Work Text:
“Yusuf,” Nicky croaked through dry, cracked lips. His voice was weak and wavering, as if every syllable took more effort and energy than he could muster. He was barely able to manage more than a whisper, his throat so dry and his body so weak that even a single word was nearly impossible to manage.
It had been ten days since he’d last eaten, and six since his last sip of water. He knew that death was approaching, could feel it like an old friend welcoming him with open arms. His head was thick, his tongue swollen in his mouth, and two days before he’d started to shiver and couldn’t stop. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, couldn’t remember where the others were, and couldn’t focus enough to try and recall any information of importance. All he knew was that death was near.
He didn’t even know if this would be his first death, if he’d already dehydrated in this dark, dank prison cell. He didn’t know if he’d starved to death already, or if he’d suffocated after being unable to support his own weight. All he knew was that he was alive right now, but for how much longer?
Every muscle in his body burned. He’d spent the entirety of his stay - as far as he knew - hanging by his wrists with thick manacles which hung from the ceiling. Judging from the state of his wrists, there had once been a fight in him that was long gone now; they were bloody and bruised, with so many layers of skin scraped off that he was sure if he looked hard enough he would see flashes of bone. His shoulders had long since dislocated and gone largely numb, but every time he tried to move he managed to awaken a fresh wave of agony in his arms and back - pain so intense that he would be throwing up if there was anything at all in his stomach to come back up.
“Yusuf,” he whispered again, like he could summon the man if he said his name enough. Sometimes he was almost sure that it had worked; he’d hear the soft, sweet voice, in the distance or right behind him, whispering his name and telling him that everything was going to be alright. Or sometimes, telling him to let go. To let himself die, and everything would be better when he woke up again.
He wanted more than anything to listen, but something deep down told him to hang on, to shrug away from Death’s grip.
Maybe that was the part of him that was afraid that this was his time, that the next time he went it would be for forever. And he wasn’t going to let that happen, not without Yusuf - without Joe, he corrected himself softly.
But he was oh, so tired, and his body was so weak. Every breath took more effort than the last until he could barely afford for his thoughts to drift rather than focusing on the slow expansion of his lungs. It felt like he was suffocating. And maybe he was - his vision was beginning to blur around the edges, and he could barely feel the cold air on his lips as he inhaled.
Slowly, and without meaning to, he found himself relaxing into Death’s warm embrace. His breaths slowed, the pain lessened, and between one breath and the next, he was gone.
When he next awoke, it was to fingers stroking his cheek and a soft voice in his ear. “Nicolo, come back to me.” The words were said so gently and with so much love that he couldn’t resist them, prying his eyelids apart and letting his gaze roam around the room until he found his eyes locked with the eyes of another - soft, brown eyes filled with love and worry and adoration.
“Joe,” Nicky whispered.
In response, a pair of lips brushed his, uncaring of how dry and cracked they were. “Nicky. I’m here.”
“You came.” He almost wept as the words escaped him, almost screamed as Joe undid the manacles around his wrists and the weight was finally gone from Nicky’s shoulders. But he did neither, he just gazed up at Joe with a lump in his throat and a warmth in his chest. His lips curled into a weak smile, and he ignored how they bled as dry skin cracked open.
Joe returned the smile and kissed him again, more gently but lingering as if he didn’t ever want to stop. “We did. Come on, my love. Let’s go home.”