Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They had let down their guard for but a moment and now they were prisoners. Yusuf tested the rope that bound his hands behind his back—tight, but not too tight. He could work with that. Nicolò had taken the brunt of the bandits’ anger, and his face was bloody. It had been bloody and swollen, but Yusuf, who knew what to look for, could tell that the swelling was gone. Nicolò was focused on assessing their situation, peering around the shack they had been thrown into. It was late in the winter afternoon, and the sun was already low in the sky.

Six months ago, Yusuf reflected, Nicolò had taken the brunt of his own anger when they met in combat, Yusuf defending Al-Quds against Nicolò and thousands of other Franks. Well, Franks, Normans, Genovese like Nicolò, Flemings, and even some Englishmen. At the time he had called them all Franks, not caring what they called themselves, and cursed them.

And now he and Nicolò were friends. At first they had traveled together out of necessity, but as Yusuf observed Nicolò’s painful transformation into one who saw the humanity of those he had been taught to despise, he found himself thinking that Nicolò was a good companion regardless of the reason they had been thrown together. Was it the hand of Allah? Yusuf wasn’t sure. Nicolò seemed to think it was their destiny, pointing to the strange dreams of two warrior women that they shared. However, since most of their shared language was concrete, not abstract, they hadn’t really been able to discuss the meaning of their situation.

When the bandits had attacked them earlier that day, Yusuf and Nicolò had been perhaps twenty miles from Isfahan, heading east, which they believed was the general direction of the women in their dreams. Yusuf suspected that the bandits were planning to sell them as slaves. They would need to escape before the bandits brought them to a place with buyers—and iron shackles.

“Nicolò, what do you see?” Yusuf asked in a low voice. Their communication in Sabir had improved rapidly over the past several months, and now, as long as Yusuf didn’t talk too fast, Nicolò could mostly understand him and reply.

Nicolò tilted his head toward the top of the shack. “What is the name of this thing? It is not strong.”

“Roof,” said Yusuf. “The roof is not strong. The roof is weak. We can break it?”

“If we can break rope, we can break weak roof.” He mimed wiggling out of the rope and through the ceiling. “Then we break bandits.” Nicolò smiled wolfishly.

As they worked on the ropes, they could hear the bandits eating and settling down for the night. They did not seem to be the sort of bandits who drank themselves into a stupor, unfortunately, unless it was a very quiet sort of drinking.

No food was forthcoming, but that just meant uninterrupted time for straining and scraping their way out of the ropes. After a while, Nicolò found a rock embedded in the floor of the shack which, while it wasn’t exactly sharp, was hard enough to help wear through the rope fibers.

“Bandits, how many?” Nicolò asked.

“Ten, I think.”

“I kill seven. Three for you.”

Yusuf frowned dramatically, even though Nicolò couldn’t see him in the dark. “No, five each. We share bandits, like food.”

“I do not eat bandits, Yusuf.”

“Five each. Do not be greedy.”

“Greedy, what is greedy?”

“Greedy is wanting too much. Taking too much, no sharing.”

“Ah, like avaritia or gula.”

“Hmm,” said Yusuf. He didn’t know more than a few words of Latin.

“I will not be greedy,” Nicolò said. “We will share the bandits.”

By the time they freed themselves, the bandits had been quiet for a couple of hours. Nicolò knelt and Yusuf, who was lighter, climbed onto his shoulders. He was just able to reach the rushes that covered the roof and exploit the weak spot to pull himself through.

Yusuf perched on the roof, waiting to see if any bandits would notice. None of them did. Nine of them lay sprawled in bedrolls. There was one leaning against a rock with a short sword on his knees who seemed to have been put on watch, but he too was asleep.

Yusuf jumped to the sand as lightly as he could. Still no movement from the bandits. He made his way to the door of the shack and unlocked it, freeing Nicolò. He pointed to the man with the sword and then to himself. Nicolò nodded, then pointed to the closest sleeper, whose own blade was close at hand. They charged.

Chapter Text

Ten against two was not very good odds for the two, unless the ten were rudely woken from slumber. Nicolò and Yusuf were armed and had killed three bandits before the others were awake and staggering to their feet. Seven were dead before either immortal had taken more than a scratch. Nicolò took a blow to the gut and went down briefly while disposing of number eight, but Yusuf had taken out the two remaining bandits by the time he had healed enough to get back on his feet.

Yusuf loped over to him, looking angry. “Are you well?”

“Y-yes,” said Nicolò. “Hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” said Yusuf. “I should have covered your side better.”

“Not your fault. Bandit was good fighter. Not now. Now dead.”

Yusuf huffed out a laugh. “You are right,” he said. “Let’s look at their bags and weapons.”

By the time they had finished retrieving their own belongings and adding a few useful items, it was well into the night. Nicolò had healed, but both men were exhausted.

“Sleep here?” asked Nicolò.

Yusuf agreed. “A few hours, yes.”

They barricaded the door to the shack as best they could and lay down in the cleanest bedrolls they had found. Nicolò and Yusuf had met in the height of summer, but it was winter now and the ground was cold. They had been sleeping back to back for several weeks. Nicolò pulled an extra blanket over them, sighing as he relaxed into sleep.

Nicolò woke some time later to the sound of someone crying out in an unfamiliar tongue. He reached for his sword, then realized belatedly that it was Yusuf. Was he having a bad dream?

Nicolò rolled over and put a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. “Wake up,” he said. It was still mostly dark and he could scarcely see Yusuf right next to him.

Yusuf gasped Nicolò’s name and sat up. “I dreamed that you died and didn’t come back,” he said roughly.

“I am here,” Nicolò said.

Yusuf put his hands on Nicolò’s shoulders. “I thought it was real. I was so afraid. I don’t want to be alone.” He hesitated, then added, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Nicolò pulled him close. “I am here,” he repeated. “I am alive. I am with you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Yusuf. He sounded embarrassed.

“No sorry. Sorry is when you hurt someone,” Nicolò said. “I am sorry I came to holy city and killed people. You do not need to tell me sorry because you were afraid I was dead.”

Nicolò swallowed, realizing that he had never been face to face this close to Yusuf without a sword in his hand. “We are friends now, yes?”

“Yes,” said Yusuf. “Friends. Thank you.”

“Friends can be afraid for friends with no sorry.” Nicolò rubbed one hand across Yusuf’s back. “Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes, better,” said Yusuf. “But…”

“But?”

Yusuf seemed to hesitate, but then he took a deep breath. “Friends is good. Is more than friends also good?”

Nicolò hesitated, hopeful but unsure whether he had understood Yusuf correctly. “More than friends?” he repeated, keeping his voice gentle.

“Yes,” Yusuf said. “Can we be more than friends?”

Then Nicolò felt Yusuf’s lips brush his cheek. “More than friends, yes, good,” he whispered, and turned into the kiss. Yusuf was warm and strong in his arms, warm and soft against his lips.

But what was the Sabir word for kiss? For lips? Nicolò chuckled against Yusuf’s mouth. “Teach me more words,” he said. “The words that more than friends need.”