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Somewhere along the long journey, Yusuf had found a copy of the Aeneid. When they sit on bleached sand, resting their bones from travel and war and the perils of never aging, Yusuf pulls it from his bag and presses it into Nicoló’s palms.
Nicoló stares at it; he hasn't held a copy since he was young and in grammar school, tracing the words and worlds in his mind. He had whispered some of his favorites in his lover's ear when they were pressed tightly together over the years, decades sewn together by images of a Trojan’s wanderings and a Latin princess’ war torn country.
Then, Nicoló looks into Yusuf’s eyes, his own tongue bursting with thought but struck silent by the surety of love he feels rising in his skin. When he meets dark eyes, he sees a hint of trepidation and question, the sight of uncertainty thickening Nicoló’s blood to a roar. He catches Yusuf's chin and pulls it forward so he can whisper in his ear, “Amore sum viro mirabili.”
(Basically: what if Nicoló liked the Aeneid?)
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