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Nicolò had always been overly quiet, but he was definitely quieter than usual, these days. Most of the time, Yusuf spoke for them both. He asked questions, listened to the sparse answers he received from the two women that had visited their dreams for nearly two centuries. The women could not explain everything that was happening to them, but they had stories of their own that he was delighted to hear. They spent some time talking about their immortality, and ultimately, about their lack thereof. This bit was a hard blow, needless to say. That particular night, Yusuf had held his lover tighter than ever before.
Still, Yusuf was happy to engage in conversation with the women; he was open and honest and smiling at his newfound peers. But Nicolò... Nicolò was mostly quiet. And Yusuf could feel the tension in his shoulders, could sense the cogs turning behind his neutral gaze. Somehow, it reminded him of a time, already distant, when Nicolò had been silent with him as well.
When Nicolò discreetly moved away from the camp they shared, Yusuf smiled apologetically to the women and followed him. If the Genoese heard him, he didn't react, only stopping in his tracks once he arrived at the nearby stream. The sun hadn't set yet and its orange rays gave Nicolò a melancholic air. Yusuf tentatively called his companion's name. When Nicolò turned towards him, there was something undecipherable in his eyes.
“I don't know if we should trust them. We don't know them,” he said.
His voice was low, thoughtful and weighted. The kind of voice he used when discussing something serious. If the declaration felt sudden to Yusuf, it was obvious a lot of thought had been poured into it, probably ever since they had met with Andromache and Quynh, a few days prior. It was not what Yusuf had expected to hear.
“Well... I didn't know you, either... and you had killed me a dozen times. ” Yusuf tried to punctuate his statement with a joking tone, hoping it would alleviate the atmosphere somewhat. It didn't work.
“Maybe my point should be that you're too trustful, then,” his companion retorted, albeit kindly, an eyebrow arching above blue eyes.
Yusuf stared at him; last he heard, he was not the one getting robbed by children... but there were more important things to note right now, so he kept on track.
“We are meant to find each other, Nicolò. That much is sure,” he answered, knowing Nicolò could not possibly dispute that, for he had said the same not so long ago.
“Yes. But... I don't know. She talks as if everything is a done deal, nothing up for discussion or question.”
Yusuf didn't say anything waiting for him to elaborate. Nicolò almost started pacing then, obviously uncomfortable.
“I can't- I can't do it again, Yusuf.” It seemed as though the words hurt, like they rasped his throat, his tongue. “I can't follow someone blindly in another mindless war... I won't.”
Oh, Yusuf thought as realisation sank in. He should've known. The shadow of despair he could see in the blue eyes he so tenderly loved was another pang to his chest. He couldn't help but take a step forward, reach for him physically, fearing words wouldn't be enough. He held him at arm's length, meeting his gaze with his own.
“We won't. We will ask them what they know, what they want to do exactly and why. We will make a decision together after that. We will do what is right. Always.”
When Yusuf tried to hold him closer though, Nicolò resisted, headstrong, gripping him in return. There was a loaded, heavy silence, in which Yusuf could sense an underlying battle. Nicolò wasn't one for words, never had been, but it was apparent he needed to say something, to get it out. It was written all over his face.
Yusuf remembered it too. Screaming pleas, blood and fire. It still came to him in dreams, as it did for Nicolò. The violence and the intense urgency he felt those nights still made him sweat. Still made his guts churn in disgust at the thought of it all, today. He waited for Nicolò to find his bearings, his words. Nicolò’s hands were gripping him, fingers flexing as he took several quiet breaths. When he finally started to talk, his head hung low and eyes were on the ground.
“I'll never be able to wash it out...” it was barely a whisper, but Nicolò steadied himself, his voice getting firmer, harsher by the second, “No amount of pain can even what I've done. No matter how many times I die trying to do the right thing, I'll never be able to wash it out... ”
Yusuf missed a breath, a heartbeat. The pain and regrets that had blatantly overtaken Nicolò's face were a hard sight to behold. A sight that made his heart ache and his mind scream . The idea of Nicolò dying was unbearable to him, it had been a nightmare of his before they even knew about Lykon. His worst dreams had come to life upon that revelation and were already slowly burning at his sanity as it was.
On some level, he had always known Nicolò to be on a quest for justice and he knew just as well he had sought redemption in doing so. He would never have imagined that, almost two centuries later, his lover would still feel that strongly about what his first life had made him do. But somehow it wasn't exactly a surprise either.
They never really talked about the crusade. At first, because they just couldn't. After that... maybe because it seemed like the words would be meaningless, maybe because they felt like there was no point in rehashing something so hurtful. Most of all, probably because they were both trying to preserve themselves. The subject had been a tricky one, evidently, and the rare times it had been approached had been arduous. Yusuf now regretted that he never pushed for more.
He cupped the back of Nicolò's nape as softly as possible, while firmly enough to get his attention. To get his point across.
“You don't need to die to atone for what you did back then, y-”
“I do. And I wouldn't mind.” Nicolò interrupted. Yusuf’s grip tightened on his lover's neck and he couldn't help but shake him a little. Unless that was just his hands trembling from restrained emotions.
“ Listen to me,” Yusuf bared his teeth before he forced himself to calm down, taking Nicolò's face between his palms. “You don't need to wash it out. You need to remember it and use it to push forward . That's what you've done up until now and that is what we'll keep doing.”
Nicolò always was the first in battle, it seemed. He was relentless and deadly. Terrifying, really. Even more so as he kept advancing on the enemies, slicing left and right, when he should already have been laying down. When his mind was set, he was like a battering ram, clearing the way, tracing paths of dead bodies in his wake. They thought themselves unkillable, and it seemed that gave Nicolò even more power in battle.
But it had not always been that way.
Yusuf remembered the first time they were attacked on the road. He remembered the soft lapping of the stream they followed, and how the yells of the men attacking them drowned it out. He remembered that Nicolò had only picked up a sword when the men came after Yusuf. Most of all, he remembered how his hands had trembled and how his sword had clattered on the ground, where he had dropped it after they had killed their assailants.
Yusuf had kept silent then, coming to pick up the weapon, as this man -that still disgusted him, really- had knelt in the waterstream to get rid of the blood splattered on him. At that time, he couldn't prevent a smile from forming on his face, taking great satisfaction in the fact this odorous shit was taking some sort of bath at last. But the tears he had seen on Nicolò's face had turned that smile sour. It may have been the first step toward some sort of understanding, friendship, and ultimately love.
Today, Yusuf realized that Nicolò never quite left behind that anguish. He just got better at hiding it.
Nicolò never complained about his wounds, never moaned about how much it hurt. Yusuf had thought him strong for it, but he now realized he was wrong. Nicolò was on first line in every scuffle, not because he didn't fear death, not because he thought he was protected by the force that kept them both alive, but because he was trying to right a wrong that could never be repaired. And he didn't complain because something in him sought this particular pain.
Because he thought he deserved it.
Yusuf couldn't blame him for that thought; at one point, he would have had the same, wishing him some kind of repercussions. But they had gone from hating and distrusting each other to something so very different, so beautiful. They had learned a lot from one another over the years and they now knew each other so intimately that they had a closeness all of their own. They had also developed ways of having the other's back, protecting the other be it in battle or outside of it. But Yusuf hadn't been able to protect Nicolò from his own regrets. He did not see how much pain Nicolò still was in, and did very little to help him out of it.
He wondered for a moment if something inside him had been purposely blind to his lover's suffering, even after all this time. If on some level, he had still wished for Nicolò to feel this way. Wished him the distress and the hurt for what he’d done. The sheer fact that he wondered about it gave Yusuf the answer he seeked.
All of this started to make him nauseous, his entrails turning into a sour mess. Nicolò still hadn't replied. And Yusuf realized he never forgave him for being part of that horrendous war. That he never could forget he was a part of it, either.
Yusuf pressed his forehead to his lover’s, a sort of quiet desperation transpiring in the way his hands gripped at him more than he intended to. Things had changed. He held Nicolò in his heart, in a way that made it unbearable to see him in such pain now. In a way that made his previous words agonizing. Nicolò himself had changed, Yusuf saw it, everyday, in every decision he made, in every sentence that left his mouth. Yusuf had often thought him too slow to make choices, sometimes to a frustrating extent, but now he understood fully why. Nicolò pondered that much to make sure he did the right thing this time. To make sure he didn’t repeat his mistakes in any way.
Neither of them could ever forget what happened. But they could go forward together. They needed to.
Yusuf needed him to understand that much. He couldn't let his lover live with those thoughts. He couldn't be one of the reasons he felt like dying could be a valid way to get his redemption.
“Nicolò, I can't have you saying you don't mind dying. Ever again. I hurt each time you get hurt, more than I can say. My greatest wish is that, if God granted us these lives at the same time, then we will leave it together, as well. I don't want to live in a world you're no longer in.”
Yusuf waited for an answer that didn't come. Nicolò slowly let himself go against Yusuf's chest though, hiding in the crook of his neck while holding him.
"I would rather die myself than lose you. That should tell you everything you need to know about redeeming yourself for what you've done," Yusuf added, his hand caressing Nicolò's hair ever so softly.
Nicolò didn't move but his embrace tightened on these words. They stayed silent for a while, quietly clutching at each other as the sun set, as if to ensure the other was still there with them.
"I don't want to live in a world you're not in either," Nicolò finally said, voice muffled against Yusuf's neck. There was a whole declaration hiding in the shadow of his tone. It spoke of love, of unspoken promises.
"Then let's not do that.”
His hand softly stroking the hair at the base of Nicolò’s neck, Yusuf repeated, as much for himself as for his lover, "Let's not do that."
It was a promise of his own. He wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let him lose himself. They were in it together, right until the end.