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The first time, they do not kiss.
Yusuf does not know if a man like Nicolò even wants to be kissed. He understands the moonlight-pale stares from across the fire, understands the hesitant touch on the inside of his thigh that sparked this, but still, they do not kiss.
Yusuf, fingers twisting inside the other man, still slick with the grease from the waterfowl he caught for their dinner; Nicolò, gasping and shaking, hands scrabbling against the dirt as he spills against his will. He’s aching, body yearning for release, but Yusuf wants nothing but the secondhand satisfaction of the tremors wracking the Italian below him.
Nicolò does not look at him afterwards, face dark and full of shame. Yusuf bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds and sucks the slick, copper question of, “You know this is not wrong, don’t you?” down his throat to settle heavy in his stomach. They’ve stopped killing each other a year ago but sometimes he wonders if that’s actually true. Maybe they’ve moved on from blades and settled on stolen glances and frantic touches.
He wants to scream, wants to shout, “Your God cannot want you to live like this.”
But still, Nicolò does not look at him.
It’s days before they even speak at all. They’re somewhere along the coast—a day’s ride from Basra—and the cool breeze off the water is reassuringly familiar. Nicolò has been quiet, distant in a way that is unbecoming, and Yusuf silently seethes with unaccustomed jealousy. He pulls off his tunic and folds it carefully, fully intending to let the cool waters of the sea wash his frustration out with the tide, when Nicolò finally opens his mouth.
“I was a priest,” he mutters, so quiet that Yusuf barely heard him over the spray of water along the shore. “Before.”
But it’s enough to stop him in his tracks. In the six years that they have been traveling together, Nicolò has never mentioned it. Crusader? Yes. Catholic? Yes. But a priest?
Yusuf kneels. He fumbles for the words and Nicolò does not meet his gaze. “Why do you tell me this now?” he asks in Italian. “After all this time?”
Nicolò turns to him and his pale eyes are rimmed in red. “I do not know.” His hands twist in the fabric of his cloak and his knuckles turn white. “I thought God was calling me. Now I am left in this state and I cannot understand if I have been damned or graced.” There’s a storm swirling off the coast and it reflects in Nicolò’s eyes, washing dark clouds over him. Yusuf has never seen a more beautiful man and pains him to think that it has to be this man.
“We all had a higher calling,” he says, reaching out a hand for Nicolò’s. The other man allows it and does not break eye contact. “Maybe you did not find yours on the battlefield.”
There is a darkness in the man’s face that Yusuf does not recognize. A lightning-flash quickness of frustration washes across his unchanged expression like a rogue wave. But, as easily as it comes, it is gone and Nicolò stares back out into the tumultuous sea. He blinks slowly, eyelashes spreading across the dark wash of skin under his eyes, and nods silently. “Maybe not.” he whispers.
The sea rolls in and neither of them moves to go.
~~~
The second time, they do not kiss either.
Yusuf tosses and turns in the bunk, enraged at his newfound immortality. He’s never had problems sleeping, let alone sleeping on the open seas. The straw mattress gathers in lumps beneath him and he is slightly too tall to fully stretch his legs. He can hear Nicolò’s soft, steady breathing above him and hates the man even more. Tossing an arm underneath his head, a frustrated huff rips from his lungs.
He lays there for what feels like hours before he finally abandons the idea for finding rest. “Nicolò,” he hisses, swinging an arm up. “Are you awake?” The bunk above him creaks and shifts but Nicolò makes no noise.
Damn Italians.
Yusuf rolls his eyes and rucks his blanket down to scratch his nails over his stomach. It’s too dark in the hull to see anything, too small a room for a window. His skin crawls, his bones vibrate under his muscles. Unable to do anything else, he fumbles with the laces on his pants, working a hand under the fabric.
He palms his cock lazily and allows his breath to grow deeper and deeper. It does not take long to grow hard, hips making short, rolling thrusts up into his fist. It’s dry and the calluses on his hands are rough but he is past caring. Yusuf has merchant’s hands, worn from rope and crates and sun. He wonders if Nicolò’s hands are soft from years in a church; he’s seen what the other man can do on the battlefield, has felt it firsthand through his ribs and neck and stomach, but Yusuf can’t help but imagine the glory Nicolò could inflict on his body with those hands.
The first full stroke elicits a low moan from his throat and his eyes flick upwards. The only sounds in the room are the rustling of fabric and an occasional snore from the man above him. Yusuf tightens his grip, slicks his hand from his dripping cockhead, and allows himself to get lost in the need.
He’s no stranger to this. The long, lonely nights of war, the even longer nights spent watching Nicolò sleep. There’s no use getting attached to anyone now. He is immortal—anyone he has loved, has touched with desire, will go to Jannah while Yusuf is left here on earth. Left with Nicolò. What a Paradise indeed. Maybe it’s a punishment, he muses. Maybe Allah knows what he does, what he is, who he desires, and has decided simply to spend an eternity laughing at him.
Yusuf works his hand, twists his wrist just the right way, feels the heat in his stomach build, when a hand clamps down over his mouth.
He twists and kicks, fights to regain his hand from the confines of his pants, when a voice out of the darkness hisses like a snake, “Sta' zitto!” Be quiet. Nicolò. Yusuf crashes back against the border of his release, trembling in the black heat as he feels the other man’s hand join his. His back bows, panting heavily as Nicolò wraps his deft fingers around his cock.
A gasp tears from his throat, clawing at Nicolò’s hand like a wild animal, and Yusuf knows it’s nothing else but the Italian’s name. Nicolò’s grip on his mouth relaxes as he digs his fingers in Yusuf’s jaw. “I was right to kill you the first time and every time after,” Nicolò growls, every vowel curling around them in indelible vines. Burning. Branding. “The way you tempt me is unholy and I hate you for it.”
“Nicolò…” Yusuf gasps. No, begs. It sounds like his prayers, lilting and glorious and holy. “Nicolò, Nicolò, Nicolò, please… ”
His hands grasp for anything, finding home in the other man’s tunic and long hair. The silken strands twist in his fingers and Yusuf pulls their faces as close as Nicolò will allow. He feels Nicolò’s hot breath wash across his face and his thighs begin to tremble. He’s so caught up in his own desire that he barely registers the younger man’s hardness against his hip. Nicolò’s voice trembles as he spits, “I would break you for this, if I could.”
And break Yusuf does. The threads holding him together snap all at once and he spills into the younger man’s hand with a shuddering cry. His body rolls with the aftershocks and Nicolò’s fingers dig so hard into his beard, into his jaw, that Yusuf knows they would leave bruises if he could keep such marks.
It’s minutes before he can steady his breathing, an eternity before he can say anything at all. “Nicolò,” he whispers as the other man withdraws his hands. “Nicolò, wait.”
It’s too dark for Yusuf to see Nicolò’s face but he knows it like nothing else. Knows that crease in Nicolò’s eyebrows as they knit together, the curl in his upper lip as he sucks on his teeth. Waiting. Hesitating. Always hesitating. Then comes his voice, softer than a whisper, barely a breath, “I cannot. I am sorry.”
“Stay.”
“No, Yusuf. You—” Nicolò’s voice fails as his grip releases. A thumb brushes across Yusuf’s lower lip and his stomach twists and knots. “You do not understand. You will never understand.”
And, as quickly as he had appeared, Nicolò vanishes.
~~~
The third time, Yusuf does not allow Nicolò to run.
They dock in Muscat and he uses a few old connections to find them a private room. “I heard you died, my friend,” Asif says, clapping him on the back and teasing him about his unkempt beard. “You look the part.”
“Allah willing—I am, unfortunate for you, not dead,” Yusuf laughs, as wide and as loud as a crack of thunder. His gaze flicks to his traveling partner and Nicolò’s hidden smile is veiled by the blinding sun flashing off the water. But the smile is there nonetheless and Yusuf knows that there is still some part of the younger man’s heart that is tender for him. He turns back to Asif and raises an eyebrow in question. “My dear friend, you wouldn’t happen to have my favorite indulgence on hand, would you?”
The room is bordering on extravagantly large, white-washed walls filled with tapestries and art. Nicolò sets his pack down and touches the bed carefully, his hand sinking into the mattress and linen sheets. He looks up at Yusuf in surprise. “Feather. You have very generous friends.”
Yusuf shrugs and sets the jar of syrupy figs down on the table. “Kind friends,” he corrects. “Friends that I will miss. There will be little time left to spend with them before they begin to realize.” There’s no use dwelling in the past, not when an endless future stretches on in front of them. He sits and motions to the chair next to him. “Will you join me, Nicolò?”
“Even now? After all I’ve done?” Nicolò asks quietly, still lingering by the bed. “Why?”
“You know why.”
After a moment, the chair slides across the tile floor and the Italian drops down with a soft thud. He looks tired, Yusuf thinks, but he always looks tired. Dark washes of color under Nicolò’s eyes that never seem to fade and Yusuf could spend centuries wondering what weighs heavy on his mind.
“Have you had spiced figs before?” he asks, opening the jar and letting the sticky sweet smell of the syrup curl around them. Nicolò shakes his head and a smile cracks across Yusuf’s face. “Never once?”
“No,” Nicolò says, staring down at the table, hands tucked too-calmly in his lap. “I was not allowed such things when I was with the Church.”
“Would you like one?”
It’s so quiet that Yusuf can hear Nicolò’s slow, steady breathing over even the sounds from the marketplace and the rush of the sea outside their window. He’s sure the other man will say no—maybe he will even run. Maybe Nicolò will abandon him and Yusuf will be left dreaming of him like the dark haired women they both seem to see in their sleep. But Nicolò does not run. Only lifts his head and meets his gaze with those glass blue eyes of his. “Yes. I would like one very much.”
The figs are delicate and Yusuf knows from experience how easily they will break. He cradles the fruit with two of his fingers, rolling it into Nicolò’s outstretched palm. He does not take one for himself though, but sucks the syrup from his fingers before it can drip to the table, the younger man watching him with hawkish eyes. Yusuf motions to the fig in Nicolò’s hand, fingers shiny with spit and sugar. “You should eat.”
There’s that hesitation again. Like Nicolò is afraid to allow himself indulgences, things he so desperately desires. He stares at the fruit like it’s a viper before finally raising it to his mouth.
The moment it hits his tongue, Nicolò’s eyes flutter shut and a heavy sigh escapes him. The syrup and juice from the fig drips down his chin, down his wrist to his elbow, and Yusuf suddenly cannot stand it any longer.
He pushes the jar aside and leans across the corner of the table, tangling his fingers in Nicolò’s hair. There’s a startled flash in the Italian’s eyes before their mouths crash together but Yusuf watches panic turn to relief as Nicolò sags into the kiss, eyelashes fluttering shut. He licks into the younger man’s mouth, tasting sweet sugar and sharp cinnamon. Tasting cardamom. Tasting Nicolò.
His lips and beard are sticky with syrup but still he does not let go. Yusuf isn’t sure if he will ever let go. Not when he finally has him.
But he finally pulls away when he feels wetness on his cheeks, startling when he sees that Nicolò’s eyes are bloodshot and wet with tears. It feels like his world collapses. Feels like every single death he’s ever had happens all at once—devastating and raw and sick. Yusuf falls back into his chair. “I—” He struggles for words; are there any for moments like this? “I am sorry, I should not have—”
This time, it is Nicolò.
Nicolò, who knocks the chair out from underneath himself, tacky fingers holding fast to Yusuf’s tunic. Nicolò, who captures him so roughly that Yusuf’s lip splits against sharp teeth. Nicolò, who throws himself unconditionally into his arms like he’s throwing himself from a cliff. Nicolò, who falls headfirst into a sea of need while Yusuf willingly accepts his fate to drown alongside him.
They kiss for minutes, for hours, an eternity, it feels. Would he even know if any time has passed? Would they just continue kissing each other until the world crumbled to dust around them, everyone else forgotten?
“Nicolò,” Yusuf whispers in a shared breath, easy as living, and suddenly the younger man pulls away like he’s been burned. Yusuf catches his wrists and holds fast, much to Nicolò’s terror. “No,” he says, firm and unyielding, “I will not let you run from me again.”
“You do not understand!” Nicolò pleads and part of Yusuf’s heart screams that he never wants to hear this man beg for anything ever again. His chin quivers and he shakes his head. “Please, Yusuf, you do not understand.”
Yusuf slides from his chair to the floor, kneeling at the other man’s feet; his hands remain clasped around rabbiting pulses. “Then tell me,” he supplicates, bringing Nicolò’s palms to his lips. “Tell me or send me away because I cannot bear not to have you wholly.”
Nicolò stares up at the ceiling, sags under his touch, and finally relents. “As you wish.”
They sit across from one another on the bed, rope lattice creaking underneath them, and Yusuf watches Nicolò like he’s waiting for a flower to bloom. His hands are clasped as if in prayer, lips moving in barely audible words, and Yusuf has been close to enough dying Crusaders to recognize final rites when he hears them. But he allows Nicolò to pray for forgiveness before cracking his own ribs open to expose every aching, black spot in his heart to Yusuf.
“I was a priest,” Nicolò says finally, a loose strand of hair falling across his face. “Before.”
Yusuf’s face pinches in confusion. “You have told me this.”
The younger man shakes his head and his cheeks burn and flush—the heat of his shame rising quickly to his face. “Yes, I know, I know. I have told you this but I did not tell you why I am no longer a priest.” Nicolò’s hands begin to tremble and he twists them harder, the delicate skin around his knuckles turning white. “I did not leave by my own volition,” he says, looking up at Yusuf as if he is the first person Nicolò has told. Maybe he is. “I was sent away.”
Yusuf does not understand. He has seen Nicolò pray, sometimes more often than his own prayers. He can’t imagine a man as devout as the one sitting across the bed from him being asked to abandon his calling. “Why did they ask you to leave?”
A stray tear slips from Nicolò’s eyes and he brushes it away quickly with the heel of his hand. “I was not asked, Yusuf. You still do not understand,” he says, frustration tainting his voice. “They found me with a man.” Yusuf’s mouth goes dry and his heart comes careening to a standstill in his chest. “They found me in a compromising way with a man in my own church. I was so ashamed that I begged them to end my suffering.”
“But they sent you to war instead.”
Nicolò nods weakly. “I was well liked by those in my church, if you can believe,” he jokes thinly and forces a barely-there smile. “There would be talk and the bishop did not want that. So he gave me a choice. They would hang me until dead or I could go take the Holy Lands. Either way, it was a death sentence for me.”
Yusuf scrubs a hand over his beard and tries to let the anger in his body recede. “What about the man? The one you were with?”
The Italian worries his bottom lip with his teeth for a minute before his shoulders shrug. “I am not sure. He was not sent with me, that much I know.” There’s a far off look in Nicolò’s eyes as he stares out the window toward the setting sun. The light bathes him in gold and Yusuf watches his throat bob as he swallows thickly. “I fear he was not given the same choice I was.”
“Did you love him?” Nicolò’s head snaps back to look at him and his eyes are wild and caged, like an animal caught in a snare. Yusuf tries not to sound as worriedly jealous as he is when he repeats himself. “Did you love him, Nicolò?”
“That may be my greatest shame, my friend,” Nicolò whispers, refusing to break his gaze. “That I destroyed both our lives for nothing. That when I touched that man, I felt nothing .”
Yusuf wants to ask the question on his mind but the words are heavy as fresh steel against his tongue. If he doesn’t get the answer he desires, he is not sure what he’ll do. Killing himself is out of the question. Maybe he’ll let Nicolò put a blade through his heart, just for old time’s sake. He takes a deep inhale and reaches for the younger man’s hand. His fingers curl around Nicolò’s as it slips past his lips. “And when you touch me?”
Nicolò’s eyes are sharp but his words cut even cleaner. “I feel everything, Yusuf. Everything, all at once.”
If this is what falling feels like, then Yusuf will gladly plummet for a millennia and a half. He crawls across the bed and bears them down into the linen sheets. Nicolò spreads his legs and Yusuf clutches his face with tender hands. “They will not take me from you,” Yusuf swears—less a statement and more a vow. “I promise you, my Nicolò, if you let me have this—have us—then I will let nothing separate you and I.”
“Even when God abandons me?”
Yusuf shakes his head and tilts Nicolò’s head back, allowing him access to the sacred space beneath his perfect jaw. “Your God has not abandoned you,” he whispers against the lingering scent of spiced figs, his hands wandering. “How could you be abandoned when we have found each other so perfectly?”
~~~
The fourth and fifth time they kiss. The sixth and seventh and every time after in the white-washed room on the feathered bed. On the floor. Against the walls. Every time that he takes Nicolò apart, takes him apart to the very marrow of their bones, Yusuf kisses him.
He struggles to remember that they have time. They have all the time in the world. He doesn’t have to memorize the way Nicolò falls apart in his hands. The way Nicolò trembles and struggles to catch his breath when he rocks and sways in Yusuf’s lap. They way their bodies fit together like they were always meant to be a matching set. Yusuf has time, he remembers. He can go as a slow as he pleases.
The sun rises in glorious shades of crimson and gold and Yusuf faces west toward Mecca as the call for morning prayer comes. He hears a soft, placated sigh from the bed and knows Nicolò is watching him.
The other man waits until Yusuf is finished before reaching out a single leg in beckoning. “Come back to bed,” Nicolò hums, eyes barely cracking open.
Yusuf cannot stop the fond smile that crosses his face as he circles the bed and brushes the tossed hair from Nicolò’s eyes. He leans down and presses a careful kiss to the younger man’s temple. “I must go to the market,” Yusuf says, letting his eyes and hands wander over Nicolo’s body. Over his lean abdomen and his cock, soft against his strong thighs. Nicolò hums contentedly, stretching into his touch and if Yusuf was a weaker man, there would be nothing stopping him from falling back in bed with his lover. But their bellies are empty and the market below them is wafting baked goods and fresh meat through open windows, so he says, “I will be back soon.”
Nicolò twists Yusuf’s spiraling curls through his fingers and Yusuf is sure they are inventing some new, brighter form of love. “And I will be waiting for you,” he says, sky-blue eyes closing as a smile crosses his face.
Yusuf lingers at the door, waiting, hesitating, as Nicolò’s breathing evens and he falls asleep.
He has all the time in the world, but now is when he will commit this moment to memory.
The first of many.