a kiss on the back of the hand book & nicky .
sébastian catches his hand as nicolò rises to clear away the dishes. he is crooked, wet-eyed with liquor. clumsy and feverish with shame at being found this way, and worse still for having been fed and cared for. nicky watches as booker kisses the back of his hand and then holds it to his face, pressed to his nose, cheek shaped by nicky's knuckles. he presses the place that he had kissed to his forehead and nicolò hears his low, dry, ragged sob. a sound that is older than any of them.
the memory of that sound lives in nico's bones. he has never had the courage to make it, himself. in these moments, he knows that sébastian sees only his own wretchedness, and he is wretched—destructive, pitiless, and weak. but nicolò knows that this sound, this suffering, is the human heart of Christ, and sébastian's upturned face is the very face of Christ, abandoned in the garden. confused, and desperate, and full of pain.
booker is clinging tightly to his hand and yet nico finds no resistance when he withdraws it. sébastian releases his fingers immediately and nico slowly turns his palm to sébastian's face, touches his forehead and then cups his cheek, his littlest finger set along his nose, its pad almost in the very inner corner of sébastian's left eye.
sébastian looks up at him, neither miserable nor sublimate with joy. somewhere between, in an unfeeling place, awaiting command. it is not God's forgiveness that he wants. nicolò could give him what he is begging for—but it would not do him any good. they look at one another and nico loves him. very sadly, he loves him. as sadly as he once loved himself.
"no more tonight," nicolò says gently, though there is a firmness in his voice that is almost hard. nicky is not yusuf, he is not andy or nile. they are always going into it with him. descending into their own sorrows by way of sébastian's ladder. nicolò loves them, and he loves their sympathy—but he does not approve. he does not say 'let's get you to bed' at they would, in their sweet, commiserating way, wrapping arms around him and helping him to stand. instead, he looks hard into sébastian's frightened eyes and tells the truth. "there will be more suffering tomorrow. now, it is time for bed."
he takes sébastian's face in both his hands and stoops down over the table to kiss him chastely on his upturned mouth. then, he lets him go—and carries the dirty dishes to the sink.
he hears the heavy sound of sébastian's chair scraping across the floor behind him as he turns on the faucet and begins rinsing the plates. he knows without looking that sébastian will go up the narrow, creaking stairs. he knows that sébastian will lay down in his moonlit room. he will close his eyes and go to sleep. because nicolò has told him so, and nicolò has faith in him, faith that is impossible to destroy—and what sébastian needs more than sympathy, more than mutual misery, is to be told what to do.
