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The years go on. Empires rise and fall, wars are waged, people live and die, but still Yusuf and Nicolò remain. Even after they find Andromache and Quynh, bringing their duo to a little family of four, Yusuf and Nicolò are as inseparable as ever. It seems their two new companions are the same, and it suits them all to be able to work as a team but pair off when needed.
Sometimes when they are all together they allow people to believe they are husbands traveling with their wives, finding great amusement in knowing that others will never guess which two of them are really paired. Nights are spent laughing by campfires, seeing who can manage to get drunk first while they trade tales of their adventures. Days are spent seeking out people in need and helping any way they can.
Finding their sisters, the only two beings in this whole world who could possibly understand them, is nearly equal to finding each other.
Still, there are times their paths converge and other times where they must part. They can’t stay in one place for long without drawing suspicion, nor can they keep themselves from taking action when they see suffering.
Quynh and Andromache head east to Joseon after hearing tales of civilians suffering at the hands of invading forces and their own armies alike. Yusuf and Nicolò remain in Croatia to keep an eye on growing tensions in the region.
Go where Good is needed . That is their shared belief.
The places where good is needed most are the war-torn, the oppressed, the impoverished. The places where the powerful sort out their issues at the expense of the powerless.
That is how Yusuf and Nicolò find themselves in yet another battle. They did not plan to end up here, but here they are.
What they don’t plan for is to be separated.
----
Yusuf wakes to darkness, and to the stench of wet earth and death.
He tries to open his eyes more than a crack, but something falls into them and he squeezes them shut. There is no sign of light from any source, the darkness heavy and permanent.
Heavier still is the weight of something pressing down over him, all around him, trapping him, pinning him down - he struggles against it but cannot move, which is strange...neither his arms nor his legs feel bound.
Instinctually he opens his mouth to shout for help, only to choke on something. On dirt .
He comes to the gut-wrenching realization that he is underground.
Buried.
Buried alive .
Panic washes over him. He coughs and gasps, trying to take in a breath, but every time he tries more dirt fills his mouth. It’s everywhere, in his nose, his eyes, his ears. The weight of it is painful but so much worse is not being able to breathe , the slow, agonizing suffocation of it.
His body catches up with his brain and he begins to struggle, squirming to try to dislodge some of the dirt and move even the slightest bit upwards. He doesn’t find out if he makes any progress, for soon his lungs burn and his coughs turn into weak wheezes. Moments later, death claims him once more.
It continues like this, over and over and over . How long it goes on Yusuf doesn’t know, without the light of day to guide him he has no concept of when it is or where he is. The last thing he remembers is being slain by an enemy fighter. The wounds were deep. He must have been out long enough to be haphazardly buried along with other fallen soldiers. He wonders how many of them are down here with him, but he isn’t eager to find out. The thought of reaching out and brushing against the cold flesh of a corpse makes him shudder....
Yusuf shakes his head. He does not have time to dwell on these things. Not when his throat is raw from coughing and choking, his nails caked with dirt from clawing upward, his entire body tense and sore, unable to fully heal, struggling against the smothering weight of pounds and pounds of dirt and rubble.
He suffocates, dies, rises, so many times he loses count. Each time he wakes he tries to use his few moments of life to make some progress. Whether he does or not, he has no idea, but he refuses to stop trying.
His troubled mind wanders to Nicolò like seeking shelter in a storm. Where is he? Is he safe? Did he make it out? Was he discovered?
The only thing worse than being trapped in this hellish cycle of life and death is imagining Nicolò somewhere in the same situation or worse. If he is trapped or captured, is he waiting for Yusuf to come for him? If he has escaped, will he search for Yusuf?
They have known each other nearly five hundred years, loved each other nearly all of them, they have become closer than two people - except perhaps Andromache and Quynh - could ever hope to understand. Nicolò brightens cloudy days and warms cool nights. They fight and sleep and eat and laugh and cry together...yet still a tiny knot of fear forms in his stomach, aided by the hopelessness he feels after hours trapped. He tries to push it away but the thoughts persist: what if he thinks I abandoned him? What if he abandons me?
Yusuf tries to curse only to receive another mouthful of dirt as he feels unconsciousness begin to claim him again.
He would never...he would never...
When he wakes again he continues to fight, but he is growing weak. With no end to his anguish in sight, he begins to despair.
----
He wakes. Always, he still wakes, even when his body and mind cry out for a reprieve. Still, he doesn’t wish for death, only for relief. He forgets how it feels to move freely and breathe deeply. The blue sky and rolling green hills feel like a distant memory, though it can’t have been more than a day since the battle.
Seemingly nothing has changed. He is still buried, still cannot breathe.
But this time something is different. There’s a sound - a distant sound. A familiar voice. Shouting...
I must be dreaming...that or I’ve started to go mad...
“YUSUF!”
The word reaches his ears, unmistakable this time, and he could sob with relief. He knows better than to open his mouth to scream, but even with his lips pressed shut he makes whatever noises he can, a desperate, feral sound tearing from his throat.
Nicolò! I’m here! Please, Nicolò, please...
His name is called again, closer this time. Yusuf thrashes and makes any sound he can manage, anything to draw attention to where he is. He can feel unconsciousness closing in again and his eyes burn with tears. No, no, no , what if Nicolò doesn’t hear him, what if he leaves...
Yusuf passes out, then dies, then wakes with a choked cough, still in darkness. For a moment he fears he dreamed Nicolò shouting his name.
And then, miraculously, he hears it again. Right above him.
He screams through gritted teeth, begging deep in his soul that Nicolò will hear him.
For an awful moment there is silence. And then, “I am here! I hear you! Hold on!”
Yusuf feels the ground above him shift. He uses what remains of his strength to claw at the dirt, trying to loosen it, trying to help. He wheezes, the pain and pressure in his chest building as he tries and fails to breathe -
The first splash of light is blinding. He feels a burst of cool air on his face as he squints against the bright overcast sky. Yusuf gasps raggedly, drawing in a pained breath, then another and another.
Hands - Nicolò’s hands - are frantically pushing dirt away from his face. He’s muttering reassurances in Ligurian. Yusuf can barely keep his eyes open so he focuses instead on that familiar, beloved voice, and on breathing no matter how much it hurts.
Nicolò moves quickly to clear dirt from him, freeing the rest of his body as much as possible. Without its constant pressure, Yusuf’s aching chest and limbs are finally able to heal. His cracked, bleeding nails and raw throat soon follow.
Hands reach for him, one cradling the back of his head, another at his shoulder, and Nicolò draws him up into a sitting position. Yusuf begins to cough, and then turns to one side and retches. Nicolò holds him steady.
Shuddering, he turns his gaze back to Nicolò. His eyes have finally adjusted to the light enough to see his face. Nicolò looks like he hasn’t slept in days, concern etched into his face, his clothes ragged, his eyes red-rimmed, and still he is the most beautiful thing Yusuf has ever seen.
Nicolò brushes dirt from Yusuf’s hair and beard with a tenderness that makes his heart clench. Yusuf doesn’t realize he’s crying until gentle thumbs brush away the tears that leave streaks through the grime on his cheeks.
“You found me,” he rasps out.
Nicolò cups his face in his hands firmly, looking right into his eyes with that sincere, piercing gaze.
“I would not stop until I found you, Yusuf.” He switches to Arabic this time. Though his pronunciation is still clumsy even after all these years, the words in Nicolò’s gentle voice are a comfort to him.
Yusuf has no words left. The weight of what he has suffered has not left him and won’t for some time, and meanwhile here is Nicolò’s unwavering devotion, the love in his gaze, and it’s all too much…
So he weeps, his face pressed to Nicolò’s shoulder, his hands tightly gripping Nicolò’s shirt, nevermind that it is filthy and bloodstained. He clings to Nicolò as though Nicolò is life itself, as if he is the light of day and the fresh air and everything good in the world.
And Nicolò, patient Nicolò, does not attempt to stop him. Instead he holds Yusuf close and is simply there , silent and steady. One hand finds its way to the back of Yusuf’s neck, warm fingers cupping the cold skin. If an embrace could heal, this one would. Perhaps, in a way, it does.
When he is all out of tears, Nicolò kisses his cheeks and looks him over. When he is satisfied that Yusuf has healed, he helps him to his feet. Yusuf doesn’t look around, doesn’t want to see this particular wretched battlefield ever again.
He does not need to say this aloud for Nicolò to know. That night they sleep in an abandoned barn, and the next day Nicolò finds them new clothes and passage to a small town along the coast.
Nicolò takes Yusuf far away from war and death to somewhere they can smell the sea. He cooks for him until the hunger pangs of his hours in the ground are a distant memory. He bathes him with sweet floral soaps until every trace of dirt is gone. Makes love to him until the lingering despair is replaced with nothing but pleasure.
----
In his nightmares Yusuf can still smell and taste that foul dirt. He can even feel its crushing weight. When he wakes in the middle of the night coughing and gasping, fearing he is in that dark place again, Nicolò is there with gentle arms and soothing words.
“Wherever you are,” he tells Yusuf, “I will always find you.”
“Even at the ends of the earth?” Yusuf replies, half teasing, but his eyes reveal the vulnerability beneath the question.
“Even there. Even in a crowd of thousands. Even in flames and chaos. Even at the bottom of the sea. Anywhere.”
He punctuates each statement with a kiss to Yusuf’s face. The final two kisses land at the corners of Yusuf’s eyes, where the skin crinkles from his smile.
“And I you, my love,” he tells Nicolò.
“I know,” Nicolò responds, so automatic and confident that Yusuf wonders if he’s thought about this before.
“You are so sure?” He asks.
“I am,” Nicolò says. He traces Yusuf’s brow, his cheek, the curve of his ear. “Because you have done it before.”
Yusuf finds his wandering hand and kisses his knuckles. “I am afraid I do not understand.”
Nicolò takes a deep breath. “You found me buried, once. Buried deep in - in hatred and misunderstanding. Yet you stayed. You kept digging and you pulled me out. Sometimes I think you knew there was something better in me before I knew it myself...”
His voice is thick with emotion as he speaks. They are pressed together in the dark, the world narrowed down to their shared breaths, their matching heartbeats, to their tangled legs and laced fingers. There is nothing and no one else but them.
“For that, my Yusuf, I am forever grateful,” Nicolò whispers. “And for all these years we have lived together, and the ones we have yet to live, which never would have been possible had you given up on me. So I will follow you anywhere, I will find you anywhere. I am yours in every way one can be. Do you see now?”
Yusuf can’t see a thing through the tears that fill his eyes. Fortunately for them both, he doesn’t need sight to guide his lips to Nicolò’s.
They kiss soft and slow until they both grow drowsy. When sleep claims them once more, their foreheads are still pressed together. They sleep well, safe in the knowledge that they are together.