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For a man formidable and even equal to Yusef himself in battle, the frank sure seemed hopeless at everything else. Yusef watched as he again picked cactus spikes from his hand, the third time today. Granted, their cuts healed almost instantly now, but it still had to hurt. The foreigner seemed no closer to learning his lesson about avoiding them, though. Yusef sighed and shifted his weight, waiting for his uneasy new traveling companion to finish. He would offer to help, but the first time he’d tried, the man had brandished his knife the moment he got close, driving the spines in deeper. Yusef had backed off with his hands up, though he’d been tempted to respond in kind, nearly asking, “you want to go, habibi?” and drawing his own weapon. Alas, they’d tried fighting too many times with the same predictably miraculous result to think it worthwhile. He scoffed; when had miracles become predictable, boring, exhausting to him? Or maybe not miracles in general, but at least the personal miracle of the two of them. An eternity of pointless, consequentless slaughter could only lead to madness for them both. They had to find a new path, somehow, and they could, if only the idiot would stop petting the cacti.
At least the man’s hand had time to heal between injuries. His pale skin on the other hand shone painfully red throughout the day, healing once the sun went down, only to burn anew each morning. Yusef had tried to mime to him how to wrap up his face and arms with rags they had stolen from bodies on the battlefield, but the arrogant invader only looked suspicious and ignored him. At this rate, pigs would fly before the frank would work with him to figure out their shared immortality. Although, flying pigs and all sorts of impossibilities now seemed more likely since their own impossible resurrections mere days ago. It at once felt like a lifetime and mere moments since they had first died at each other’s arms. Perhaps, in time, the frank would grow to trust him. He scoffed at the thought. Now that would be an even greater miracle.
The foreigner had finished picking spines from his palm, and, shaking out his hands, he began walking again. Yusef followed for lack of better options. Before too long though, Yusef saw him panting around cracking and bleeding red lips. He rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the pitiful breaths. It wasn’t Yusef’s fault the man had no idea how to ration water, and besides, even if he died from dehydration, he’d probably come back anyways. Yusef lifted his own water skin to his lips, taking a small sip, but found he couldn’t put it away again while watching the other man suffer. He groaned, but approached the frank slowly, holding up the water. The foreigner squinted in suspicion and shied away for a moment, but his thirst apparently won out, and he reached for the water skin. Yusef held his thumb and forefinger close to mime “just a little,” then handed over the precious water. He half expected the invader to down it all at once, which would hurt them both, just to spite him. However, the man took only a small sip as requested, and seemed to feel at least marginally better for it. He gave Yusef the smallest, most tentative smile he’d ever seen, but at least it was something.
They turned as one and continued on for a few feet until the frank, not watching where he was stepping, trod directly on a venomous snake which promptly struck his ankle. The last thing he heard before another death claimed him, though he didn’t understand at the time, was Yusef’s muttered, “again, habibi?”
***
He’ll give him this; the Genoan at least seems determined and hard-working when it comes to learning Arabic. Not that it’s doing much good despite that. Yusef had already known enough trading languages that he picked up the basics of the man’s native Genoese fairly quickly, but the Italian steadfastly insisted on his ill-fated attempts to learn Arabic so he could understand and communicate with people in the various places they passed through. Despite working at it with relentless determination for hours and hours every day, he has still only learned a few simple words. It is enough to communicate basic needs most of the time, but his accent is so atrocious Yusef feels like he’s learning a whole new dialect just to understand this one infuriating man. There are five sounds the Genoan cannot pronounce at all, and two more letter pairs he gets confused with each other every time.
Yusef had been planning to wait on introducing script until the man was a little more comfortable with speaking the language because he knew that learning a whole new alphabet could be frustrating. It certainly had been when he first learned the Latin alphabet as a young man. However, maybe seeing the clearly different letters would help him distinguish between the sounds he claimed were identical but were so clearly distinct to Yusef. How should he approach it though? Would it help to compare “ت” to the Latin “T” and other similar letters, or would that make him conflate “د ” and “ض” as both “D” sounds even more?
After a particularly painstaking stumble through a simple sentence that evening, Yusef sighed heavily and plucked a small stick from the ground. In Genoese, so the man would actually understand him, Yusef said, “perhaps if you know the different letters you won’t get them confused so often. These are the first three letters of our alphabet.” He drew “أَ ب ت” in the dirt at their feet, then handed over the stick.
The man stared at the letters for a moment, then glanced back at Yusef, licking his lip nervously. “Um . . . I actually don’t really . . .” he trailed off.
“What now?” Yusef asked.
The Genoan mumbled, “never mind,” then gripped the stick in a clumsy fist and tried to copy the letters. Yusef looked up while he concentrated, quickly going through one of his periodic scans of the area for any kind of threat. While he did, he kept instructing the man beside him. “These first three letters correspond roughly to ‘A,’ ‘B,’ and ‘T’ of your alphabet, so it might be good to write those underneath to help you remember. When the scratching subsided, Yusef looked back over, but only saw very shaky copies of his own letters in the dirt.
“Confident you'll remember that easily, huh? I hate to be rude,” Yusef lied to the infuriating man, “but that doesn’t quite mesh with your previous track record. I recommend you try all the study tools you can get, habibi.”
The Genoan mumbled something, too low under his breath for Yusef to hear this time.
“Sorry, what was that?” he prompted.
“I don’t know how to write,” the man confessed, his face flushing in a way that Yusef absolutely did not find sweet.
Now it was Yusef’s turn to stare. “you're illiterate?” he asked, “I thought you were a priest!”
The former priest started miming opening a large book and tried to explain, “I can read. Well, I can read the bible out loud, though it takes a few times through a passage for it to be smooth. I always used to practice for a few hours before a mass to make sure it would sound right. Although, that’s Latin of course, so part of it was just pronouncing the words.” Here, he glances at Yusef almost sheepishly because yes, pronunciation has always been hard for him and probably always will be. If only immortality had come with magical language abilities too. “I just, never really learned how to write. It was never that important, and then I was going off to the holy land,” another look, this time guilty, “and, well, it just never happened.”
Yusef shakes his head at the lack of value on education in the European states. He’s certainly not going to blame the Genoan for not knowing what he was never taught, but inwardly he groans at the extra work he’ll have to do to teach him to write in both languages. A little voice in the back of his mind tries to point at that he doesn’t have to, but no, he’s gonna. If for no other reason than maybe then he can just give the man books to learn about other subjects instead of dealing with them himself. Yeah, that’s the reason.
“Okay, habibi,” he allows himself once more, “let’s teach you how to write.”
***
Finally, the man, Nicolò, has started to be able to hold intelligent conversations in Arabic, which means that he can join in when Yusef has leisurely debates with learned men of some city they're passing through. It is actually quite enjoyable to share these arguments with Nicolò, who turns out to be rather smart now that he’s finally gotten a hang of the language. He even somehow seems more eloquent, or maybe just more willing to express himself, in Arabic than his native tongue. They could debate with the men for hours on philosophy and religion, with Nicolò almost always bringing up some interesting points, especially since Yusef had him read the Qur'an to practice both the language and his literacy. It has all the vowels marked, so it made for a very good learning tool. Based on the man’s past religious convictions though, and the extent he had once gone for them, Yusef didn’t really expect him to get much more from the experience, but Nicolò had surprised him. He read the holy text thoroughly and attentively, asking respectful and insightful questions all the while. Now, that same respectful insight colored the lively debates they found with scholars across the region. Their extensive travels exposed them to new ideas and exciting discussions that the scholar in Yusef found invigorating. He actually also found that he greatly enjoyed Nicolò’s presence there, both for the man’s perceptive arguments, and because after all this time it was starting to feel wrong to be parted from him, even for a short time.
Then, one evening in Alexandria, the discussion turns somehow to Eratosthenes’ methods for calculating the curvature of the earth, and if it would be possible to check by sailing around it. Many centuries later, Yusef will wish he’d paid a bit more attention when he reads that those methods and the original paper have been lost to time, but he is distracted by Nicolò’s laugh. Yusef looks over at him, lounging happily and comfortably among these men, and sees sparkling humor in his eyes. It seems to invite him to join in on the joke, but he has not caught it, and responds with a questioning glance. Nicolò’s face looks confused for a moment, then, as he turns back to the others continuing the discussion in a serious mien, suddenly turns shocked. He glances back and forth between the men and Yusef as though lost, and Yusef decides it’s time they make their exit. He politely excuses them as best he can while Nicolò stumbles through a goodbye, and then they step out into the night air. Yusef keeps glancing at Nicolò to see if he’s okay after that sudden shift, but the man remains lost in his thoughts, staring up at the sky. He waits all the way until they get back to camp before turning to speak, though perhaps that was simply out of desire not to be overheard. Fidgeting for a moment, he turns towards the sky once more before asking, “is the earth truly curved? What did those men mean?”
Yusef stares at him in turn, trying to figure out exactly what he’s saying. “Well, Eratosthenes calculated the circumference of the sphere centuries ago, and scholars have been debating his findings ever since, though come to think of it, they were probably trying to solve the problem long before him too.”
Nicolò had sucked in a little gasp at the word “sphere.” He sat down heavily on his bedroll and stared blankly ahead. Yusef moved to sit beside him, a ridiculous realization starting to dawn. He had heard of some places and people insisting that the earth was flat despite the evidence of needing to use a round earth to calculate navigation correctly. Precise navigation had been emphasized growing up in a merchant family, so he had known as long as he could remember that the earth was a great sphere. It seemed Nicolò might not have learned this from an early age, or, from the look on his face, maybe at all.
“wait . . .”
“I thought . . .”
They spoke at the same time. Yusef gestured for Nicolò to continue.
“I always thought . . . I was taught that the earth was flat. I know now so many other things I was taught were wrong, factually and morally, but this just seems like common sense. And what would even be the purpose in lying about this? But those men seemed so sure, about the calculations and proofs, and we only ever had that the church told us it was flat. I know, it seems almost silly to be so shocked about the shape of the earth when already we are walking miracles beyond reason, but I feel as though my world has been turned upside down. Maybe it has; if we are on a giant ball, how do we even know if we are on the underside of it? Or can you feel when you're living upside down?”
Yusef’s eyes now sparkled with the amusement Nicolò had tried to invite him in earlier when he scoffed at the men’s idea of traveling around the world without falling off. He desperately wanted to laugh at the man but was trying to remain true to his personal vow not to blame Nicolò for not knowing what he was never taught. He’ll explain it to him and answer all his questions, and maybe find a library where he can show him Cleomedes’ simplified explanation of the calculation methods, but first, he puts his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder and asks, “oh, habibi, do you mean to tell me that all this time you’ve been a flat earther?”
***
Somehow, or maybe inevitably, years of travelling together leads to Yusef learning Nicolò’s true nature as well as he knows his own. Maybe even better. And once he sees him and truly, truly knows him, he cannot help but love his former enemy. Nights keeping watch turn to far too frequent longing glances at Nicolò’s sleeping form, looking far too innocent for a man who had once gutted him. Then, miraculously, Nicolò returns his feelings, and the two fall into an easy romance, already as comfortable with each other as they are in their own skins. Yusef praises God in infinite gratitude for not only this impossible gift of immortality, but also bringing wonderful, shining, glorious Nicolò into his life.
One night, shortly after they finally realized their feelings, sitting close to each other by the fire, Nicolò asks him what “habibi” means. He says it so casually, as he’s asked about so many unfamiliar words before in his long and hard-fought quest to learn Yusef’s language, that Yusef doesn’t even think before giving him the literal translation, “my love.”
Nicolò freezes, bright eyes wide as if choked with emotion, which is what brings Yusef up short, feeling like he’s missed a step in their conversation. Then, Nicolò tilts his head just slightly, and whispers, “that’s what you call me. Even since the beginning.”
Yusef almost laughs at the misunderstanding, opens his mouth to explain the word’s connotations as being used for everything from starting a fight to expressing severe disappointment to calling someone an idiot, but Nicolò’s earnest eyes bring him up short for the second time in the same breath. They’re shining with enough love and gratitude to light a thousand nights. If you had told Yusef back at the siege that one day he would get lost in this frank’s eyes, well, that part he might have believed, for even when they died their first deaths at each other’s hand, Nicolò’s eyes had flashed with an unforgettable intensity. But the rest of it, the way Yusef had watched the man painstakingly but determinedly learn the local language and customs, how he worried about Yusef getting cold and silently gave up his own layers despite Yusef’s protestations, the way he laughed and played with the children in towns and cities they crossed, in short, the way the man’s innate kindness broke through his prior misconceptions like paper walls that never stood a chance against his gentle, inextinguishable flame; all that, Yusef of then would have never believed.
Now, he can hardly believe that this sweet, loving man is his to have and to hold for what must actually be eternity. It boggles his mind that they will have centuries, millennia together, and even now at the very beginning, he knows like he knows how to breathe that he could never tire of loving this man. So, with Nicolò staring at him like that, enough to make his heart flutter, and these thoughts running through his head, Yusef can’t find it in himself to confess why he’s really been using the word. He reaches out and takes Nicolò’s hand, for he can’t stand to be parted even by inches a moment longer, and grins back, “yes; habibi, for that is what you are.” The kiss he gets in response is better than the sweetest honey and brighter than the sun at noon.
***
Andy is in the Missouri safehouse kitchen trying to make her own baklava out of spite after Nicky had cruelly tried to trick her into losing the bet for the first time with Walmart baklava. Walmart baklava, the nerve! She had promptly spit it back out, the serene smile on her face of anticipated goodness turning to sour disgust in an instant. She grabbed her ax and might have killed him then and there (he wouldn’t even have put up a fight, he was laughing so hard), if Joe had not intervened and promised they would go buy ingredients and then bake her some homemade baklava in apology. Andy had declared that they could get the groceries, but they were now banned from getting anywhere near her baklava, and she would make it herself, thank you very much. That made Joe raise an eyebrow, but he wisely kept quiet in the face of her best glare. Nicky was still laughing too hard to speak, but the exchange brought on a whole new bought, and it took the boys far longer than it should have to get out the door, Andy looking murderous all the while.
Now, she could be heard banging around and occasionally cursing softly in the small kitchen. Joe and/or Nicky had asked if she wanted help multiple times, but after the third one she had glared so hard and given some ancient and probably obscene gesture that they backed off and joined Nile in the living room. Suddenly, the cursing jumped a few decibels to just under ear-wrenching, and smoke could be seen streaming out the kitchen doorway. The other three immortals glanced at each other and decided they should check on the kitchen and Andy, even if it meant facing her wrath.
When they shuffled to the door, the oven was open to a smoking tray of blackened sludge. Andy had an icepack in one hand and was guzzling a bottle of vodka with the other. Joe, merriment in his eyes and hand over his heart in false sincerity said, “habibi, I'm so disappointed.” Andy managed to flip him off with her ice pack hand so she didn’t have to put down the vodka. Nicky just quietly moved in to start damage control on the kitchen, but he was definitely fighting a smirk as well.
Later, once the boys had cleaned the kitchen and made dinner (“they deserve it for that Walmart monstrosity,” Andy insisted), Nile brought up a question that had been bugging her for a few days.
“So, what’s the deal with ‘habibi?’”
Joe and Nicky turned to each other in amusement, while Andy just rolled her eyes.
“Why, what do you mean, Nile?” Joe asked, smiling.
She shot them all a suspicious look, but continued, “I mean, last week you called me habibi when I messed up learning sword fighting so bad that I tripped over my own feet and stabbed myself in the back. Today you said it to Andy when she royally fucked up the baklava.” A glare from Andy, but Nile held her gaze steadily and the older woman was actually the first to break. It was perhaps a fair assessment. “but you also say it to Nicky all lovey-dovey and sweet. I looked it up, and it said it means “my love,” but it seems like there's more to it than that?”
Nicky and Joe glance humorously at each other once more, then Nicky opens his mouth and proudly proclaims, “when Joe and I met, I was an idiot.”
“Well,” Joe cuts in.
“No, it’s true, don’t even try to deny it,” Nicky continues blithely. “yes, habibi literally means ‘my love,’ but few people actually use it as a sweet term of endearment. It’s much more commonly used passive aggressively, or even as a taunt before a fight. When we first met, I was an illiterate, culturally insensitive, flat earther with zero survival instincts”
“You grew,” Joe intercuts.
“yes, I did, thank you babe, but only because you were so patient with me.” Nile can see this is heading towards them getting sickeningly lost in each other’s eyes, so she clears her throat pointedly
Joe picks up where they left off. “When Nicky finally asked me what the word meant, I gave him the literal translation like you found on the internet, but he was so happy and besotted about it that I couldn’t bring myself to explain properly. After that I started using the word in earnest to him, just a special thing between the two of us.”
Nicky jumps back in, explaining, “eventually, I did find out how it’s really used, but by that time it had become our word, and I thought Joe’s reluctance to tell me was very sweet.”
“So yes,” Joe continues, “it does mean ‘my love,’ but very few people use it that way and we do mostly as an inside joke.”
Nile groans aloud. Not another inside joke. They're constant and impossible to catch up on and there’s centuries of them.
Joe and Nicky smile gently at her and they all continue their dinner
Later that night, after Andy has gone to bed, Nicky is reading curled next to Joe on the couch while he and Nile watch a soccer game. Though, Nile is watching more to practice her Italian than for the sport. She glances over at the two of them, cocking her head in thought, when she sits up abruptly, snapping her fingers. Joe and Nicky look over, and she grins, “I think I get it now. ‘Habibi.’ It’s a little bit like ‘bless your heart.’” Her voice slips into a drawl on the last phrase. She may be from Chicago, but she has more than enough family from the south of the US to know that phrase like the back of her hand.
The guys just look at her in confusion though. She isn’t sure if they don’t know the idiom (doubtful, they spent some time in the states right? Even if it was many decades ago. They should have heard it somewhere) or if they just don’t see the connection to habibi. She tries to explain more, “you know, how it might sound sweet in a literal sense or if you directly translated it, but more often it means something closer to ‘you little shit.’”
They stare at her blankly for a moment before Joe turns to Nicky and deadpans, “yes, my love, what I’ve really meant all these years is ‘you little shit.’”
The resulting laughter strikes them all worse than Nicky’s earlier outburst about the Walmart Baklava. Each time one of the three start to calm, they’ll look at the others and start again. Before long, a grumpy Andy stumbles out of the bedroom like an avenging scraggly bunny rabbit. She simply raises an eyebrow in a wordless demand for explanation that somehow still manages to be terrifying. The others quiet down enough to meet her glare, but one glance to try and figure out how to explain is enough to set them off again even louder than before.