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The sun was scorching and merciless, reminding Nicolò of their early days in the desert. It had taken hours of sitting in the baked sand before they found a common tongue between them, Yusuf listing off questions in languages more numerous than the stars.
Both the sun and his own shame had beat down on Nicolò as he continued to shake his head to each language. Yusuf’s slowly purpling face reminded him of all the disappointed tutors of his youth, though fortunately there was no longer a father for Yusuf to complain to.
Eventually Nicolò asked if Yusuf spoke Zeneize, to which the bearded man spat and muttered something foul in Greek.
“A little,” Nicolò replied softly in the same tongue. “I speak a little Greek.”
He understood more than he could speak himself, and he certainly didn’t speak enough to understand the colloquial insult Yusuf had muttered, but it was enough to introduce themselves.
“I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani.” He stared at Nicolò’s panicked expression. “Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani,” he repeated, slower this time. Finally he seemed to take pity on Nicolò. “Yusuf,” he sighed.
“Yusuf,” Nicolò dutifully repeated. “I am Nicolò.”
He watched as Yusuf paused, clearly waiting for more.
“Nicolò…?” Nicolò nodded that he’d gotten it correct and Yusuf sighed again. “What is the name of your family, Nicolò?”
He panicked, shaking his head.
“No family. Just Nicolò.”
Yusuf seemed confused, but either he was too polite to push or he did not care.
In the following days Yusuf did his best to speak slowly. Eventually Nicolò could answer in fuller sentences than a simple “Yes” and “No.”
Now they could communicate easily, though Nicolò still tripped over certain pronunciations. Like this morning, when Nicolò had asked if Yusuf would like to go to market later in the day to which Yusuf had snorted.
It held no malice, though. And Yusuf’s gentle smile as he corrected Nicolò was more than enough to ease his embarrassment. There was not much that Yusuf’s smile couldn’t ease, Nicolò thought to himself as he left for the docks. He would gladly suffer the embarrassment of his stupidity if only to see that gentle warmth fill Yusuf’s eyes, to bask in his seemingly endless patience.
As the sun reached its zenith, Nicolò became more and more glad that he had chosen to work the morning shift. It seemed most of Constantinople was hiding from the sun’s angry rays, and Nicolò looked forward to midday when he too would be released back into the shade.
It came soon enough, and Nicolò found himself racing back to their modest apartment, ready to quickly wash and see if he could entice Yusuf into a break from his writing.
Still, he remembered to open the door gently so as not to startle the man from his important work. But when Nicolò peeked his head around the corner to Yusuf’s workspace he found the bench empty, the desk strewn about with gorgeously designed pages. Yusuf’s handiwork, no doubt, but the artist was notably absent.
Perhaps he had grown impatient for Nicolò to return and had gone out to search for lunch by himself.
Nicolò tried to ignore the heavy weight of disappointment, instead making his way to the men’s washroom they shared with the apartment’s other residents.
He stopped short at the entryway. Yusuf was already there. He had removed his shirt and was holding a damp cloth to his neck, a look of relaxed bliss gracing his features.
Nicolò watched as a cool droplet slid across the junction where Yusuf’s neck met his shoulder. The droplet sparkled against the warm skin that seemed to almost glow with beauty. It was nothing like Nicolò’s own flesh, which glowed like the white underbelly of a dead fish.
Nicolò had removed his shirt once after a long day at the docks and turned to find Yusuf’s eyes upon him. The other man hadn’t seemed critical, but Nicolò donned his shirt once more all the same, hurrying to cover his flesh.
It was perhaps the natural reaction to living with God’s most perfect creation. Nicolò couldn’t help but see all the glaring flaws within himself, both physical and not. And he couldn’t help but try his hardest to hide them from Yusuf when he could.
Yet Yusuf in his grace didn’t comment. He merely carried on with what he was doing, too kind to point out the inherent comedy of Nicolò’s patchwork skin: tanned on his face and forearms yet white as death where his shirt covered him.
“My dear Nico, please tell me you are not here to drag me out into that wretched heat!” Yusuf moaned.
Nicolò froze, embarrassed to be caught staring, but pushed past it. It truly was hot outside. Perhaps their excursion to the market would need to be moved to a later date.
“You stay here,” he complied. “I’ll go fetch us our meal.”
Nicolò tried to put on a brave face, though already he worried over the task. Even after a year in the city he could only repeat a few phrases in any of the myriad languages spoken. He would need to go to their regular stall. The woman there didn’t usually mind when Nicolò pointed rather than spoke his order.
“No, no,” Yusuf sighed dramatically. “I promised I would go with you and I am a man of my word. And your company, dear Nico, is worth braving the wrath of the sun.”
Nicolò hoped the redness in his face seemed a natural response to the midday heat. He nodded his assent, picking up another cloth to clean his face and hands of sweat before they ventured out.
Yusuf patiently waited as Nicolò pet the neighborhood’s stray cat, scratching under her chin and promising to bring her back some scraps.
They carried on, Nicolò asking Yusuf about his latest manuscript. It was a philosophical treaty of some sort, though Yusuf assured Nicolò the words were nothing but fluff.
“They don’t pay attention to the realities of life. It’s all well and good to sit in a tower and ruminate, but what use do common people have for such words? What is the point of philosophy if it does not better everyone’s lives?”
“Perhaps they’d be better off as cows,” Nicolò murmured.
“Why’s that?”
“At least then their rumination would provide milk.”
Yusuf chuckled and Nicolò tried not to feel too proud to be the cause of his mirth.
“Are you certain you weren’t born in the desert, dear friend?”
It was a common refrain from Yusuf, a way to extol his dry wit.
It felt nice. No one had ever appreciated his jokes before Yusuf. Too many thought him serious, and if they did understand, he got in trouble for joking in the first place. It was a nice change of pace to be allowed some silliness now and again.
Nicolò blamed the elated feeling in his chest for not seeing the man sooner. As it was, it wasn’t until they had passed the man by before they heard a shocked cry.
“Nicolò?”
Nicolò blinked, almost ready to walk on. There were certainly enough Venetians in the city that a name like his could be common.
But Yusuf stopped, turning to find the source of the shout.
“Nicolò!” He heard again. And then he saw the man to whom the voice belonged.
Nicolò almost ran—would have if not for Yusuf’s arm linked in his. It had been almost two decades since he had last seen Matteo.
———
He is fourteen years old. He is in love with Alessandro. With his golden hair and dark, near-black eyes, certainly. But also with his kindness. Sandro is one of the few boys his age who is kind to him, most likely because he is gone on his father’s ship most of the year. He does not hear talk of the idiot Boccanegra boy, his inability to read despite having the privilege to learn.
No, Sandro only greets him with smiles, never taunts or disappointment.
This is their third summer together and Nicolò has decided that it’s the summer he will confess his feelings to Sandro. He feels certain the other boy feels the same, especially after last summer when Sandro confessed he felt for boys what he should feel for girls. That conversation had filled Nicolò with such hope. Such certainty that this was a sign. They were meant for each other.
Why else would Sandro spend so much time with him? Why else would he listen so kindly to Nicolò’s own worries and deepest secrets?
Sandro is one of the only people who knows just how much Nicolò longs to travel, and he listens when Nicolò explains how he worries he will never get the chance.
Despite coming from a wealthy merchant family, it’s becoming more and more apparent that the only modicum of talent Nicolò has is for sums. An accounts balancer is not required to go on voyages. No, Nicolò will stay in Genova and only dream of distant shores.
“What would you do on distant shores?” Sandro had asked yesterday.
“I would try to see as many different animals as possible!” Nicolò has always had a soft spot for animals.
“Which is your favorite?”
“Animal? All of them! I could no sooner pick a favorite star in the sky!”
“And your brother, Matteo?”
Nicolò had frowned. He didn’t like to think of his brother. Only one year older than him and yet he’d already undertaken his first voyage with their father. And while it was certainly jealousy that made Nicolò tense, it was also because of Matteo himself.
Nicolò’s brother was cruel, crueler than most, even. Nicolò didn’t understand how others didn’t see it. He’d spent his whole life hearing others extolling his brother’s virtues, and yet Nicolò had never seen that side of him in private.
He’d once found Matteo torturing a poor, terrified mouse. The small animal was too tired to even scream as Matteo held it down and cut off its tail. Nicolò had screamed himself and flown at his brother. His fist landed and the mouse scurried away, but the damage was done. The mouse had lost its tail and Nicolò had been vigorously switched for attacking his brother.
“I’m not certain,” Nicolò told Sandro. “Perhaps a wolf.” Matteo was certainly as cruel and bloodthirsty as one, though he hid it well.
But Nicolò shakes off the memory. Today is the day. He is meeting Sandro at their secret place, an abandoned cove near the docks. It is there that Nicolò will tell Sandro how much he loves him.
When he arrives, Sandro is already there. He’s sitting on the stone floor, toying with something small in his hands.
“Sandro!” Nicolò calls out. The other boy glances up.
Nicolò isn’t certain if it’s his own nerves that make Sandro seem anxious or if the other boy is worried about something as well. Before he can speak, Sandro hushes him.
“I have a question for you,” he begins. “But if your answer is no, or if you don’t want to, I won’t ask again.”
Nicolò feels his chest lighten. Here he’d been worried about confessing his feelings to Sandro and Sandro is doing it for him! He smiles and nods in encouragement.
“Will you give this to your brother?”
“What?”
Nicolò still feels light, but now there is an unease creeping in, as if he has missed a step on the stairs and has just begun to fall.
He looks down and there is a small carved wolf in Sandro’s hand.
“Please. Tell him it’s a gift from me. And, well, could you tell me what he thinks of it? What his reaction is?”
“I don’t understand,” Nicolò murmurs.
“I made it for him,” Sandro admits, as if this is something shameful.
“For Matteo?” Perhaps if Sandro clarifies, this will make sense to Nicolò, but the boy only nods.
Nicolò takes the wolf carefully, promising to do as Sandro asked. Then Sandro turns to go.
“Wait!” Nicolò cries out. Sandro waits.
“I…” he doesn’t know how to continue, doesn’t know how to confess his feelings. He decides to ask instead. “Do you like me?”
Sandro sighs, a bit exasperated.
“Of course I do, Nico.”
“Oh.” It’s an acceptable answer to his question, the best answer, and yet Nicolò still doesn’t feel as if he’s learned anything.
“Will we meet here tomorrow?”
“If I have time,” Sandro replies. And then he leaves the cove while Nicolò stays and watches a starfish cling to the wall, feeling as if he has missed something important.
That evening after supper Nicolò gives Sandro’s carving to Matteo. He doesn’t wish for his brother to have a gift—certainly not from the boy he loves—but Nicolò is a man of his word and there is very little he would deny Sandro, no matter how much it pains him.
“What’s this?” Matteo asks.
“It’s from Alessandro Orlandi. He…he made it for you.”
Nicolò expects Matteo to sneer, perhaps to even throw Sandro’s gift against the wall. He is prepared to defend his love’s honor, but Matteo only sighs softly.
“It’s quite beautiful.”
“Yes,” Nicolò agrees, for it truly is. Sandro is talented, even if it is only a way for him to pass the time when minding his father’s stall.
“You meet with him at the cove, yes?”
“Yes,” Nicolò nods. “Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.” And then Matteo walks away.
Nicolò barely sleeps all night, too busy drafting a way to proclaim his love for Sandro. Perhaps he had been going about it the wrong way. All of Genova knows he is not good with words. Perhaps he needs to show Sandro instead.
He knows the boy loves the field outside town, loves the wildflowers that grow there. Men give their lovers flowers all the time, Nicolò reasons. Perhaps this is the best way to show Sandro that he loves him.
The next day Nicolò is late coming to the cove. He’d spent the morning picking only the most beautiful flowers from the field and is covered in dirt, but he’s excited.
There’s a strange sound coming from the cove. It’s soft at first, until Nicolò is nearly upon them.
Sandro is lying on the floor, facing away from Nicolò and towards someone…Matteo. They’re locked in a grapple and Sandro is groaning. Is he in pain? Is Matteo hurting him?! Here Nicolò has been whiling away the hours while his love is under attack!
Nicolò storms into the cove, ready to fight Matteo to the death, if necessary. And then he stops. Sandro and Matteo aren’t wrestling, they’re—
“What are you doing here?” Sandro cries.
Matteo looks up from where he’s sucking against Sandro’s neck and glares at Nicolò.
“I…I thought,” Nicolò can’t even finish the sentence.
“Leave us!” Sandro cries.
Matteo makes as if to get up, as if to physically drive Nicolò away, but Nicolò runs. He doesn’t stop until he is certain he’s not being followed.
There must be some explanation, his fractured heart reasons. But the cool logic in his brain already knows the answer. It was really too much to hope that Sandro would love Nicolò. He should have seen this coming. Of course Sandro would love Matteo. Everyone in town did. He was the heir apparent to a booming trade, handsome, and outwardly a perfect gentleman.
Nicolò is an idiot for not seeing this sooner, for thinking Sandro could possibly love him when he could have Matteo.
Nicolò only hopes that Sandro might still wish to spend time with him, at least a little bit. Three years of friendship cannot mean nothing, can it? He resolves to take whatever Sandro will give him.
But that night, when he makes his way back home, his father is waiting for him, Matteo at his side. Nicolò knows his eyes are still red from sobbing, he’s almost too tired to acknowledge his family.
Matteo tells his father how he caught Nicolò and Alessandro embracing in the cove, how Nicolò is leading a life of sin and shame. He has tears in his eyes, as if his heart is truly pained at how far his brother has fallen.
Not once does Nicolò correct him because had today gone to plan, had his heart not been utterly broken, it would have been true.
That is the night that Nicolò is cast out, forbidden from using the Boccanegra name. He sleeps in the field, unable to revisit the cove, and the next day makes his way to the monastery in the foothills. He does not see Sandro ever again.
———
“Nicolò?” Matteo called again.
He’d aged well. His hair and beard were well kept and his skin was clean and healthy. His clothes were made of rich fabrics, clearly denoting his success as a merchant.
“What are you doing here? You were supposed to be dead in the Holy Lands. Or did you run at the first sight of blood like a sniveling coward?” He laughed with just a hint of malice. Nicolò was certain that to anyone who didn’t understand Zeneize, to Yusuf, he sounded perfectly affable.
It was then that Matteo noticed Yusuf. Nicolò immediately had a desperate need to shield the other man from view, or grab his hand and run until they were both far away.
“Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
“He doesn’t speak Zeneize,” Nicolò hedged.
“Apologies,” Matteo tried again in Greek. “Introduce your friend, Nicolò.”
Nicolò glanced at Yusuf, whose face was kept carefully blank.
“Matteo, this is Yusuf iboon Abraham iboon…” he flushed in embarrassment when he couldn’t pronounce Yusuf’s name in full. Matteo gave him an affronted look, as if angry on Yusuf’s behalf. “Sorry,” he began again. “Yusuf iboon Abraham iboon Muhammadu—“
He stopped as Yusuf gently placed his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. He gave him a small smile, finishing the introduction himself.
“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani, at your service.”
“Well met, Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani,” Matteo repeated with enviable ease. Then he waited for Nicolò to finish the butchered introduction.
“Yusuf, this is my br… old acquaintance, Matteo Boccanegra.”
Instantly Yusuf’s eyes lit in recognition.
“Boccanegra? I’ve heard much about your family,” Yusuf said.
“I admit I’ve heard much about the prestigious al-Kaysani family as well. You are from Mahdia?”
“Indeed.”
“I should like to take this opportunity to apologize for the current relations between our people. It is shameful, what we Genovese did.” Matteo bowed his head, the perfect image of a contrite sinner seeking reconciliation and not the son of the man who helped plan the raid on Mahdia in the first place.
“It is in the past,” Yusuf replied amicably. “In truth, you would not have had as much cause to attack us had we not raided your shores first. I suppose history is simply a long line of people exchanging eyes for eyes and being blinded. Too bloody an affair for conversation on such a fine day.”
Nicolò stared at Yusuf in shock. The first time Yusuf learned he was from Genova he’d stabbed him in the throat. It hadn’t been until he’d woken up that Yusuf explained he was from Mahdia, and even after that it was days until Yusuf would even look at Nicolò without spitting. And that was despite him not knowing just how closely Nicolò’s old family was tied to the attacks.
“You are a wise man, Yusuf al-Kaysani. Yet still I must beg you to let me purchase your meal, if only to ease my conscience. Perhaps we may talk more over lunch.”
Yusuf opened his mouth to respond but Nicolò regained his wits.
“I apologize, Signor Boccanegra. We have business to attend to and must be going.”
“You truly planned not to eat this day? It’s too early for you to have already had lunch.”
Nicolò desperately tried to come up with an excuse but Yusuf spoke before he could.
“It would be our honor, Signor Boccanegra.”
“Excellent.” Nicolò couldn’t help but feel like a mouse when faced with the cruel grin on his brother’s face. “Come this way, then.”
They followed Matteo through the market and up towards a richer neighborhood. Nicolò frowned as he noticed their direction. Yusuf often begged to explore this quarter but Nicolò always refused, too nervous to venture far from their home or the docks.
Yet Yusuf didn’t seem to be excited by their new surroundings. Instead he kept glancing at Nicolò, a furrow in his brow.
Nicolò gave him a small smile to appease his worry, ashamed that Yusuf was unable to enjoy himself due to his own sullen demeanor.
When they entered a small, clean restaurant, Matteo confidently sat at an empty table, gesturing for Yusuf and Nicolò to take the other seats.
“I found this spot a few years ago on my first trip to Constantinople. Their kabsa is excellent although, Nicolò, it may be too spicy for your palate. I know you were always a man of baser tastes,” he added in Zeneize.
“I’m certain the food will be wonderful,” Nicolò grit out through his teeth.
“Now tell me how it is you came to travel together? Nicolò, don’t tell me you latched onto this poor man’s side like a parasite!” Matteo laughed, though softened when Yusuf didn’t join him. Yusuf didn’t seem much inclined to speak at all, actually, so Nicolò spoke for him.
“You’re right that I was at Jerusalem. Yusuf saved my life. I have travelled with him ever since.”
“Truly?” Matteo looked surprised, turning to Yusuf. “What made you want him with you? Or perhaps the better question is why would you save his life?”
“We saved each other, and Nicolò is an excellent travel companion,” Yusuf lied.
They were both saved from further questions when a man came to their table, ready to take their order.
Immediately Matteo launched into fluent Arabic, a new development from his many travels, Nicolò was sure. He paused, asking Yusuf his opinion before turning to Nicolò, clearly expecting an answer.
“I…”
Nicolò was saved from embarrassment by Yusuf answering for him. The waiter nodded and left their table, but Matteo was already turning toward Nicolò like a shark that had caught blood.
“All those years in the Holy Land and you still didn’t pick up any Arabic, Nico?”
Nicolò shook his head, unwilling to give Matteo the satisfaction of trying to explain himself. He also couldn’t bear to look at Yusuf. He couldn’t imagine just how far he’d fallen in the man’s esteem when compared to his brother.
“How do you know each other?” Yusuf finally asked.
Matteo grinned, this time looking ready for the kill. Nicolò spoke before he could open his mouth.
“The Familia Boccanegra are great patrons of the monastery I lived in.” It was not necessarily a lie. His father had paid great sums of money to the Church. Some of it was certain to find its way to the monastery.
“Yes,” Matteo agreed easily. “And I became quite a friend to our Nico here. You see the abbott was at his wits’ end with this one. He was unable to copy manuscripts, barely able to contribute to life at the monastery. Jesus commands us to take care of the sick and dumb, so I took it upon myself to hire the best tutors to help Nico. Unfortunately as you can see it did not do much good, but sometimes it is the effort that counts, no? And I suppose our Nico turned out alright in spite of it all.”
“Nicolò is not dumb,” Yusuf murmured darkly.
“Pardon?”
“Nicolò is a very talented man. His talents simply lie outside the realm of arts and letters.”
“As you say,” Matteo shrugged. “I am just glad he has someone to mind him these days. We worried so much when he set off on the Pilgrimage.”
“I am not his minder. We are equal partners in all things.”
Nicolò tried not to stare at Yusuf. It wasn’t true at all and Yusuf knew it. Nicolò would be dead one hundred times over without him. But it was nevertheless kind of him to lie to Matteo, if only to help defend what little honor Nicolò had left.
“Excuse me,” Matteo said. “I just realized I forgot to mention something to our waiter.”
He stood from the table, walking quickly over to the kitchen.
“Nico,” Yusuf asked quietly. “Are you alright?”
His kind, kind Yusuf. He must have noticed Nicolò’s tension.
“Of course,” Nicolò replied.
Yusuf opened his mouth to speak but closed it as Matteo returned to the table, this time accompanied by the waiter and three steaming bowls of food.
Matteo began the conversation again with Yusuf, something about trade routes, but Nicolò could barely listen.
It was true he had been used to bland food at the monastery, even blander food that became nonexistent as he traveled to Jerusalem, but Yusuf had been helping him experiment with local cuisines this past year. He had enjoyed the meals so far but this…it was so hot Nicolò could barely hear anything but steam rushing through his ears.
“—colò? Nicolò? Are you alright?”
Nicolò looked up at Yusuf’s worried expression and opened his mouth to say something. Instead of speaking, though, he began coughing. If he hadn’t known he was unable to die he might have been worried. As it was, he tried to excuse himself as gently as possible before rushing outside.
Even once he was outdoors the coughing didn’t stop. Whatever was in the food was spicier than he’d ever tasted, yet somehow Matteo had handled it with ease.
Was it truly yet another quality of his brother that Nicolò lacked? He walked himself around the alley and slid down against the stucco wall, dropping his head into his knees.
This afternoon was a disaster. He’d be lucky if Yusuf saw fit to return home with him by the end of this.
Nicolò had always known Yusuf was aware of his many shortcomings, but to have them brought into such stark light, one right after another? All while he could say nothing to defend himself? It was unbearable.
And yet Yusuf had always been so kind. Certainly he would still wish to remain with Nicolò after this? They’d worked through worse differences. An inability to speak other languages or appreciate other cultures’ foods wouldn’t be enough to drive him away, not after everything they’d been through, right?
Of course perhaps it was everything they’d been through that tied them together. Had neither of them been immortal, they would have had no reason to travel with each other. Yusuf, even in all his kindness, would never have agreed to Nicolò’s company.
Nicolò had never felt more like the millstone around Yusuf’s neck, tied to him by circumstance, bound to drag him down.
Eventually the coughing died down. Nicolò didn’t know how much time had passed but he stood up, trying his best to brush the dirt from himself, and returned to the restaurant.
Yusuf and Matteo didn’t see him immediately. They were bent over the table, speaking in hushed tones.
It was rude to eavesdrop, Nicolò knew, and yet he couldn’t help but overhear Matteo’s words.
“—ship leaves in a day. We will be traveling west if you require passage.”
It took Nicolò a moment to realize that Matteo was speaking in Zeneize. It took another moment to see that Yusuf seemed to understand him.
“That is very kind, but we are not looking to leave Constantinople so soon,” Yusuf responded in perfect, barely-accented Zeneize.
Nicolò froze. How long had Yusuf known his native tongue? Why had he refused to speak it? Even now Nicolò struggled with Greek. If only—
“—not passage for you both, just you. I tell you this as a friend, as someone who has dealt with him before, you would be better off without Nicolò.”
Nicolò turned and left the restaurant. He began walking, almost running, away. Running like the coward he was.
Matteo’s words were true. Nicolò could see it so clearly now. He was a burden to Yusuf. Yusuf was kind, but he would never have wanted Nicolò around if not for their strange circumstances. Why else would he have refused to speak Zeneize? He must have wished to interact with Nicolò as little as possible, something made easier without a common language between them.
And Nicolò, selfish fool that he was, had clung to Yusuf like a scrap of wood in a shipwreck. How often must Yusuf have wished for Nicolò to leave him alone? How many obvious signs had Nicolò missed, too busy falling in love with the man?
Nicolò stopped, barely aware of his surroundings.
He was in love with Yusuf.
It was so obvious, and yet so revolutionary to acknowledge. How could he not be in love with the kindest, best man he’d ever met?
More importantly, how could he ever have imagined that Yusuf could love him back? Because that’s what he had thought, in his heart of hearts, deep in the recesses of his mind. He truly thought Yusuf loved him. And just like sixteen years ago, it took his brother to show him just how wrong he was.
Nicolò almost tripped over the stray cat as he entered their apartment. He spared a thought to feel guilty at not having brought scraps for her, then pushed on into their home.
Yusuf would leave with Matteo, of that Nicolò was certain. His brother would help Yusuf to choose the best path, and if he couldn’t convince him, Nicolò would. Nicolò could not—would not—stand in the way of Yusuf’s happiness.
He began throwing his belongings into a bag. It would be easier this way, if he were ready to leave before Yusuf returned. That way they would only require a quick goodbye, for Nicolò to thank Yusuf for everything before parting ways.
Yet Nicolò was barely packed by the time Yusuf returned. Immediately the other man rushed to him, taking in his harried expression.
“Are you alright? Why didn’t you return? When I saw they added that much shatta paste to your dish—”
“They added what?”
“I was so worried, Nicolò. Please tell me you’re alright.”
Nicolò shook Yusuf’s hand from his shoulder and resumed hunting for his belongings.
“I am fine, Yusuf. I’m sorry to have worried you.”
“You’re not fine. I can see that clearly. Will you—“ Yusuf threw his arms around Nicolò’s, blocking him from movement. “Just stay still a moment and talk to me. Why did you leave?”
Nicolò sighed. Even when he was upset he couldn’t help but melt at any contact Yusuf would offer him.
“I thought to pack my things before you came home, to make the transition easier on you.”
“What?” Yusuf blinked. “What could you possibly be talking about?”
“You’re going with him, are you not?”
“With that pompous asshole? No. I’m not. I’m sorry, I know he’s an old acquaintance but wallahi, Nicolò, he was awful!”
“Then why were you kind to him?” Nicolò suddenly cried. “Why…” he paused, switching to Zeneize, voice shaking. “Why did you speak to him in my native tongue? Why would you not speak to me…?”
Yusuf’s eyes were so deep, filled with concern sparkling out of them.
“You heard that?”
Nicolò nodded. Yusuf sighed, as if all his energy had suddenly left him. He sat on the bed, pulling Nicolò down to sit beside him.
“I’m sorry,” he spoke. “I never wanted to hurt you, my dear, dear Nicolò. Please let me try to explain?”
He was speaking in Zeneize now. It was simultaneously the best and worst thing Nicolò had ever heard.
“I didn’t realize at first that you didn’t know I spoke Zeneize. And I admit, when we first met I was not entirely fluent. But when you asked me I told you how I refused to speak an invader’s tongue.”
“You never said that,” Nicolò argued.
“I did. In Greek. But I supposed you didn’t understand me at the time and for that I issue the first of what I’m sure will be many apologies today. I realize it was a cruel and heartless thing, to deny you a form of easy communication. But I was hurting so much after the war. It’s not an excuse, though. I am truly sorry.
“For a long time afterwards I thought you simply wished to better your Greek. You were certainly dedicated and I didn’t want to deny you the chance to practice. Eventually it simply became our lingua franca. I admit that I never thought to change that. I figured you would switch to Zeneize if you wished. It wasn’t until you told Signor Boccanegra that I didn’t speak it that I realized you truly didn’t know.”
Nicolò sighed, nodding at the explanation.
“I did need to learn Greek,” he agreed. “I doubt I would have made nearly as much progress had I had the crutch of my first language.”
Yusuf looked down at their hands, noticing perhaps for the first time that they were still clasping each other. He didn’t let go.
“Please don’t say that,” Yusuf whispered. “You’re always so quick to forgive and while it is usually one of your best qualities I find I cannot bear it now. Not when I have hurt you so deeply.”
“You had your reasons,” he assured Yusuf. “It is in the past.”
“I suppose I must explain my actions today as well. I was courteous to Signor Boccanegra because I have dealt with men like him before. As soon as you show that you’re on to their game, that you see them for who they truly are, they turn on you. It could have become very dangerous. But I promise you, Nicolò, had I not worried for his actions I would have declared to Allah how wrong he was about you.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Nicolò murmured. “But he wasn’t truthful. Neither of us were.”
“What?”
“Matteo is not simply an acquaintance. He was my brother.”
Nicolò watched as Yusuf’s expressive face flickered through different emotions. Shock. Confusion. Realization. Anger.
“If he is your brother, why would he not have introduced himself as such? And why would he have said all those horrible things about you? He is your family!”
“Was,” Nicolò gently corrected. “He was my family.”
“I don’t understand. You cannot simply cease to be family.”
Nicolò huffed a laugh, completely lacking in mirth.
“Perhaps not in your home but I assure you it happens quite often in mine. I…” Nicolò hesitated, unsure if he wanted to reopen this wound. But Yusuf deserved the truth. He deserved to know exactly why he should rid himself of Nicolò, even if knowing the truth would make him despise him.
“I will tell you the story but you must not interrupt me. I fear if you do I may never finish the telling.”
Yusuf nodded his assent and Nicolò began.
“When I was eleven I met a boy, Alessandro. His father was a merchant from Pisa and would spend summers trading in Genova. We became great friends, Sandro and I. He didn’t mind that I was stupid—“ Nicolò watched as Yusuf opened his mouth to refute him then remembered his promise and closed it. “He didn’t mind that none of the other boys wished to play with me. Each summer he found me and we would play together.
“But you see, by our fourteenth year things had changed. I had changed. I was… I was in love with him. As a man loves a woman I loved him. Sandro was…he was perfect.
“I vowed to tell him of my love. I was so certain he would feel the same. Perhaps I would be allowed to join his father’s crew, to travel with him. I wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
“But the day I went to tell him of my feelings, I found him with Matteo. They were embracing. I couldn’t understand it, I had been so sure. But Sandro was in love with my brother, probably had been for some time. Perhaps that was even the reason he was friends with me to begin with, as a way to get closer to him.
“That evening Matteo told our father it was me who had lain with Sandro. I was stripped of the name Boccanegra and sent away. I entered into the monastery and, well, you know the rest.”
Nicolò kept his eyes cast down, unsure if he wanted to see Yusuf’s face. Perhaps if he gave him time Yusuf would be able to hide his disgust. But then he heard a sound and glanced up.
Yusuf was crying. Thick tears were running down his cheeks, into his beard.
“Yusuf?”
The other man pulled him in and Nicolò was helpless not to go. He buried his nose in Yusuf’s nape, breathing deeply as his arms came tight around him.
“I am so sorry,” Yusuf breathed. “I am so sorry you went through that. That boy did not deserve you. Your family did not deserve you.”
“It’s alright, Yusuf. I’m alright.”
Nicolò could feel Yusuf shaking his head but he was too caught up in their embrace to argue more. At least Yusuf was not disgusted with his attraction to men. Perhaps they truly could part amicably.
Eventually Nicolò extracted himself from Yusuf’s embrace. He took a deep breath, fortifying himself for what he would say next.
“Even if Matteo can be cruel, I still think you should go with him. It’s an opportunity to return to your family. You should take it.”
Yusuf’s eyes flashed with anger.
“How could you possibly think I’d ever want to go with that asshole? How could you possibly think I’d want to leave you?”
“I thought, well…“
“I’m sorry, Nicolò, but if you want to be rid of me you will have to tell me outright. I will respect your wishes but you need to tell me.”
“I never want you to leave, Yusuf. Of course I don’t. But it’s what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me?”
“Yes!”
Yusuf sighed, breathing out something fast and annoyed in Arabic.
“What’s best for me is staying with you, you self-sacrificing fool! How could I ever wish to be parted from the man I love?”
Nicolò paused, trying to be certain he’d heard correctly.
“The man you love?” he asked.
Yusuf nodded, breathing deeply.
“I have loved you for so long. Only now have I had the courage to say anything.”
“You love me.” Nicolò was unsure if it was a question or a proclamation. It certainly felt like something that needed to be proclaimed, to be repeated until he understood the truth of it.
“Nicolò, I die of love for you.”
Nicolò leaned forward, just until his forehead touched against Yusuf’s warm skin.
“I love you,” he whispered. Yusuf’s eyelashes fluttered in pleasure and Nicolò leaned back just enough to kiss his eyelid.
“I love you,” he repeated, kissing the other.
“I love you, I love you, I love you.” His cheeks, his nose. Each received the softest kiss Nicolò could manage.
Yusuf eventually growled, clearly growing impatient, and swiftly rose to claim Nicolò’s lips with his own.
Later, when they were tangled up in each other and their sheets, lying sated as the warm sunset spills through the window, Yusuf whispered against Nicolò’s neck.
He knew languages more numerous than the stars, but chose only one with which to love his Nicolò.
“Te véuggio bén.”