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There are times he wishes he had been gifted with an eloquent tongue.
While training he had prayed for the skills to guide and comfort those who came to him, and he had thanked God when it seemed as if his prayers had been answered. Nearly a millennia later and he was still skilled at the art. He knew hundreds of phrases in multiple languages to ease another’s burden, to help them in their time of need. He had done so for his family countless times over their long lives and was doing so for Nile now that she had joined them.
But for all the gifts he had been granted, he could not wax poetic about anything. And from time to time that irked him in a way he could not fully explain. It was particularly frustrating when it came to Yusuf.
He wished he could write sonnets on the wonder that was Yusuf in action. Fill verses about the sinuous slide of his muscles and skin as he moved from one opponent to the next. Sing songs about the way Yusuf’s smile made it feel like the very sun had forced its way into his rib cage, stuffing it full to bursting with such a raging heat and fire that he feared he would combust. He craved the skills to weave words that could paint the curve of his hip as he lay on the bed, body pliant and soft with sleep during the quietest moments of the night. Sketch the lines and shadows of his fingers as he turned the page of a book or cleaned his sword. He wished he could whisper all the ways he loved Yusuf, while they lay sated and content. Bend the words to his will and give Yusuf that same feeling of love and understanding he had from every word that slipped from those beloved lips.
But he could not. The art was lost to him even after so many years. And so, like many things one did when lacking a needed tool, he made do with what he had.
He showed his devotion with every touch he could. A hand slowly threading through dark curls whispered promises of understanding and trust. The firm slide of his hand down an arched spine or arms wrapped around solid shoulders was a sonnet of desire and passion. Light kisses that barely brushed the skin late in the evening or early morning were oaths of protection. A shuddering breath replaced pledges of undying love, smiles were nonsensical nothings to whisper in a sensitive ear. Loving embraces replaced declarations and speeches that could never cross his lips lest he fumble over the syllables.
Despite it all, by some twist of fate or some divine gift, Yusuf understood every word he said. He heard the promises through calloused fingertips and chapped lips. He cherished the compliments that were peppered upon face and body with the same zeal one would hold for written word.
Nicolo was not gifted with an eloquent tongue, but he had been gifted with the other half of his soul.
He thought he got the better part of the deal.