Yusuf isn't exactly sure what happened. Nicolo and he had been travelling together for about two years at this point and had stopped killing each other for 18 months out of that time. The agreement had been that they would go together until they figured out what had happened to make them immortal. Once they had that answer, they would have the answer for reversing it and would kill each other once and for all in holy retribution and, predictably, meet their reward in Heaven. It was a good plan and it worked so far.
Until it didn't.
Yusuf first noticed the change a few months into traveling together: Nicolo was the better cook and would prepare dinner. He was busy in town trying to get new horses for them, though, so Yusuf took up the cooking duty. He doesn't remember what he made and he doesn't remember how he ruined it, but Yusuf does remember the way their eyes met over the table and how they both erupted into laughter. A change from their normal silence. And from there, it only changed worse.
After all this time, Yusuf could admit that they were friends. Their original plan to end their mortality and kill one another sat heavy in his stomach for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely. The idea of Nicolo even leaving his company made him feel vaguely ill and grieved, in fact. Yusuf wouldn't admit why, not even to himself, but he still knew in his heart. He knew each time the fire would catch in Nicolo's eyes as he laughed, making them glitter. He knew each time, in the cold of the night, when they pushed together for warmth and his heart raced. He knew. And it was a problem but one for himself.
Until now.
They'd been attacked. Not unusual. They got attacked somewhat reliably on this road with all the thieves and criminals. Usually they won clean and easy, but this time they were overwhelmed. Too many at once and too few of them to push them back. Yusuf had five to himself and Nicolo close to eight but slowly they were making progress. He was about to turn and tell his friend that he'd almost finished the work here and would join him when he heard a short cry and turned just in time to see Nicky get sliced nearly in half.
His heart stopped.
Yusuf isn't sure exactly what happened, next. He killed everyone but doesn't remember it. All he remembers is kneeling beside Nicolo and thinking that this was it. The wound was too grave and his friend was not coming back. He was alone, now. Alone. And worse yet, he was without Nicolo. But then, in his hands, the man's eyes blinked open again. The two halves of his torso knit together neatly and brought him back. Brought him back to Yusuf, just like all the times before.
Nicolo was barely breathing again when Yusuf bent over him and crushed their lips together in a desperate kiss. Fast and hard, almost like the strike of a sword.
When he pulled back, his eyes were wide and surprised, even with himself. Beside them, the man who had killed Nicolo was in six pieces and his face was unrecognizable. Yusuf's blade was still in his heart.
"No one kills you except for me," he finally decided to say, cheeks pink. "Anyone who tries will wish they never even looked upon you."
It was difficult for Nicolo to admit, but he thought that he was the furthest thing from a devout and holy man now than ever. Genoa and his parishioners were a distant memory and even his vows to God seemed...well, forgotten. He had gone to the Holy Land to earn the Pope's indulgence, but what he had found was something completely different.
The man he had been taught to hate, his enemy, had become a man that consumed Nicolo's thoughts. For eighteen months (more, if he's truly honest, maybe even from the fourth time he awoke alive and seeing his enemy's face), Yusuf had consumed his thoughts, his dreams, his waking hours. It was torment to stare at Yusuf in the low light of day and ache to touch his face, but not know how to ask or whether Yusuf felt the same.
So he did what he could. He cooked, he praised him where possible, and he stared when he could. He knew, in his heart, that their plan was not something he could do. Nicolo knew that he could not take his sword to Yusuf's throat or heart again, he could not bear it.
Had he told Yusuf this?
No, of course not. For all he knew, the man still wished him dead once he discovered a manner to do it. And then, almost as if God had a joke to play on him, they were beset by criminals and Nicolo died by someone else's hand. He awoke to heaven, Yusuf's lips on his.
His shock was complete. He didn't even have a chance to close his eyes, gaping at Yusuf as he was kissed, his fingers threading through those curls he longed to touch, but suddenly, the words cut through him as fiercely as the blade had. No one kills you expect for me, and reminded him of the agreement Yusuf still thought them bound to.
And yet, the kiss? Why on earth was Yusuf kissing him?
Maybe this was another case of him not understanding Yusuf's language enough. Did he dream the kiss? The desperation? Nicolo searched to the side, seeing Yusuf's blade, but he didn't wish to move. "I don't think I understand what's happening," he eked out, deciding to stop pretending to know remotely what's going on.
I am such a dumb bunny for not looking there first XD
Yusuf didn't know what to say to that. He hadn't planned on kissing Nicolo, quite. The thrill of seeing him alive had just been too great for him to think past anything but his own, tangible relief. That, plus the fear he'd been swallowed by, moments before. The fear, not of being alone, but of being without Nicolo. That, apparently, was a fate worse than death for him. Worse than anything else. And now this man looks up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes and says he isn't sure what is happening.
Yeah. They could agree on that, probably.
Yusuf still can't bring himself to move away from Nicolo yet. His torso still looks like it is healing. He puts a hand on the other's chest, right over his heart, and gently pushes on it so he stays still. "You were injured," he decides to state the obvious in Nicolo's dialect. "Badly. It took you... It took awhile for you to heal. You should stay still until it is all finished."
His other hand is stroking Nicolo's hair without Yusuf even knowing he had started doing it. He can still taste the other's lips on his own. Yusuf hungers for it worse than a man craves water in a desert.
Nicolo intends to blame his recent death on why he's still paralyzed in place, unable to move. It's not that Yusuf is stroking his hair. It's not that Yusuf is staring at him with a hungry look that panics Nicolo because he thinks he recognizes it.
And it's definitely not because it thrills him to hear that Yusuf has killed a man for him.
If not for the kiss, he would think it a possessive and angry move, a reminder that Yusuf intends to sink his blade into Nicolo's heart again, which is a thought that leaves him flush with a hot rage, because he stopped wanting that, but if Yusuf intends to fight him, he won't go down easily. "Because you do not want anyone to kill me, but you," he interprets, but there is a bitterness in his words.
Maybe it was a claim, and the kiss had been a cruel tease. Maybe Yusuf had seen the way Nicolo stared too long at his lips and thought to twist the blade in a different way through his heart.
Yusuf hears the bitter edge and sees how Nicolo looks up at him in question and in what might be hope. The idea that he is looking for the same thing as him is almost too much to dream of. But then again, he hadn't swung a punch yet. And he didn't seem as though he was offended by the kiss nor the hand in his hair. Yusuf could hope. He could. But what would happen if he was wrong?
"Because," he starts, ready to give just that answer. But the truth pushes against his throat and chokes out the insufficient deception before it is allowed to be spoken. The truth bubbles up instead. "Because you are mine. No one touches what is mine. No one harms that which is mine.
[Joe had been right (of course he had, Nicky's not sure when the last time he hadn't been was), and Andy had not only agreed to their time away, but had sent them off with a look and a wave of her hand that implied that she didn't want to see them until they had sorted through their issues.
Which, Nicky had felt applied strictly to himself. He was the one with issues, he was the one too tense, too scared, too consumed with nightmares. Now it's only a matter of packing and leaving.
Joe might need to shove him out the door when they get to that.]
Joe. [Over his shoulder, while packing weapons and books and recipes.] Do you want me to pack any sweaters? [He knows they won't be wearing many clothes, but it will still get chilly at night. Not to mention, they still haven't completely found a place to stay.]
[ They really needed this time. Most days, Nicky was alright but Joe knew him. He knew the weight that Nicky put on himself because of his sensitive heart.
They need the time alone to talk and work through this together. As much as Andy cared and Nile wanted to help this was between them. ]
Hm? I guess we should pack a few. I haven't looked at the weather yet. [ They would have a place soon. Copley had the identities done. It was simply finding a place that had everything they wanted. ] Maybe four or five?
[Nicky tucks away more than that, including the fisherman's sweater that would be too warm for anywhere but the coldest of locations, taking his time to move it to the side, amused at the dichotomy between the swimsuits and aprons and the colder wear.
Maybe it will be cold at night. His favourite, because cold at night meant Joe's arms around him and curling in close.
He crosses the room to fetch Joe's books, kissing his cheek at his side.] Thank you for making me do this.
I gently encouraged you to do this. [ If Nicky didn't want to do something there was no force in heaven and earth including Joe that could make him do it. ]
You know deep down that you need this vacation. [ Joe considers their swords which would be a bitch to get through customs but it doesn't feel right to leave them behind. ] Do you think we should ship these once we have an address?
[ Otherwise, it would be carrying them around which is tricky in the modern era to say the least. ]
[Nicky does need it, but only because he's been having constant nightmares where he wakes up and Joe isn't there, or Joe is bleeding, or he's screaming in pain. Being around Andy and Nile is a reminder.
Booker's absence is one too, but at least if they go away, it won't be as much of one.] I need it very badly, so long as you are there.
[He glances to the swords, making a small needy sound. I don't want to be separated.] Do we still have that trunk with the lead lining? We could try and conceal them as we go.
Truthfully, Nicky doesn't think much about the article he writes.
He's written scathing reviews of many artists, to the point that he's earned himself a bit of a reputation for being critical. What people don't seem to understand is that he doesn't do it out of malice. He doesn't even hate the pieces. He simply thinks that there is always room for improvement and while the other articles will be quick to praise, his will point out the areas of opportunity. There are compliments too, just maybe not as many.
The latest had been about an artist who Nicky believes has some real potential to be great and he had said as much when he'd written it in the paper. Of course, then he had outlined ten additional tips and resources and other artists he suggested Yusuf Al-Kaysani could look into.
For development! For growth.
Still, Nicky is not surprised when he logs on in the morning to discover that he's received another slog of angry emails for his work. Another article, another displeased crowd. He leans over to grab his reading glasses with the blue-light-tempering lenses and settles in with his coffee.
"Now," Nicky asks, peering at his screen, "which of you is angriest at me today?"
Likewise, Joe doesn't think twice before sending the email.
He's had a very long, very stressful week leading up to the exhibit, and getting home after a grueling opening to find out that the first review on his work is by that guy is not a pleasant surprise.
It's not the first article this particular critic has written on him, and Joe clicks on the review with a looming sense of dread. Truth be told, the review isn't even that bad. Joe's read some of this guy's other articles, and he knows it could be much worse. It even starts out okay, acknowledging what he thinks is good about Joe's art exhibit, what he thinks is promising. But then it takes a sharp turn, the guy spending very long paragraphs detailing everything he thought did not work in Joe's art, everything he did not like, and giving him advice worthy of an Art 101 class in the most condescending tone Joe has ever had the displeasure to read.
So, yes, Joe cracks his knuckles and copy/pastes the guy's address into an email, writing a long, somewhat ranting reply, making a list of all the points the critic made in his article and ruthlessly debunking them step by step. He ends on a beautifully passive-aggressive paragraph in which he thanks the guy for his insightful input, truly, and hits send.
This is not something Joe would normally do. It's useless, for a start, and he knows better than to argue with art critics. But he's had a long week and sniping back at this particular guy feels good, no matter how much of a waste of time it is.
Anyway, it's not like whoever the fuck this Nicolo di Genova guy is reads all the hate comments he gets, is it? From what Joe is garnering online, he must get a lot. He's never met the guy himself, but he likes to imagine him middle-aged and bitter, sweating his way through art exhibits with an uptight look on his face. It's probably unfair, but it does make him feel better.
He turns off his computer and goes to take a hot shower, trying to unwind enough so he can sleep.
Nicky's surprised, to say the least, to see an email from the subject of his latest article. He's not upset, but he does check the clock to see that the reply must have come in on the heels of the article going live, which means that it must have been written in the heat of the moment.
With that in mind, Nicky reaches over to his little bar to spike his coffee with a little sambuca, settling in to read the email like it's hot gossip and he's been given a chance to enjoy it. Once he's finished, his fingers hover near the top.
Trash or reply.
He should trash it, just like he does with most of them. It would be the smart thing to do, but he cannot stop his hesitation, all because of that last little line about his input that had him deeply amused about Joe's spark. His fingers hover a little more, then slide to click 'reply'. He's not argumentative in the reply, not at all (he is). He merely begins to cite articles to defend his points, bringing up links to artist examples, and makes sure his case is airtight.
He does cede that he's wrong, but only once.
And when it comes time to end the email, Nicky's fingers hover over the keyboard before he knows exactly what to write. He finishes it off with a, I'm glad you enjoyed my input, artists would be honoured to receive this sort of feedback to help them improve.
With that, he hits send, understanding that he may have just started a war, but at least it's been an interesting one so far and made Nicky feel more alive and excited than he has in ages.
Joe spends his day at the art gallery, fixing the seemingly endless string of new problems that have cropped up after the opening. He's on the phone a lot, trying to get a new light fixture here and a new baroque frame there, while welcoming people to the exhibit at the same time, even walking small groups through his work, talking about it passionately.
He comes home exhausted and turns his computer on to see if he has any emails, sipping on a beer. Between several emails from friends and donors congratulating him on the exhibit, there's a reply from Genova.
It takes Joe by surprise, both because he'd almost forgotten the exchange entirely, and because he didn't think the guy would actually bother to write him such a lengthy, well-researched reply. He stares at the last paragraph for a full minute before he snorts, leaning back in his chair.
Perhaps he misjudged Di Genova. The guy's clearly an asshole, but at least he's got a sense of humor. He's making a few points too, which Joe will have to acknowledge in his answer. He finds himself clicking on the links the critic provided and reading through the articles despite the late hour, already building counter-arguments, thinking about how to best convince him.
Just like Di Genova admitted he was wrong, Joe grants him a few points, focusing on the elements that matter most to him. He links a fair amount of articles and essays on post-colonialism in art (he's not sure where Di Genova is from, despite his Italian surname, but he sounds very white at times) and on Muslim traditions and their impact on his craftsmanship.
In lieu of salutations, he answers Di Genova's sassy comments about his advice. It's just as passive aggressive as in his first email, but there is something almost amused about it, now. He concludes on, I have indeed enjoyed receiving your input though less so, I think, than you have enjoyed giving it., and signs his name, hitting send.
Nicky has more reviews to write. When he does have a pile of work like that, he tends to turn off his internet so he can focus on the words and writing without distractions or outside influence. He'll spot-check the article later for anything he might have missed, but for now, what he's doing is mainly the slog-work.
By the time he's done, he's exhausted, which means he only gets back to his emails come the morning.
There is something there from Joe.
Interesting. He hadn't thought he'd get a reply after his novel of an essay back to him -- that, or he might have expected Joe to physically show up at his place threatening to smash his windows with a brick. It has happened before, unfortunately. When he finishes reading the email, he reads it again, and he's both...well, both annoyed and a little insulted, but also very proud and impressed and dare he say it, maybe a little turned on?
So when he sends back his reply, it's much shorter this time.
I think maybe you should put your money where your mouth is. I've seen what you can do in this exhibit. Maybe you should share some other work that I might also enjoy reviewing as much as I have enjoyed giving you my input.
They'd already had plans to meet up to go to the gym, but after the conversation Nicky just had with a group of his friends, he actually needs it. Forget going to ogle Joe as he does weights, now he thinks he actually might need to sweat or run to get the voices out of his head.
"It's just very quick, Nicky."
"How well do you really know him?"
"I'm sure it's just sex."
Nicky wants to ignore it all, but those little seeds of doubt are beginning to root in his head, which is why he does need the gym. He's relieved for their date, and when he gets there, he's not in the lounging sweatpants he might have been, but tight yoga pants and a loose t-shirt. His eyes are filled with a spark and determination as he gives Joe a nod in greeting, kissing his cheek.
"I want you to put me to work, and I don't care what it is, but I want to sweat," is his demand.
Joe has just finished his first cardio round so he's a little breathless but not sweaty just yet. He's wearing comfortably snug workout pants and a tank top instead of his usual T-shirt, showing off more of his arms than he normally would. Nicky said he wanted to ogle him, and Joe intends to make it easy for him.
He didn't expect Nicky himself to be wearing such tight pants when he said he didn't actually plan to work out that much but he's not complaining, his eyes lingering on Nicky's legs. "Well, hello," he greets, returning the kiss.
He grins, amused by the request. "Don't talk dirty to me at the gym, Nico," he complains. "These are very tight pants and we won't be home for hours." He tilts his head to the side, watching Nicky carefully. "Are you alright?"
It's unlucky that Joe looks so good, only because Nicky is in such a mood that he doesn't even have the full wherewithal to appreciate it the way he should. Instead of stewing about his friends, he should be imagining licking that sweat off the column of Joe's neck.
Instead, he's thinking about punching something. Do they have that here? Maybe he could do that.
"I'm fine," he says, voice clipped. "Nothing bad happened to me," he continues, to better give context to his mood, "but I am in a bad mood," is evident given his dark glare. "I forget that sometimes, when you ask for opinions, you aren't told what you want to hear."
They definitely have punching bags, and Joe will be happy to hold Nicky's steady if he's in the mood to hit something.
Joe grins, relieved and a little amused at what put Nicky in a bad mood. "That is very true," he says, gently teasing. "Sometimes it can be good to hear another opinion, and something it definitely isn't." He touches Nicky's cheek gently. "Come on. You can start with cardio, I guarantee you'll soon be too tired to be mad." Nicky can run on the threadmill if he likes, or get on the elliptical, either will work.
Nicky exhales the moment Joe's hand is on his cheek. He breathes out steadily and it's almost like the tension bleeds out of him in that one moment, more than he really thought he'd been holding in. There it goes, perfectly.
"I don't know, I've told you how I can hold a grudge, haven't I?" he retorts, and there might be a dark glint in his eye, but it's not going to be Joe that he's mad at. He also shouldn't be mad at his friends for too long, because he needs them. It's not like he makes friends that easily, after all.
Joe chews on the end of his expensive art pencil thoughtfully, looking at the drawing he is working on. It's supposed to be a still life study, practice for a larger, deconstructed piece he's working on. Yet the fruit bowl stands unfinished, barely outlined while he's done a fully-detailed sketch of Nicky's face next to it. Again.
He sighs but doesn't erase it, stroking it with his thumb gently before he puts it away. To say that he misses Nicky is an understatement. He's been gone only three weeks and though they speak every evening without fault, Joe has been looking up plane tickets prices every morning he's woken up alone, seriously considering dropping everything so he can join Nicky and surprise him.
It's not healthy, he thinks, to miss someone this much. Perhaps it isn't healthy to love someone this much either, but Joe can't bring himself to care. Nicky has his whole heart and he wouldn't have it any other way.
He grins when his phone lights up with a goofy picture of Nicky he took while he was in the middle of a rant about his editor, his eyes sharp but his grin soft at Joe's antics.
"Hey babe," Joe answers, bright and cheerful. He may or may not have sent a selfie of himself in bed without a shirt on earlier, and is looking forward to hearing how Nicky is feeling about it. But he'll play coy and ask about his day first. "How's the tour going? Did you sign many copies for adoring fans today?"
Nicky's done book tours in the past. They're never very intense or long, because he's not a famous or popular author, but his agent does a good job of booking him into small venues that are happy to have him. Usually, he's happy to be there, but this time around, he's had to leave Joe behind and now it's been weeks of only phone calls and FaceTime and neither afford him the touches he wants so badly to have.
One thing is sure. If Nicky had any doubts before that he loves Joe, they're gone now. He knows, now, without a doubt, that he is absolutely and ridiculously in love with this beautiful man.
And soon, after one more stop, he'll be home and he can tell him that.
It's just one more stop of questions about the artwork and the protagonist and knowing smirks about his inspiration (some people have found a photo of him on the internet with Joe, and now they think they know best). Tonight, Nicky has been in bed, staring at the photo Joe sent him and debating whether he wants to touch himself or call Joe first, and the latter's won out, but only barely.
"I sold six copies," he says, and he's scowling even though Joe can't see it. "That's what you start with? Hey babe?" he mimics, poorly. "Joe, I was in the middle of the signing today when you sent me that, I nearly choked."
Joe can't see the scowl on Nicky's face but he can hear it well enough, and imagine it perfectly. He laughs, bright and delighted, at how archly Nicky mimics him, sounding genuinely offended by the whole thing.
"Good think I decided against taking off my pants for the picture, then," he teases, sounding very smug that his selfie had such an effect on Nicky. "I value your well-being, darling, as you know."
He grins, closing his eyes to better appreciate Nicky's voice curling in his ear. "Six books is pretty good, though. I'm glad your tour is going well."
That laugh is also unfair, because of all the things it does to Nicky. He squirms a little, glad he's in his terribly lonely little hotel room and not in the public eye, because he wants t be able to react to that as best as he can.
"For a romance novel, it's excellent," he promises, breathing a little harder as he works past that frustration to keep going. "My tour would be better if I had my last stop finished." He balances the phone, shifting it a little. "I miss you." Desperately, but he thinks the sad note in his voice says as much.
Joe can hear Nicky shift around and breathe harder, and it makes him curious about what he's doing, exactly. But that is a question for later.
"You're so close. Only one last stop, right?" he encourages, his tone gentle. Then Nicky says that he misses him and Joe makes a soft, mournful noise in return. "Yeah," he agrees, quietly. "I miss you too. Kind of a lot, Nicolo." More than it healthy, probably. "Do you know that I keep looking up the price of plane tickets to wherever you are, and then closing the window because I tell myself it's ridiculous?" Joe says, a little sheepish about it. He knows Nicky won't make fun of him, though.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
YOU HAD AN OPEN POST!
Until it didn't.
Yusuf first noticed the change a few months into traveling together: Nicolo was the better cook and would prepare dinner. He was busy in town trying to get new horses for them, though, so Yusuf took up the cooking duty. He doesn't remember what he made and he doesn't remember how he ruined it, but Yusuf does remember the way their eyes met over the table and how they both erupted into laughter. A change from their normal silence. And from there, it only changed worse.
After all this time, Yusuf could admit that they were friends. Their original plan to end their mortality and kill one another sat heavy in his stomach for reasons he didn't want to examine too closely. The idea of Nicolo even leaving his company made him feel vaguely ill and grieved, in fact. Yusuf wouldn't admit why, not even to himself, but he still knew in his heart. He knew each time the fire would catch in Nicolo's eyes as he laughed, making them glitter. He knew each time, in the cold of the night, when they pushed together for warmth and his heart raced. He knew. And it was a problem but one for himself.
Until now.
They'd been attacked. Not unusual. They got attacked somewhat reliably on this road with all the thieves and criminals. Usually they won clean and easy, but this time they were overwhelmed. Too many at once and too few of them to push them back. Yusuf had five to himself and Nicolo close to eight but slowly they were making progress. He was about to turn and tell his friend that he'd almost finished the work here and would join him when he heard a short cry and turned just in time to see Nicky get sliced nearly in half.
His heart stopped.
Yusuf isn't sure exactly what happened, next. He killed everyone but doesn't remember it. All he remembers is kneeling beside Nicolo and thinking that this was it. The wound was too grave and his friend was not coming back. He was alone, now. Alone. And worse yet, he was without Nicolo. But then, in his hands, the man's eyes blinked open again. The two halves of his torso knit together neatly and brought him back. Brought him back to Yusuf, just like all the times before.
Nicolo was barely breathing again when Yusuf bent over him and crushed their lips together in a desperate kiss. Fast and hard, almost like the strike of a sword.
When he pulled back, his eyes were wide and surprised, even with himself. Beside them, the man who had killed Nicolo was in six pieces and his face was unrecognizable. Yusuf's blade was still in his heart.
"No one kills you except for me," he finally decided to say, cheeks pink. "Anyone who tries will wish they never even looked upon you."
I DO! Took me a bit to set up, but it's there!
The man he had been taught to hate, his enemy, had become a man that consumed Nicolo's thoughts. For eighteen months (more, if he's truly honest, maybe even from the fourth time he awoke alive and seeing his enemy's face), Yusuf had consumed his thoughts, his dreams, his waking hours. It was torment to stare at Yusuf in the low light of day and ache to touch his face, but not know how to ask or whether Yusuf felt the same.
So he did what he could. He cooked, he praised him where possible, and he stared when he could. He knew, in his heart, that their plan was not something he could do. Nicolo knew that he could not take his sword to Yusuf's throat or heart again, he could not bear it.
Had he told Yusuf this?
No, of course not. For all he knew, the man still wished him dead once he discovered a manner to do it. And then, almost as if God had a joke to play on him, they were beset by criminals and Nicolo died by someone else's hand. He awoke to heaven, Yusuf's lips on his.
His shock was complete. He didn't even have a chance to close his eyes, gaping at Yusuf as he was kissed, his fingers threading through those curls he longed to touch, but suddenly, the words cut through him as fiercely as the blade had. No one kills you expect for me, and reminded him of the agreement Yusuf still thought them bound to.
And yet, the kiss? Why on earth was Yusuf kissing him?
Maybe this was another case of him not understanding Yusuf's language enough. Did he dream the kiss? The desperation? Nicolo searched to the side, seeing Yusuf's blade, but he didn't wish to move. "I don't think I understand what's happening," he eked out, deciding to stop pretending to know remotely what's going on.
I am such a dumb bunny for not looking there first XD
Yeah. They could agree on that, probably.
Yusuf still can't bring himself to move away from Nicolo yet. His torso still looks like it is healing. He puts a hand on the other's chest, right over his heart, and gently pushes on it so he stays still. "You were injured," he decides to state the obvious in Nicolo's dialect. "Badly. It took you... It took awhile for you to heal. You should stay still until it is all finished."
His other hand is stroking Nicolo's hair without Yusuf even knowing he had started doing it. He can still taste the other's lips on his own. Yusuf hungers for it worse than a man craves water in a desert.
"I killed the man who did it to you."
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And it's definitely not because it thrills him to hear that Yusuf has killed a man for him.
If not for the kiss, he would think it a possessive and angry move, a reminder that Yusuf intends to sink his blade into Nicolo's heart again, which is a thought that leaves him flush with a hot rage, because he stopped wanting that, but if Yusuf intends to fight him, he won't go down easily. "Because you do not want anyone to kill me, but you," he interprets, but there is a bitterness in his words.
Maybe it was a claim, and the kiss had been a cruel tease. Maybe Yusuf had seen the way Nicolo stared too long at his lips and thought to twist the blade in a different way through his heart.
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"Because," he starts, ready to give just that answer. But the truth pushes against his throat and chokes out the insufficient deception before it is allowed to be spoken. The truth bubbles up instead. "Because you are mine. No one touches what is mine. No one harms that which is mine.
"And you are mine, Nicolo..."
Let him interpret that as he wished.
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Sorry! Work was awful!
Totally understand!
Packing - Continuation for thattime
Which, Nicky had felt applied strictly to himself. He was the one with issues, he was the one too tense, too scared, too consumed with nightmares. Now it's only a matter of packing and leaving.
Joe might need to shove him out the door when they get to that.]
Joe. [Over his shoulder, while packing weapons and books and recipes.] Do you want me to pack any sweaters? [He knows they won't be wearing many clothes, but it will still get chilly at night. Not to mention, they still haven't completely found a place to stay.]
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They need the time alone to talk and work through this together. As much as Andy cared and Nile wanted to help this was between them. ]
Hm? I guess we should pack a few. I haven't looked at the weather yet. [ They would have a place soon. Copley had the identities done. It was simply finding a place that had everything they wanted. ] Maybe four or five?
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Maybe it will be cold at night. His favourite, because cold at night meant Joe's arms around him and curling in close.
He crosses the room to fetch Joe's books, kissing his cheek at his side.] Thank you for making me do this.
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You know deep down that you need this vacation. [ Joe considers their swords which would be a bitch to get through customs but it doesn't feel right to leave them behind. ] Do you think we should ship these once we have an address?
[ Otherwise, it would be carrying them around which is tricky in the modern era to say the least. ]
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Booker's absence is one too, but at least if they go away, it won't be as much of one.] I need it very badly, so long as you are there.
[He glances to the swords, making a small needy sound. I don't want to be separated.] Do we still have that trunk with the lead lining? We could try and conceal them as we go.
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modern au - the artist and the critic
He's written scathing reviews of many artists, to the point that he's earned himself a bit of a reputation for being critical. What people don't seem to understand is that he doesn't do it out of malice. He doesn't even hate the pieces. He simply thinks that there is always room for improvement and while the other articles will be quick to praise, his will point out the areas of opportunity. There are compliments too, just maybe not as many.
The latest had been about an artist who Nicky believes has some real potential to be great and he had said as much when he'd written it in the paper. Of course, then he had outlined ten additional tips and resources and other artists he suggested Yusuf Al-Kaysani could look into.
For development! For growth.
Still, Nicky is not surprised when he logs on in the morning to discover that he's received another slog of angry emails for his work. Another article, another displeased crowd. He leans over to grab his reading glasses with the blue-light-tempering lenses and settles in with his coffee.
"Now," Nicky asks, peering at his screen, "which of you is angriest at me today?"
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He's had a very long, very stressful week leading up to the exhibit, and getting home after a grueling opening to find out that the first review on his work is by that guy is not a pleasant surprise.
It's not the first article this particular critic has written on him, and Joe clicks on the review with a looming sense of dread. Truth be told, the review isn't even that bad. Joe's read some of this guy's other articles, and he knows it could be much worse. It even starts out okay, acknowledging what he thinks is good about Joe's art exhibit, what he thinks is promising. But then it takes a sharp turn, the guy spending very long paragraphs detailing everything he thought did not work in Joe's art, everything he did not like, and giving him advice worthy of an Art 101 class in the most condescending tone Joe has ever had the displeasure to read.
So, yes, Joe cracks his knuckles and copy/pastes the guy's address into an email, writing a long, somewhat ranting reply, making a list of all the points the critic made in his article and ruthlessly debunking them step by step. He ends on a beautifully passive-aggressive paragraph in which he thanks the guy for his insightful input, truly, and hits send.
This is not something Joe would normally do. It's useless, for a start, and he knows better than to argue with art critics. But he's had a long week and sniping back at this particular guy feels good, no matter how much of a waste of time it is.
Anyway, it's not like whoever the fuck this Nicolo di Genova guy is reads all the hate comments he gets, is it? From what Joe is garnering online, he must get a lot. He's never met the guy himself, but he likes to imagine him middle-aged and bitter, sweating his way through art exhibits with an uptight look on his face. It's probably unfair, but it does make him feel better.
He turns off his computer and goes to take a hot shower, trying to unwind enough so he can sleep.
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With that in mind, Nicky reaches over to his little bar to spike his coffee with a little sambuca, settling in to read the email like it's hot gossip and he's been given a chance to enjoy it. Once he's finished, his fingers hover near the top.
Trash or reply.
He should trash it, just like he does with most of them. It would be the smart thing to do, but he cannot stop his hesitation, all because of that last little line about his input that had him deeply amused about Joe's spark. His fingers hover a little more, then slide to click 'reply'. He's not argumentative in the reply, not at all (he is). He merely begins to cite articles to defend his points, bringing up links to artist examples, and makes sure his case is airtight.
He does cede that he's wrong, but only once.
And when it comes time to end the email, Nicky's fingers hover over the keyboard before he knows exactly what to write. He finishes it off with a, I'm glad you enjoyed my input, artists would be honoured to receive this sort of feedback to help them improve.
With that, he hits send, understanding that he may have just started a war, but at least it's been an interesting one so far and made Nicky feel more alive and excited than he has in ages.
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He comes home exhausted and turns his computer on to see if he has any emails, sipping on a beer. Between several emails from friends and donors congratulating him on the exhibit, there's a reply from Genova.
It takes Joe by surprise, both because he'd almost forgotten the exchange entirely, and because he didn't think the guy would actually bother to write him such a lengthy, well-researched reply. He stares at the last paragraph for a full minute before he snorts, leaning back in his chair.
Perhaps he misjudged Di Genova. The guy's clearly an asshole, but at least he's got a sense of humor. He's making a few points too, which Joe will have to acknowledge in his answer. He finds himself clicking on the links the critic provided and reading through the articles despite the late hour, already building counter-arguments, thinking about how to best convince him.
Just like Di Genova admitted he was wrong, Joe grants him a few points, focusing on the elements that matter most to him. He links a fair amount of articles and essays on post-colonialism in art (he's not sure where Di Genova is from, despite his Italian surname, but he sounds very white at times) and on Muslim traditions and their impact on his craftsmanship.
In lieu of salutations, he answers Di Genova's sassy comments about his advice. It's just as passive aggressive as in his first email, but there is something almost amused about it, now. He concludes on, I have indeed enjoyed receiving your input though less so, I think, than you have enjoyed giving it., and signs his name, hitting send.
Joe goes to bed with a grin on his face.
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By the time he's done, he's exhausted, which means he only gets back to his emails come the morning.
There is something there from Joe.
Interesting. He hadn't thought he'd get a reply after his novel of an essay back to him -- that, or he might have expected Joe to physically show up at his place threatening to smash his windows with a brick. It has happened before, unfortunately. When he finishes reading the email, he reads it again, and he's both...well, both annoyed and a little insulted, but also very proud and impressed and dare he say it, maybe a little turned on?
So when he sends back his reply, it's much shorter this time.
I think maybe you should put your money where your mouth is. I've seen what you can do in this exhibit. Maybe you should share some other work that I might also enjoy reviewing as much as I have enjoyed giving you my input.
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for stillthrillsme - the gym
"It's just very quick, Nicky."
"How well do you really know him?"
"I'm sure it's just sex."
Nicky wants to ignore it all, but those little seeds of doubt are beginning to root in his head, which is why he does need the gym. He's relieved for their date, and when he gets there, he's not in the lounging sweatpants he might have been, but tight yoga pants and a loose t-shirt. His eyes are filled with a spark and determination as he gives Joe a nod in greeting, kissing his cheek.
"I want you to put me to work, and I don't care what it is, but I want to sweat," is his demand.
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He didn't expect Nicky himself to be wearing such tight pants when he said he didn't actually plan to work out that much but he's not complaining, his eyes lingering on Nicky's legs. "Well, hello," he greets, returning the kiss.
He grins, amused by the request. "Don't talk dirty to me at the gym, Nico," he complains. "These are very tight pants and we won't be home for hours." He tilts his head to the side, watching Nicky carefully. "Are you alright?"
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Instead, he's thinking about punching something. Do they have that here? Maybe he could do that.
"I'm fine," he says, voice clipped. "Nothing bad happened to me," he continues, to better give context to his mood, "but I am in a bad mood," is evident given his dark glare. "I forget that sometimes, when you ask for opinions, you aren't told what you want to hear."
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Joe grins, relieved and a little amused at what put Nicky in a bad mood. "That is very true," he says, gently teasing. "Sometimes it can be good to hear another opinion, and something it definitely isn't." He touches Nicky's cheek gently. "Come on. You can start with cardio, I guarantee you'll soon be too tired to be mad." Nicky can run on the threadmill if he likes, or get on the elliptical, either will work.
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"I don't know, I've told you how I can hold a grudge, haven't I?" he retorts, and there might be a dark glint in his eye, but it's not going to be Joe that he's mad at. He also shouldn't be mad at his friends for too long, because he needs them. It's not like he makes friends that easily, after all.
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artist/art critic AU - the book tour
He sighs but doesn't erase it, stroking it with his thumb gently before he puts it away. To say that he misses Nicky is an understatement. He's been gone only three weeks and though they speak every evening without fault, Joe has been looking up plane tickets prices every morning he's woken up alone, seriously considering dropping everything so he can join Nicky and surprise him.
It's not healthy, he thinks, to miss someone this much. Perhaps it isn't healthy to love someone this much either, but Joe can't bring himself to care. Nicky has his whole heart and he wouldn't have it any other way.
He grins when his phone lights up with a goofy picture of Nicky he took while he was in the middle of a rant about his editor, his eyes sharp but his grin soft at Joe's antics.
"Hey babe," Joe answers, bright and cheerful. He may or may not have sent a selfie of himself in bed without a shirt on earlier, and is looking forward to hearing how Nicky is feeling about it. But he'll play coy and ask about his day first. "How's the tour going? Did you sign many copies for adoring fans today?"
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One thing is sure. If Nicky had any doubts before that he loves Joe, they're gone now. He knows, now, without a doubt, that he is absolutely and ridiculously in love with this beautiful man.
And soon, after one more stop, he'll be home and he can tell him that.
It's just one more stop of questions about the artwork and the protagonist and knowing smirks about his inspiration (some people have found a photo of him on the internet with Joe, and now they think they know best). Tonight, Nicky has been in bed, staring at the photo Joe sent him and debating whether he wants to touch himself or call Joe first, and the latter's won out, but only barely.
"I sold six copies," he says, and he's scowling even though Joe can't see it. "That's what you start with? Hey babe?" he mimics, poorly. "Joe, I was in the middle of the signing today when you sent me that, I nearly choked."
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"Good think I decided against taking off my pants for the picture, then," he teases, sounding very smug that his selfie had such an effect on Nicky. "I value your well-being, darling, as you know."
He grins, closing his eyes to better appreciate Nicky's voice curling in his ear. "Six books is pretty good, though. I'm glad your tour is going well."
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"For a romance novel, it's excellent," he promises, breathing a little harder as he works past that frustration to keep going. "My tour would be better if I had my last stop finished." He balances the phone, shifting it a little. "I miss you." Desperately, but he thinks the sad note in his voice says as much.
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"You're so close. Only one last stop, right?" he encourages, his tone gentle. Then Nicky says that he misses him and Joe makes a soft, mournful noise in return. "Yeah," he agrees, quietly. "I miss you too. Kind of a lot, Nicolo." More than it healthy, probably. "Do you know that I keep looking up the price of plane tickets to wherever you are, and then closing the window because I tell myself it's ridiculous?" Joe says, a little sheepish about it. He knows Nicky won't make fun of him, though.
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