Work Text:
In truth, Nicolò loves Yusuf more than he could ever say. More than his own limbs, his own breath, with every beat of his heart, in time with Yusuf’s. It is a certainty, a steadfast and immovable foundation of his being, by now.
That does not mean, of course, that there is not… friction. They are two very different men, sometimes.
“I tire of this place!”
Yusuf announces it, loudly, to the pasture around them. The sheep are unbothered by this, and continue grazing. They have become completely inured to Yusuf’s histrionics, and he scowls at them, hands on his hips.
“Philistines,” he says, and throws himself on the grass. He then springs up again, yelping, because the grass is sparse and brown, and the ground is baked hard and it is very, very hot. The Sardinian sun is fickle at best and merciless at worst.
Nicolò, much more wisely, has chosen a rock in the shade. He sits with his crook across his lap, chin propped on his hand, and watches Yusuf scoot back into the shade beside him, where the ground is less fiery.
Yusuf draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, pouting fiercely. Nicolò lets him stew a moment longer.
“Why do you tire?” he asks.
Yusuf turns to him with a look of complete and utter outrage on his face.
“Why? Why?” he demands, his voice almost shrill with indignation. “Nicolò, what kind of question is that?”
Nicolò thinks it a perfectly legitimate question. He likes this place. He loves the gentle but rugged mountains, the rocks and the cliffs and the stiff, scrubby pines, the scent of the myrtle and the laurel bushes. He loves the olives and figs and carobs. He loves the animals, the mouflons and deer, the lizards and crawling insects, and the birds, from the smallest to the great vultures that soar above. He loves the silence broken only by birdsong and the symphony of grasshoppers and the quiet rustle of the trees. He loves tending the sheep, hearing their bleating, feeding and watering and herding them, and in the spring, helping the ewes give birth, bringing new little lives into this world, soft and white. He loves the sun on his skin and the cool of the shade and the caress of the mountain breeze on his face.
This place, he thinks, is its own sort of paradise.
Yet while he flourishes, Yusuf seems to wither.
“Do you not like it here?” Nicolò asks. Yusuf lets his head fall back with a long-suffering sigh.
“I grow weary, Nicolò,” he says. “I am bored!”
Nicolò blinks. “Bored?” he repeats, surprised. He would have deemed this place perfect for art to bloom, inspiration in every hillside. Yusuf raises a rather condescending eyebrow at him.
“Yes. Bored. It is the same, day after day! The sheep, the mountains, the vast, never-ending blue sky! I miss…” He huffs, folding his arms. “I miss being in a city. I miss gossip and debate and the vibrancy of human life! I miss markets and varied foods and music and festivities! I miss libraries and art! I miss people!”
Nicolò grip on his crook tightens, twisting nervously. In truth, despite the knowledge of Yusuf’s unwavering love, there is always some fear. Little, dark thoughts, ink in water, that Yusuf might one day want more. Want better.
“Do you tire of my company, Yusuf?” he asks, very quietly.
Yusuf whips around, his eyes wide and horrified.
“What? No!” He springs up, crowding close to Nicolò on his rock, and takes his face between his palms. “Never!” He kisses every part of Nicolò’s face, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips. “Never, not in a thousand lifetimes!”
He sits back, taking one of Nicolò’s hands. “No, I merely… miss other people. This place is beautiful but so quiet. My thoughts chase themselves, tangle themselves in knots until I can barely think. My head is so loud it aches, sometimes.” He sighs. “We have boundless time, and yet I fear that here there is too much of it.”
Nicolò reaches out, stroking Yusuf’s cheek. “I think I understand.”
What is for Nicolò quiet contemplation, for Yusuf is, after too long, maddening emptiness. They truly are two very different men. He kisses Yusuf’s wrist, the heel of his hand, the pad of his thumb.
“I would say we could leave, but…” He gestures helplessly to the sheep. “We promised.”
Yusuf hums. “We did, we did.”
Nicolò knows Yusuf is a man of his word. They promised the old widow Agnese to mind her flock for the spring and the summer, and Yusuf would never renege on such a thing unless there was, truly, no other choice, but wanderlust flaps desperate wings against the cage of his ribs.
“My desire is frivolous,” Yusuf admits. “I feel quite selfish, now that I think about it.”
“Do not be foolish,” Nicolò chides gently. “You have wishes, and I would see you happy, Yusuf. That is my desire.” He gets to his feet, crook discarded, pulling Yusuf with him. “When the summer ends, we will find a city, a huge, wonderful, loud city, and you will discuss your philosophy and write your poetry and make your art again!”
Yusuf laughs, tugging him closer. “In truth, Nicolò, wherever you take me, I am happy. Forgive my grumbling.”
Nicolò could never paint with words like Yusuf does. He could never voice the beauty he sees in that beloved face, the glory of Yusuf’s bright smile, the melody of his laughter, the softness of his joyful eyes. So he kisses him, attempting to pour all his love, his devotion, the boundless depth and lofty heights of it into where their lips meet. And when Yusuf kisses back with the same passion, perhaps that is proof he can feel it.
They must be very distracted, because all of a sudden Yusuf squawks into the kiss. The earth disappears from beneath their feet, and Nicolò’s back makes hard, painful contact with the ground. Their teeth smash into each other, cracking, cutting Nicolò’s lip and his tongue, and Yusuf’s entire weight on top of him knocks the wind from his lungs.
Dazed, he stares up at the sky, feeling new teeth grow back in, an itching, sharp ache. It is a deeply unpleasant sensation.
“You beast! Demon of a sheep!” Yusuf cries. He scrambles up to his knees, pointing accusingly.
The sheep – the one Nicolò has called Alfreda, because he cannot help but name them, and name them after saints at that – bleats mockingly back, and turns away, content in her petty vengeance.
“She charged right into me,” Yusuf grumbles, shifting so he can massage his behind. Nicolò laughs at that, wiping away the blood from his mouth.
“Alfreda is very opinionated,” he says, sitting up. “God’s punishment for shirking our duties to mind them, no doubt.”
Yusuf snorts, and sits back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I shall remember her for my entire long life,” he vows. “I shall remember and curse Alfreda the sheep, until death finally comes for me. Do you hear me?!” he yells after her. She takes absolutely no notice, going back to grazing.
Nicolò laughs again, falling to the side into Yusuf’s shoulder, and when the laughter dies away, he stays there. Yusuf holds out his hand, and Nicolò takes it, threading their fingers together, and Nicolò can never cease to marvel at how perfectly they fit, despite looking, and being, so very different.