centuries. Nicky hasn’t eaten or had a full night’s sleep in nearly a month, and at that moment Joe wants nothing more than to reach across the space between their bodies. He wants to hold Nicky more than he’s ever wanted anything else from the other immortal. Joe wants to have Nicky in his arms and to reassure him, to tell him everything will be fine in the end.
“It’s alright,” Joe says gently. “I’ll be here.”
Nicky makes a wet noise that Joe thinks was supposed to be a laugh. “Don’t be so soft. It is going to break me.”
It’s Joe’s turn to frown. “What, me being nice?”
“Yes,” Nicky replies. He clears his throat. Joe watches Nicky open his eyes to blink up at the ceiling. Joe only has eyes for Nicky.
“I will try,” Nicky tells Joe after a moment. “I’m a light sleeper.”
“No you’re not,” Joe retorts, confused. In all their years together, Joe can’t remember a single time Nicolò hadn’t slept soundly beside him. Even on nights when they were too tired to fuck and had only shared a bed for convenience or warmth, Joe remembers only Nicky’s stillness and even breathing.
Nicky says nothing in response. Joe waits an eternity for the other man to explain himself, but he never does. When Joe finally looks over, Nicky’s eyes are shut. His chest is rising and falling in a familiar way.
Maybe Nicky only sleeps well knowing somebody has his back, Joe thinks. He wonders for a minute if he would have been somebody like that, if he would have protected Nicky and fought alongside him if they had been attacked while sleeping together. It isn’t something Joe has to think about for long, though. Of course he would have. He wonders then if anyone apart from him has ever had Nicky’s back. Joe looks at Nicky’s sleeping form like he can find the answer to his question just by staring.
Joe looks at Nicky and feels a gnawing like despair in the pit of his stomach. He wants to think it’s nice to not be alone in this captivity, but no. Joe still feels scared and helpless.
Joe watches Nicky, watches the rise and fall of Nicky’s chest, the stretch of those familiar muscles and bones, until his own eyes close.
*****
“Do you think everything is alright out there?” Nicky asks once they’re alone again. “That it’s safe?”
Joe turns his head to look at Nicky. Joe watches him as Nicky looks down at his own hands, flexing and turning his fingers to make sure everything Kozak cut up grew back in the right place, that all his tendons are functioning normally. After a few seconds of silence, Nicky glances over at Joe. He raises an eyebrow, like he’s trying to ask Joe if Joe understands what it is they can’t say out loud.
Joe racks his brain for a minute before asking, “Do you still speak Sabir?” All of Steven Merrick’s money and resources might be able to find a translator if Joe and Nicky are being monitored right now, but it’s going to take him a damn while.
“Of course,” Nicky replies in the old lingua franca. “I’m not senile.”
Joe nods and turns to look at the ceiling. “Then they are fine, I think.” Joe has already considered all of this, has convinced himself that Andy and Booker are out there and unharmed by Merrick and his cronies. “Andy is crafty. She survived centuries without us before. She can survive centuries without us after.”
“And Booker?” Nicky asks.
Joe pauses and cranes his neck to look over at the other man. He knows Nicky isn’t heartless, but Nicky is always the picture of professionalism on group jobs. It’s strange seeing him worried for their fellow immortals.
“He’s smart, and young,” Joe replies. “Very into technology. I am sure he can cover his trail much better than old foxes like you and I.”
“Hmm,” says Nicky. He doesn’t sound reassured, but it does sound like he will stop asking Joe about it for now. After a moment, he huffs a small laugh. “Not stupid like us, no?”
Joe knows Nicky is trying to make a joke, and that makes Joe feel even worse. He shuffles himself around a bit on his table, trying (trying) to get more comfortable. He stares at Nicky and waits for the other man to meet his eyes before he speaks.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Joe tells him. “I never have. I was only saying that so you wouldn’t know I was worried about you.”
Nicky frowns. “Were you?”
“I was,” Joe replies. It would be foolish of him to pretend otherwise. Nicky has seen him more vulnerable than anyone else in history. Love him or hate him, if Joe is going to be honest with anyone, it might as well be with Nicolò. What’s the worst that can happen at this point?
Nicky nods. “Then you know how much it upset me to see you brought down here as well,” he says.
“I noticed you were something, yes,” Joe tells him. It’s strange for Joe to accept, that Nicky could care about him that much, but it’s a thought he’s coming around on. Nothing else makes sense in this situation. Or maybe Joe just wants it to be the thing that makes sense.
Nicky blinks at Joe at few times. He starts breathing faster, and an odd, choked-off noise bubbles out of him before he turns his face away. Joe is on alert, ready to ask if the other man is in pain when Nicky starts laughing.
“Mi dispiace, mi dispiace molto,” he says between breaths. “It’s pathetic. I’m sorry. I am so sorry you’re here too. I don’t want this for you, Joe. I don’t want you to be here. I don’t. I don’t want you to be here, Yusuf, but I just…”
“I know,” Joe tells him. His stomach aches. His chest feels tight. Joe might as well say it; he might not have another chance to. “I know what it is you mean, Nicolò. I missed you too.”
Nicky stops laughing, but Joe can still see his shaking shoulders, hear his harsh, wet breathing and the noises that he’s catching in the back of his throat. He keeps his face turned away.
“It’s alright, Nicolò,” Joe croons at Nicky’s back. “It’s alright.” It isn’t, of course. Nothing is alright about this place, what’s being done to them. But it will be. It has to be. Joe can’t bear the thought of this being how it ends, of dying within arm’s reach of each other, of never again holding Nicolò even once. They are going to get through this. He and Nicky will get out of here. The others will find them. There is no other option. It has to be alright.
*****
“Nicolò,” Joe groans, tasting bile in the back of his mouth. The lights are too bright; he doesn’t want to open his eyes. His isn’t sure what Kozak had been looking for, cutting into his stomach earlier, but it had not been pleasant. Joe had tried to hold on but had passed out after only a few minutes. He lost far too much time fading in and out of consciousness to the sounds of some type of suction tool and Nicky cursing in every language he knows, but they’re finally, blessedly alone.
“Talk to me, Nicky,” Joe begs the other man. “Please. If there’s anything else you want me to know – ”
“I was your patron,” Nicky interrupts in a rush. “In the 1520s, in Florence. I helped Andromache with a job, and she mentioned you were wanting to take a few years to yourself to make art. I wanted to make sure you could do that… and I needed you off my trail, of course.”
The sponsorship hadn’t lasted long, only five or six years, Joe remembers. The women and Nicky had needed help with a mission in Sardinia, and Joe never heard from the person who had been paying him again after he returned to the mainland. In hindsight, Nicky must have assumed his break was over. They were in a rough patch at the time, and Joe remembers Nicky giving him a lot of calculating looks during that job, but he never would have asked outright.
“What did you do with my art?” Joe asks. His patron had let Joe keep and distribute most of it, but he had asked that a few pieces be sent his way.
“I donated it to mosques where I could,” Nicky replies. “I know your work wasn’t overly religious, but I thought you might appreciate it, rather than having it go to cathedrals or museums somewhere.”
Joe pulls up on the straps restraining his arms. There’s a bit of wiggle room, but not enough for him to break free. “I am going to kiss you as soon as I get off this table,” he declares.
“I can live with that,” says Nicky. “I have to say, I am not always sure I understand art, but I do enjoy yours. Your portraits especially. It’s obvious how much you care about the people you paint.”
Joe laughs helplessly. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation now. He doesn’t want to be receiving these compliments like this, not when he can’t follow them up with some form of physical affection. Words can’t express the full breadth of his appreciation. Joe hates this. He hates that Nicky is here, tied down and tortured alongside him. Nicky should be safe. Nicky shouldn’t be getting hurt period, not by Joe’s hand and not by anyone else’s.
Joe cracks his eyes open with considerable effort. He peers over at Nicky.
“You should ask me sometime,” Joe tells Nicky, “once we’re out of here, to see all the drawings I have made of you.”
Nicky’s head jerks toward him, his eyes wide. His expression shutters when he realizes Joe is looking back at him now. “All flattering, I hope,” he says coolly.
“I do you justice, I think,” Joe replies. It’s reflexive after nine-hundred-some years. Joe can put a pencil to paper and conjure up Nicolò’s face in a matter of seconds. It comes easy, his beautiful eyes, his long nose, his soft lips, the mole on his chin. Joe knows every feature by heart.
“Do you ever draw yourself?” Nicky asks, surprising Joe.
“Not often, no,” he admits.
“You should,” Nicky says. He licks his lips. “I should like to have one of those, once we are out of here.”
Joe’s mouth goes dry. Whatever thoughts he had been thinking stumble into each other, and the back of his neck prickles with something like excitement.
He swallows. “Alright,” he says. “I have to warn you my commission rates have changed in the past few centuries, though.”
Nicky laughs until he can’t breathe, tears streaming down his face.
*****
“I don’t know if you remember our first time,” says Nicky’s voice, though Joe can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from. “But I am sorry.”
It takes Joe a couple tries to turn his head to look at Nicky. He can’t find the other man at first, even though they’re both still strapped to their respective tables. It’s hard to hold onto everything right now. Time is slippery. His muscles feel like they’re going to slide off his bones if he moves the wrong way. Joe doesn’t remember the last time he felt this loopy. Drugs usually wear off fast, but the steady drip must be doing something for him.
They’re both hooked up to IVs now, him and Nicky. That’s the last thing Joe remembers clearly. He isn’t going to dwell on it. He isn’t going to think too much about that and devolve into a worry spiral. Neither of them are experiencing bad side effects yet. The room feels warmer than it was. Nicky is getting some kind of nutrition again. Everything is golden. Everything feels golden.
Joe finally gets his neck to cooperate. The instant he lays eyes on Nicky, Joe feels flooded with warmth, even more than before. It’s almost like a burning in his arms and in the center of his chest. Probably whatever drugs they’re pumping into him, he tells himself.
“What do you mean?” he asks, trying to remember what kind of conversation they’re having.
Nicky squirms a bit on the table under Joe’s scrutiny. He opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “The first time we… The first time,” he tries after a minute. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“What, with the sex or the slitting my throat?” Joe asks in confusion. “You did both well, I must say.”
A laugh bursts out of Nicky, and Joe feels warm and prickly all over. Nicky’s laugh cuts through their centuries together the sharpest of swords. It sends Joe swirling into the past, reminding him of one night they met up in Kanem-Bornu. He had been eager then, not thinking with his brain, and he hadn’t put much thought into getting Nicolò out of his clothes before getting him into bed. Leaping before looking had led to Yusuf cutting his hand more than once on more than one blade the other man had hidden on his person. Every time he swore, Nicolò had laughed at him. Nicolò laughed at Yusuf all those years ago, and in the moment, Yusuf had wanted to throttle him (and by the end of their tryst, he had a little bit). Now Nicky’s laughter is the loveliest sound Joe thinks he’s heard in years. Nicky’s laugh is clear as a bell, and just as golden.
Joe forces his mind to swim back to the present. When he focuses his vision, he finds Nicky looking back at him fondly.
“Are you still in there?” he asks Joe.
Joe snorts. “Barely.”
Nicky watches him with a soft smile for a few seconds more before his expression slides into something more serious. “It was too big,” he says. “The feeling I had, watching you sleep that morning. I didn’t know what to do with it, that much unexpected feeling. So I did what we did best back then, you and I. I thought if I cut it off at the root, I could stop it from growing even further. And I may not have liked you then, but still, you deserved better.”
“It’s alright,” Joe tells him. “I would say you’ve made it up to me over the years.” His voice comes out suitably suggestive, but that isn’t exactly what Joe means to suggest. He’s thinking about the last time they saw one another, those three days in Buenos Aires.
There had been one night when Joe had won control of the television remote. That been tough luck for Nicky because there was a football match Joe wanted to watch. Nicky had never been much for sports, and that night had been no different. Joe remembers him protesting, arms folded over his chest while sitting to Joe’s left in the bed. Joe doesn’t remember what Nicky said exactly, but he remembers Nicky complaining while he was trying to focus on who had the ball.
“You don’t have to watch it, you know,” Joe had snapped at him.
“Alright, I won’t,” Nicky had shot back. Joe had expected Nicky to get out of bed at least, maybe to venture out into the city to entertain himself. Instead, Nicky had leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, arms still crossed over his chest.
It had been easy for Joe to ignore him at first, to turn his attention back on the game. It became impossible for Joe to ignore Nicky once his sleeping form started to slump over toward Joe. Joe had eventually wound up watching the game with Nicky’s head on his shoulder, dozing off as well during the extra-time.
Joe thinks about it a lot still, that moment of easy acceptance, that domesticity. He feels kind of stupid about it, but Joe still thinks that if moments like that are the best he can get from their relationship, that isn’t half bad. If Joe can have that back for even a few hours at a time, then it’s what he will take.
Nicky’s gaze grows even more intense. “Not for everything, though,” he says.
All of Joe’s muscles lock up. The temperature in the room drops a few degrees. It must, anyway.
“Let’s not talk about that right now,” Joe says. He isn’t there yet, not emotionally. He can’t hold onto this right now. He doesn’t know where to go or how he might react once it’s out in the open between, no matter what Nicky’s explanation or excuse is. “Later. Once we’re… later. Once we have the time.”
Nicky frowns at him. “All we have is time.”
“Please?” Joe asks.
Nicky looks like he wants to argue, but after a few seconds he huffs and his expression closes off. He turns his head away and turns to look up at the ceiling.
“Later,” Nicky agrees, and Joe isn’t sure if he’s grateful or disappointed before he floats away again.
*****
“How long do you think it will take them to realize we’re missing?” Joe asks. He hardly recognizes his own slurred voice. He’s exhausted, but sleep won’t come no matter how long he lies here with closed eyes. Something is dripping onto the floor. Not regularly – whatever the liquid is, the plops Joe hears are unevenly timed. Joe doesn’t want to open his eyes to see what it is or which one of them it’s coming from.
“Not long, hopefully,” Nicky replies. His voice is quiet, but he sounds better than Joe feels. “I was supposed to meet with Andy the first week of December.”
Joe turns that over in his mind a few times before asking, “Holiday plans?”
“Something like that,” says Nicky. He lapses into silence, and Joe lets him. He isn’t going to rush his friend.
“I’ve been thinking about that time in Malta,” Nicky says at last, slowly.
“Oh,” says Joe, as all the air rushes out of his lungs. It feels like he took a knife between his ribs. He forgets sometimes how anger is only a guard for the deep well of hurt within him. Joe doesn’t want to engage with any of it right now; there’s too much sadness, too much sorrow still in his bones.
There isn’t anywhere else for Joe to go, though.
“That time?” Joe asks, willing to take a tentative step forward even though it unnerves him.
“Yes,” Nicky replies. “We should go back.”
Already, Joe feels like crying.
“We should, should we?” he asks. We, he said ‘we,’ he said ‘we,’ and what the fuck does that mean? Nicky can’t mean what Joe thinks he means. Joe can’t look at Nicky, can’t bring himself to look over at the other man. He doesn’t need to see Nicky pretending like he cares, pretending he’s sorry for something he’s never apologized for before in the past two or three centuries.
Joe clears his throat. “It was only one year out of one thousand. I’m surprised you remember.”
Nicky inhales sharply. The silence stretches between them. Whatever was dripping onto the floor has stopped, or at least slowed, leaving Joe alone with his thoughts and his bated breath.
“One year, but did it mean so little to you?” Nicky finally asks, his voice small.
“I’m not the one who left in the middle of the night,” Joe retorts.
The silence grows between them again.
“We fought a lot, Andy and I, when I was trying to help her find Quynh,” Nicky begins.
“I remember,” Joe says. “You’ve mentioned it.”
“She said that I wasn’t looking hard enough,” Nicky says. Joe remembers him saying that before as well. Joe waits for a long time before Nicky says anything else.
“She said… Andy told me once when we were fighting, when she was especially upset, that I would be looking a lot harder if it was you that was thrown to the sea,” Nicky tells him. “She told me that the last time she saw you, you were sailing for Malta. How did either of us know you actually made it to the island? How would it be if you were found out like they were, and what if you were drowning forever right now and we didn’t know where to look for you?”
Nicky pauses to clear his throat. “And then, when she left me, I panicked. I went looking for you; I had to find you. After losing Quynh, I couldn’t… I knew it wouldn’t happen exactly the same way twice. It never does. But I needed to know that you were alive. I needed to know you were alright.”
Joe opens his eyes. “That was about me?”
“Always,” Nicky replies. He slants Joe a confused look, his brow furrowed. “Did you think I was that upset only about Quynh?”
“I don’t know,” Joe replies. “Maybe.” Yes, but that makes him sound like an idiot. He needs to bring Nicky down to his level of embarrassment. “And you lived in my house and shared my life for a year because you were relieved?”
“Maybe,” Nicky admits. “Would you not have done the same?”
“No,” Joe replies. Yes, but that makes him look like a fool.
“Maybe,” Joe amends his answer to after an eternity. Nicky doesn’t reply. He’s clearly thinking, though, his eyebrows drawn together, a few lines across his forehead. Joe watches him and waits. The room stays silent apart from their breathing.
“I know I screwed everything up,” Nicky starts, “that I had the one chance and that was over. And maybe I don’t deserve a second chance, but you… You change. I know you do. I’ve seen it. You aren’t always feeling the same when we meet. And maybe I could be reading you wrong, but I think sometimes you’re different, and that maybe things could be different… with us.”
“You aren’t wrong,” Joe reassures him. He feels like it’s saying too much, like he should protect his own back more, but the words keep coming out. “I fall in and out of love, and I fall in and out of hate, and you have to be patient with me and my feelings if there’s something particular that you’re waiting for. I get mad, and I get sad, and I can be stubborn, but. It doesn’t last forever.”
“Oh,” is all Nicky says. For a very long time, that’s all the gets said between them.
“Why?” Joe asks eventually, trying to get the ball rolling again. “Why, is that how things are for you? You’re on one path, one emotion, and you stay on it forever?”
“Pretty much,” Nicky replies. “I tend to be… fixed on things, I suppose. The things I really care about.”
“Huh,” says Joe. “Decisive.” There’s something there, he knows, something else right in front of his face that he should ask about. His head is killing him, though. He’s exhausted. Joe’s eyes are too heavy for him to keep open any longer. He lets them close, content to listen to Nicky’s even breathing.
“So if I asked you again tomorrow,” Nicky says, “if you wanted to go to Malta again with me, you might say ‘yes?’” There’s a lightness to his tone that makes Joe think Nicky is trying to make the question sound like a joke. He’s just a touch too serious, though. There’s a hope shining through that Nicky can’t quite cover.
Joe mulls over his answer before deciding he’s done enough deflecting today. “I might, yes.”
“And if I asked you the day after that?” Nicky asks, smile clear in his tone of voice.
Joe can’t help but laugh. “Of course. I might have a different answer for you then, but I won’t be going anywhere on you.”
“We have time,” Nicky repeats slowly. He sounds like he’s realizing what that means, how it means he has time for Joe to come back around to him even if or when Joe is angry with him. “All we have is time.”
“Of course,” Joe repeats, reopening his eyes so he can look over at Nicky. “We always will, you and I.”
Nicky smiles back at him, soft and sad. Joe knows he’s wearing a similar expression. They look at one another like that in silence for a few minutes.
“I was awake sometimes,” Nicky confesses, his voice strangled. “After. When we… When you would put your arms around me. I was pretending to sleep. And I thought… I could pretend that you were holding me, holding me on purpose again instead of whoever else it was you might be imagining. That you weren’t just holding on to whoever might be beside you.”
“Nicky,” Joe replies just as quietly. “There is no one else. There hasn’t been, not for a long time now.” Joe has had dalliances, sure, but he hasn’t spent the night in bed with another person since sometime in the 1600s. He told himself for centuries that it was merely a coincidence, something he wasn’t comfortable with, but deep down inside himself, Joe has always known why.
Nicky’s next exhale sounds relieved. “Not for me either,” he admits, and Joe isn’t surprised.
They return to watching each other in silence, clearly thinking about the same thing. Joe looks at Nicky, focuses on the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest until he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He’s going to get to hold Nicky again someday, Joe reminds himself as he falls toward something like sleep. He will. He has to.
*****
“Since you are perhaps nobler than I am,” Nicky starts before his voice cracks. Joe no longer knows how long they’ve been down here together; he lost track of the days somewhere along the way.
Nicky clears his throat. “If you’re given a chance to flee from here, I want you to leave me behind.”
“Nicolò,” Joe croaks.
“You have to save yourself, Yusuf,” says Nicky. “For me. For my sake.”
Joe looks over and finds the other man staring at him with wet eyes. Joe finds his own vision starting to blur as well. He stares at Nicky, wondering if he looks the same, if this is his own sadness is reflected back. Joe wonders how many times they’ve mirrored each other throughout the years and been too stubborn to see it.
“Why?” Joe pleads. “Why did you leave me?” He means the first time. He means any time after. He means every time, but he especially means that time, the time they both wish they could go back to.
“Fear,” Nicky replies readily. “I was terrified. I never loved anyone like I love you.”
All of the air leaves the room for Joe.
Nicky doesn’t seem to notice that Joe has stopped breathing, given the way he keeps talking like nothing has changed. “You have been,” he says slowly, “a constant reminder of how little it is I mattered.”
“Nicky,” Joe starts, his voice breaking between the syllables.
“Not to you,” Nicky interrupts before Joe can truly panic. “Never. No. That’s not… In general, I mean. In the way the world works. In how everything around us goes. I think every other person on this earth is more important than I am sometimes. That other people are more deserving of their happiness or understanding. I think every cause is more important than what I could want.”
He pauses, staring at Joe like Joe is the only person who has ever mattered.
“And then there’s you,” Nicky says. “I see you doing good but taking breaks from helping people for your own pursuits. I see you choosing what makes you happy. All these times throughout the years, I’ve looked at you, and I’ve thought, ‘What if I could have something else? What if I wanted something different? Something I didn’t feel I needed to ruin or compromise on?’ And that scared me, Yusuf.”
“Why?” Joe prods. “Why is that scary to you?”
“Because how can I know if I’ll get it?” Nicky asks. “All this time, I’ve been… I’ve been in love with you. So long now. What if I said it too soon and you denied me? What if you said ‘no’? What if you said ‘yes’ but you changed your mind? If we had broken up or you had gotten bored with me, I would have had nothing.”
“Not Andy, or Quynh, or Booker?” Joe asks.
“I know,” says Nicky. “I love them, but not the way I love you. I would have never let them see me the way you have.” He sighs. “That’s why I kept killing you all these years. You’ve seen me in ways no one else ever has, and I didn’t want you to think I was weak. I was weak, for you. I adored you. I didn’t want you laughing at me or hurting me when my guard was down. Killing you gave me some kind of control when I wasn’t comfortable.”
“What if I had loved you back?” Joe posits, his voice cracking again. “You have to have known, after the year we lived together, it was at least a possibility, Nicky.”
“There’s fear in that too,” Nicky admits. “You could get taken away from me. By death, by imprisonment.”
Joe pointedly looks around the lab they’re being kept in before returning his attention to Nicky. “A fair point.”
Nicky gives Joe the slightest smile before continuing. “It felt like there was too much that could change for the worse. Too many ways for things to go bad. I didn’t know if I could handle having you only for a short amount of time when what I wanted was forever. And I thought, it wasn’t perfect, but if what we had was the best way I could be with you without you getting bored of me, then I would take it.”
Joe swallows hard, his eyes burning. Nicolò was in love with him. The way he talks, it sounds like he’s been in love with Joe since the first night they laid together. If Joe hadn’t killed Nicky after their second time, if Joe had just been the bigger person, could they have been together all these years? Not that Joe regrets the relationship they’ve had entirely. It’s going to haunt him for a while, though, the idea that something kinder might have come from their union instead of the blood-soaked, centuries-spanning affair they’ve had.
Joe blinks back his tears. “And you chose nearly a millennium of loneliness over that love?”
“We’re only human in the end,” Nicky replies quietly. “We choose what is familiar, even if it hurts us.”
A few of the tears Joe had been holding back slip past his eyes. They run down his cheeks at an odd angle, a few skating over the bridge of his nose. He can’t look away from Nicky, though. His beautiful eyes, his nose, those lips. Joe has been studying his features for centuries, but a small, hysterical part of him worries that if he looks away now he might forget them. If he turns away for even a second, Nicky might be taken from him, and Joe might never see his beloved face again.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been comfortable,” Nicky muses, breaking Joe out of his thoughts. “It’s this fighting, I’m always fighting. It’s what I was supposed to do from the start. So what do I do when I don’t have to fight for something? How can I be sure of it? How can I be sure I’m doing things right?”
“You never can be,” Joe replies. “Not entirely.” He feels numb. Nicolò was in love with him the whole time, and his devotion hasn’t wavered. Nicky talks about it so surely that Joe doesn’t doubt his assumption. It’s a bit daunting to realize considering the way Joe’s own emotions have waxed and waned.
Already, Joe hates himself for questioning it. It’s hypocritical, what he wants to ask Nicky now. Joe has loved Nicky too. Maybe that’s why he wants to know. Maybe Nicky will be able to explain his feelings in a way that makes things make sense for Joe.
“But can you really call it love when there isn’t trust, Nicolò?” Joe asks softly.
Nicky doesn’t answer. He stares intently at his own feet. His expression is perfectly blank when Joe tries to get a read on it.
The silence stretches between them. Joe’s heart gives a painful lurch in his chest.
“Nicky,” Joe says. Nicky can’t say it; Nicky can’t be thinking it. He can’t. It’s impossible.
“I trust you,” Nicky says.
It takes all of Joe’s strength not to let out the wrenching sob he feels trapped inside his lungs. “Nicky, no.”
“I trust you,” Nicky repeats, sounding more confident. “I have trusted you, all this time.”
“How?” Joe pleads. “I’m not… you can’t rely on me. I’m not somebody you can rely on like that. I change, constantly, all the time.”
“No, you don’t,” Nicky replies, sounding confused. “Not in the big ways, anyway. You’re still passionate about life, about the arts. You still care about people, no matter where they’re from, and fighting for justice. You are who you’ve always been to me. I know you are. I know where to find you. You keep finding me, like it’s…”
Nicky turns his head to look at Joe, his expression serious and his eyes dry.
“It’s fate,” Nicky tells him. “We were meant to be together. We’ve been together in immortality since that first day. I was just too stubborn to see the meaning in that. I was so convinced at first that we were meant to kill each other. I couldn’t imagine anything else. I couldn’t see anything beyond the blood in my eyes.”
“I think I can imagine the feeling,” Joe adds dryly.
“Oh good,” Nicky shoots back just as sarcastically. “I’m glad you could stretch the limits of your creativity that far for me.”
Joe grins at him. They lapse back into silence for a few seconds more, but Joe knows this conversation is far from over. The smile fades from his face as Nicky watches him. After another minute, Nicky speaks.
“I was fighting, and all I was fighting was fate,” says Nicky. “You’re here, you’re always here with me. When I’m sad or hurt or lonely, you’re here. I don’t know why I couldn’t imagine that you were meant to be somebody to fight alongside me, not my enemy. “
Nicky sighs, pausing to look up at the ceiling. “And by the time I realized that, I had screwed everything up. By the time I wondered if maybe we were meant to be in love, you hated me. The second time, when you came to me in my bed, I thought maybe that was you offering me a second chance. I thought maybe I didn’t ruin as much as I thought. And then it wasn’t. I thought you were mad at me, and you were going to stay mad at me like that forever. And it was humiliating, and confusing. And I had to keep killing you because I didn’t know how to tell you these things, to ask if you saw a different way out instead. Why would you, after everything I’ve put you through?”
It hits Joe then, like one of Nicky’s bullets between his eyes. Nicky doesn’t know what Joe has been thinking all these years. It seems foolish, but Joe has known the other man for nearly his entire immortal life. Nicky has been with him for every step of the way. It feels sometimes like Nicky knows everything Joe has ever said or done or thought because he’s always been there, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t know.
“I only killed you after our second time because of my pride,” Joe admits, focusing on Nicky’s left bicep so he doesn’t have to look the other man in the eyes as he bares this bit of his soul. “I thought ‘I can’t have him thinking I’m weak or that I can’t still fight just because I waited in his bed for him.’”
“You had fear too?” Nicky asks quietly, sounding a bit awed.
“Of course I did,” Joe tells him. “Maybe not the same as yours, exactly, but a fear of something changing between us back then. I was thinking things would change for the worse. I didn’t think until later about how things could have been better.”
Nicky laughs, but he doesn’t sound happy. “I think perhaps that time has passed,” he says. “For things to get better.”
Joe raises his gaze to meet Nicky’s. “No. There’s still time.” There has to be. This cannot be the way their story ends.
“Of course,” Nicky replies. He relaxes a little, staring at Joe for a minute before he sighs. His expression slips toward something even more melancholy. “Once we get out of here.”
Joe frowns back at him, thinking back to the start of their conversation. “You said I have to save myself. To leave if only one of us can.”
“Yes,” says Nicky. “I did.” His tone of voice brokers no room for argument, but Joe has to argue regardless.
Joe clears his throat. “And what if I refuse to leave here without you? If I am unwilling to let you die for me?”
Nicky chuckles. “I won’t die. Prometto. Not without you. And you’ll know where to find me once you have help.”
“True, if not comforting,” Joe replies, giving the other man a tired smile. He closes his eyes. “Tell me again.”
“I love you,” Nicky repeats. “I’m sorry I had to say it here, now. I told myself I would tell you once I was out of here, back when I was alone and you were…” He laughs, small and embarrassed. “I was hoping you would be the one to rescue me, actually. And then you were here, and I didn’t want to say it in case…”
His voice trails off again. Something shifts in the atmosphere. Maybe it would be obvious to anyone, or maybe it’s only obvious to Joe since he’s known Nicky for nearly a thousand years, but he can tell without looking, without any words, that Nicky is sad again.
“I know you aren’t the same,” Nicky says softly. “You don’t see it as fate or destiny. We’re still tied together, you and I, but… It doesn’t have to be the way I see it. The way I think about us. Not now anyway, but with time, maybe… maybe you could?”
Joe isn’t sure he believes in fate or destiny. He isn’t against religion or the idea of a higher power; it used to have importance to him. After 900 years, however, Joe has seen religions rise and fall. He’s seen empires rise and fall. He has transcended all these institutions, the things people prayed to and paid taxes to, things people have died for. Joe has lived through the deaths of civilizations, and he has loved Nicky through it all. Joe doesn’t need a government or a doctrine to give meaning to his actions. He exists. He and Nicky both exist, and that is enough for Joe. If he and Nicky are meant to be together, it’s because they’ve chosen one another time and time again. Their relationship has all the meaning the two of them have given it, and that is enough for Joe.
Joe opens his eyes, giving Nicky the full weight of his attention.
“Nicolò,” he says. “I have never needed a reason like that to love you.”
Nicky makes a high-pitched keening noise, his face screwing up like he’s in pain. He lolls his head to the side to gaze at Joe with pleading eyes. “And do you? Still?”
“Yes,” Joe tells him. “Yes, I love you, Nicolò. You have been my most-hated enemy and my best friend, my savior and my destroyer. You have been everything to me, all of it all these years. I don’t know how to exist without you. I don’t want to exist without you. I love you, and when we are free from here, I swear – ”
Joe’s speech is cut short by the door to the lab opening. He can’t see everyone coming in, but it sounds like a lot, more than just Kozak, and Joe’s already-frozen heart drops into his stomach when he recognizes Andy and Booker as two of them. Joe’s initial panic spikes even further when he realizes Andy’s bleeding from a wound on her stomach and that said bleeding isn’t stopping.
He glances over at Nicky to find the other man already shooting him a sad look. Secretly and very selfishly, Joe is glad it isn’t him or Nicky gaining mortality at the moment. They can still escape from here. They might have to wait a year, or several years, but they still have time. They can repair their relationship yet.
The news of a fifth immortal neither Joe or Nicky have met does little to comfort Joe. He’s more confused than anything to learn about her dreams, these prophetic visions Nile Freeman apparently has that showed her Joe and Nicky being tortured and helped her find Andy and Booker to ask what it all meant. Where exactly was that quirk when Joe was stumbling around Asia in the Dark Ages, he wonders. Andy has hope enough for the both of them, though. It’s quiet but strong, a new spark of life in her eyes even if her immortal years are over.
Andy’s faith is rewarded only a few hours later when a young woman with dark skin and braids comes in guns (well, gun, singular) blazing. Getting shot in the shoulder doesn’t stop her from getting in their holding room and making quick work of their restraints.
Joe isn’t sure who releases him from the gurney and who tosses his shirt at him, but he finds himself free with a face full of blue fabric instead of kissing Nicky like he had promised. He can’t see anything as he puts his head through the shirt’s neck hole, but he can feel it when a pair of hands paw at his hair and then grab at the sides of his head. Joe knows without being able to see that it’s Nicky’s big hands on him, reaching through all their time and all their space to get to Joe.
Joe gets his head through his shirt, turning his face upward, and then Nicky is kissing him. Nicky kisses Joe to make up for every minute they spent apart in the past 920 years. He kisses Joe like he has centuries to make up for and like he has centuries yet to do so. Joe reaches back, reaching up to put his hands over Nicky’s, encouraging him to keep holding on. It’s the first time anyone besides Kozak has touched Joe in weeks if not months, and his nerves sing out.
“Nicky.”
Andy’s exasperated voice cuts through the moment.
Reluctantly, Joe pulls away from Nicky, both of them panting for air in the shared space between them. Nicky rests his forehead against Joe’s as he catches his breath. Joe glances down. A laugh catches in his throat as he realizes the greatest likely source of Andy’s irritation – Nicky is still shirtless. He’s holding the article of clothing in his left hand, but he hasn’t stopped to put it on his body yet.
“Come on,” Andy says. She sounds somehow exhausted and annoyed and fond all at once. “We have to move.”
“On it, boss,” Nicky retorts, a bit breathless as he gets his arms through his tee’s sleeves.
“I’m reasonably sure he can multitask,” Joe teases Andy as he gets to his feet.
Andy rolls her eyes at them, then shoots Joe a separate, questioning look. Joe nods, and she takes off after Nile and Booker while Joe waits for Nicky. Once Nicky is fully-dressed, he puts a hand on Nicky’s back, staying half a step behind Nicky the whole way out.
Nicky leads the way and keeps Joe armed at every turn. He trades off guns and hands over cartridges without having to check, like he's counting in his head all the rounds they both have fired. Joe anticipates it, running solely on adrenaline and adoration. After who knows how long they spent alone together in that laboratory, after everything they’ve said and the understanding that they’ve reached, he and Nicky are a unit. Joe can anticipate every move the other man makes and can follow through. It’s Nicky, it has always been Nicky. Joe feels almost hyperaware of his body and his movements, and when Merrick’s main mook blows a hole through Nicolò’s head, Joe feels the pain like it’s his own. For a minute, the world feels cold, fear and panic spiking inside Joe’s veins as he leans over his beloved’s desecrated body. And then Nicky is gasping for air, and Joe can breathe again, too, sagging with relief over his partner, leaning into Nicky’s reassuring reach up toward him.
Nicky takes Joe’s hand in the elevator as they leave the building. He doesn’t let go on the ride to the safehouse, the pair of them crammed together thigh-to-thigh in the backseat. He makes to let go once they’re at the safehouse, but Joe grabs his wrist, leading him wordlessly inside.
Joe has been to this safehouse before a few times with Andy. It’s a nice place, an actual house unlike some of her strange hideaways. It has two stories, a separate kitchen, and several bedrooms. He knows where he’s going, dragging Nicky upstairs and to the main bedroom. Joe and Nicky shower together in the separate bathroom. Joe can’t stop the way his breath catches when Nicky cards his fingers into Joe’s wet curls, and he wonders errantly when the last time they did this was. Maybe Nicky remembers. Maybe Joe will ask him about it later. The possibility of talking about their history makes Joe’s breathing stop again. He pushes through it, though. Later. They can talk about it later. They can do everything Joe has been wondering about and dreaming of for the past several centuries later.
Joe leaves alone Nicky to get dressed. He goes downstairs to the kitchen to find Andy sitting on the counter nursing some kind of sports drink.
“Six thousand seven hundred and thirty-two years old, and I wondered if I would live long enough to see you two settle down together for good,” Andy says, raising her plastic bottle toward Joe.
Joe nods jerkily, then opens the refrigerator to at least pretend to be doing something. “We will see.” Things seem to be heading in that direction, yes, but come morning, Nicky could change his mind. Nicky might wake up and take back everything he said in the lab. Joe might wake up alone with no note again. He has his hopes, but he isn’t about to admit anything.
Said hopes swell up in his chest at the sight of Nicky entering the kitchen wearing a dark green sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants Joe knows he left last time he stayed here. Andy raises her eyebrows at Joe but keeps her comments to herself.
Nicky hardly talks while they eat ‘dinner.’ He doesn’t even complain about the pasta the agent who helped them escape bought for them or about Joe reminding him to eat slower so he doesn’t make himself sick. He looks as wrung out as Joe feels, the pair of them practically falling asleep at the table. Joe is on the brink of apologizing to everyone else for his lack of manners, of trying to start a conversation with Nile about where she’s from, when Andy interrupts him.
“Leave your plates,” the other woman commands. Joe looks over to find Andy staring at him and Nicky sternly. “Go to bed. We can talk in the morning.”
Nicky gets to his feet first. He reaches for Joe as the other man stands. Instead of taking his hand, Joe wraps his right arm around Nicky’s shoulders, holding onto him as they take their leave and take the stairs together.
When Nicky crawls into bed and turns his back to Joe, his invitation is clear. Still, Joe stops, standing by the empty side and looking down at the other man.
“You… you like it when I hold you?” says Joe. It’s awkward to ask, especially as he’s itching to have Nicky back in his arms. It’s all Joe has wanted for days now. Still, they’ve ruined so much time assuming each of them knew what the other was thinking. So much time has been wasted on not saying what it is they both want and feel.
Apart from the circles under his eyes, Nicky’s face is pale with exhaustion. It’s easy then for Joe to notice when his cheeks color a faint pink as Nicky looks back over his shoulder at Joe.
“I do,” Nicky says after a moment.
Joe kneels onto the space Nicky’s left for him in the bed as soon as the other man finishes talking. Joe draws the covers up over them, slings his right arm around Nicky’s waist, then falls asleep for a solid thirteen hours.
Nicky is still in his arms when Joe finally wakes up. He pushes his hips back against Joe as soon as he notices the other man is awake. Joe had hoped their first time after all their heart-to-hearts would be slightly more romantic (or at least naked and facing one another), but he kisses the back of Nicky's neck and ruts forward against him anyway. They have time. They have all the time in the world now. The breathy moan Joe gets out of Nicky when he reaches down and gets a hand in Nicky’s pants is just the first of many, Joe hopes.
After, they clean up in their bathroom and return to bed to laze for another hour or two. For now they can be a world of two, just Joe and Nicky together.
They’ll have to deal with reality soon enough, Joe knows. With Booker’s betrayal and Andy’s mortality, with introducing themselves to Nile and her friend. They’ll also have to talk about them, Joe knows. He would be lying if it didn’t scare him to think about.
For a little while longer, though, Joe can hold Nicky, and everything else can wait. Joe holds Nicky, and everything feels simple. It feels like maybe things won’t be so bad from here on out. Joe has Nicky, and together they have time.
*****
“I don’t know how long you were down there,” Nile starts softly, “but the things you’re looking at are called ‘photographs,’ and we developed the technology to capture still images on something called ‘film’ about one hundred and thirty years ago.”
“Hilarious,” Joe snarks back at her. He turns away from Copley’s wall of his history, hoping Nile can’t tell his cheeks are burning beneath his beard.
The agent who helped Nile save them is a man named James Copley. The man named James Copley has been investigating the existence of Andy and her fellow immortals for several years now. James Copley’s investigation involves boards and walls full of photos, photos Joe is entirely too mesmerized by. There are pictures of him and Nicky. There are pictures of him and Nicky together. Joe never even considered the possibility, never considered that even if they were being watched that these moments between him and the man that he loves would be captured and frozen in time. Joe can’t stop looking at the grainy image of him and Nicky in the background of a picture taken in Berlin in 1934. They’re leaving a bar together; Joe remembers that night, remembers meeting Nicky there and returning to his hotel room together for the evening. He and Nicky existed together there, in that time, in that place, the way they always have. And now there’s proof of it, two immortals immortalized. Joe wants to shake the hand of whoever took these photos, but he’s sure they’re long gone.
Copley’s boards are also invaluable for filling in some blanks about where Nicky was and what he was doing during years Joe didn’t see him. Joe has always been a bit afraid to ask Nicky about that, about the lives he’s lived without Joe by his side. It’s fascinating to him, finally seeing behind the curtain a bit.
“That’s hilarious,” Joe repeats. “Did you by any chance have a podcast before you died?”
Nile rolls her eyes at him, but she lets it slide. Joe likes her already.
Joe is less sure what he thinks about Copley. He betrayed their secret, but then he helped rescue them. He seems repentant, and Andy and Nile seem to believe he deserves a second chance. Nicky is surprisingly on their side, so Joe is willing to shove down any doubts he has for now, to wait and see how things play out.
Nicky and Joe are firmly on the same side when it comes to the possibility of exiling Booker, though. Joe cares about Book, of course. Joe feels for the other man, but after what Merrick and Kozak did to Joe, and especially after what they did to Nicky, Joe can’t forgive him. Not now, not yet. In time, maybe. Not as soon as Nile is encouraging them to, though.
Fortunately, Joe doesn’t need to worry about a tied vote. Andy agrees with him and Nicky, that the other immortal needs some time apart to reflect on his actions. She also volunteers to break the news to Booker.
By the time they’ve settled on a sentence, the sun is beginning to set. Andy takes Booker down onto the pier to talk in private. Joe watches them from the street above, resting his hands on the railing between the sidewalk and a steep drop down to the sea. The time and the tide wait for no men, not even immortal ones like them.
“How sad,” comes Nicky’s voice from Joe’s left side. “That he would think death was his only option. That he didn’t think he could come to us with his grief.”
Joe turns to look at Nicky. The other man has his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He’s craning his neck a bit to better watch Andy and Booker, the wind ruffling his cropped hair. Joe allows himself a minute to study Nicolò’s face, admiring his beauty and wholeness.
He's allowed to be sentimental, Joe thinks. So what if Andy is already giving him grief for the way he had fallen to his knees when Nicky got shot? Joe has a lot of big emotions he’s finally acknowledging, and watching Nicky’s head get blown apart was definitely one that made the pit of his stomach feel like it was falling out. He didn’t know how else to handle that one. Nicky is fine now, though. He’s here, standing next to Joe the way he has been for over nine hundred years now. Everything is in its right place.
Joe leans back, giving Nicky a wry smile. “Because we are so known for dealing with our feelings in healthy ways, you and I.”
“You’re better at it than I am,” Nicky admits before his look turns thoughtful. “Is that why you make your art?” he asks. “To deal with what we can’t manage?”
“Sometimes,” Joe replies. “Sometimes it’s more about leaving a mark on the world, something to last and linger throughout time the way we do. And sometimes it’s about making something more beautiful. So much of life can be dull and tedious, so much of the same living through the years like this.”
He looks at Nicky for a minute. It’s hardly the first time Joe has wondered about this, but it’s the first time he’s felt comfortable asking the other man about his life.
“And what have you had?” Joe asks him. “When the years get to be too much? What have you had to help you cope with these lives of ours?”
“I’ve had you,” Nicky replies.
Joe stares at Nicky. He forgets to breathe for a minute. He wants to reach over and grab the other man, to hold him and never let go, but he doesn’t. Not too terribly far away, Andy is telling Booker that they rest of them are leaving without him. Joe knows he’s being unreasonable, but part of him is scared the same thing is about to happen here with him and Nicky. Joe is going to reach out, only for Nicky to tell Joe he’s leaving.
Part of Joe knows better. Nicky said he loved Joe. Nicky has been in love with Joe nearly the whole time they’ve known one another. But he’s been afraid of that love for just as long. It’s wrapped around the roots of their relationship, all nine hundred-odd years of it. Joe doesn’t know if they can be brave this time or if the fear will win out again.
He stops thinking so much when Nicky places his hands on the railing next to Joe’s.
“So Nile wants the rest of us to stay together for a while,” Nicky starts. “In case something like this happens again. Andy agrees with her, too.”
“Of course,” Joe replies before turning to look at the sea once more. “It makes sense.” He does like the idea, thinks it wise. He does want to stick close to the women. He likes both of them. He doesn’t want to commit yet, though. If Nicky doesn’t want to live and work with Joe full-time, he needs to be ready to walk away now, before they’re in too deep.
He can feel Nicky’s eyes on him, staring him down like a hawk would its prey.
“A team needs a nice even number like four,” Nicky says finally. Joe feels something brushing against the side of his hand. He glances down to see Nicky curling his right pinky finger over Joe’s left.
Joe turns to face him. “You plan on sticking around, then?”
Nicky meets his eyes. “If you’ll have me.” He moves his right hand so it rests fully over Joe’s. Joe’s breath catches for moment before he can compose himself. He isn’t getting his hopes up. He can’t yet.
“I’m sure Andy will appreciate the help,” Joe says lightly.
Nicky’s eyes narrow. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”
Joe clears his throat. He glances down at their hands again, then looks up to pin Nicky with his gaze.
“You can’t run this time,” he tells Nicky. “If you get scared, we talk about it.”
Nicky takes Joe’s left hand with his right and brings it to his lips. He brushes a kiss over Joe’s knuckles. “Ti capisco. And you promise you’ll talk to me, too.”
Joe’s heart swells with emotion. He wants to tell Nicky how much he loves him, but he can’t find the words. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to. Joe lowers their hands and leans in to press his mouth against Nicky’s. He kisses Nicky softly, carefully, afraid of breaking this thing they’ve only just started to build.
After a minute, they separate. Nicky stares at Joe’s lips.
“I love you,” Nicky says quietly. “I don’t want to see you hurt again.”
Joe grins, realizing the type of fun he can have at Nicolò’s expense now. “Ah. Not so nice when it’s another person doing the harm, is it?”
Nicky scowls. His grip on Joe’s hand tightens. “I had to watch somebody literally gut you. So no. It is not amusing.”
“It’s a little amusing,” says Joe. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve killed me, my love? Would you like me to run through them in chronological order?”
Nicky huffs, his expression turning sheepish. “I can’t say I was counting, and no.” His face grows serious again before he adds, “That will stop now, I promise.”
“Of course,” Joe replies. He doesn’t doubt for second that Nicky means it. Joe doubts himself for a second, but then he decides to reach out anyway, to reach over and wrap both his arms around Nicky, pulling the other man close to his chest. In return, Nicky wraps his arms around Joe. He presses his hands flat against Joe’s back, near his shoulder blades.
“I promise you the same,” Joe continues. He lets Nicky sit with that for a minute before he adds, in a brighter tone, “And I promise to pay for all of our rooms from now on.”
Nicky snorts against the crook of Joe’s neck. “Like hell you will,” he laughs.
Joe pulls back so he can kiss Nicky on the lips again. “Still,” Joe starts once they part. “I can’t promise you nothing will happen to me, hayati. I am prone to getting injured on these missions. We both are. Such is the risk we take having this gift of ours. I’m sure you’ll see me in a sorry state much sooner than you’d like.”
Nicky rolls his eyes. “Emotional trauma, then,” he says. “And evil scientists and billionaires. I can keep you away from those, at least.”
“You do intend to keep me, though?” Joe asks, already expecting the answer.
Nicky lowers his arms so they wrap around Joe’s waist. “Yes,” he replies solemnly. “Forever.”
Joe leans in to kiss the bridge of Nicky’s nose and then his right cheek before pulling back to look into his pale blue eyes.
“Then that’s how long you will have me,” Joe says. Nicky smiles in return.
If he looks behind himself, Joe knows he’ll see Andy walking away from Booker, walking away from everything they’ve shared over the past two centuries. For the four of them as a team, a chapter is closing.
How fortunate he and Nicky are, Joe thinks as he leans in for another kiss. The pair of them never know when or how to walk away. It bodes well for their relationship. It will be one that begins the way their stories always do – without an end.