#melodymayhew

They kill each other every day, until they stop and finally peace.

Then they start killing each other again.

It goes like this --

A curved blade is thick in Nicolò’s belly, and Nicolò is watching his insides ooze around the metal. He has watched this enough times that curiosity has begun to outweigh the pain. He has always has a student’s eye, and watching the way his flesh wiggles waxy tendrils around the blade, trying to close the wound, is fascinating.

Disgusting, but fascinating.

Above him, the man grunts, shoves the blade further in, and twists.

This hurts enough to snuff Nicolò’s curiosity, and he wails.

He makes eye contact with the man pinning him down, and for a moment he sees something flash behind his eyes -- pity? grief? respect?

“Per favore,” Nicolò says to him, for the first time.

The man roars, pulls out the scimitar - and several other vital pieces of Nicolò - and Nicolò promptly dies.

When he wakes up, the man is wiping bits of Nicolò off his scimitar. He is also doing it on the outside of Nicolò’s right thigh, which he finds both rude and oddly genteel.

Nicolò blinks, and a hand appears in view. He squints at the bearded man, his face haloed by the sun and making it impossible to discern his features.

The man waves his hand and grunts. Nicolò takes it, and suddenly finds himself on his feet.

( It’s not as though he didn’t know this man was strong, but the bright weightlessness of feeling his entire body lifted makes his stomach flip. He chooses not to examine the sensation. )

The man keeps a grip on his hand and locks eyes with him.

“Yusuf.”

He smacks his left palm to his chest.

“ Yusuf .”

Nicolò peers at him. There is neither kindness nor anger in Yusuf’s eyes. But there is something. He cannot quite name it.

Nicolò squeezes Yusuf’s hand.

“Nicolò.” He mirrors the gesture, left palm to his own breastbone. “Sono Nicolò.”

Yusuf nods. “Nicolò.” He drops his hand, sheathes his sword, and turns on his shoulder.

“Vieni, Nicolò.”

Joe/Nicky

Andy holds up a wedge of twenty-pound notes.

“So,” she says, “who did the speech this time?”

It’s a transparent attempt to break the terrible, awkward silence in the car. Joe is fuming next to her with a bone-tight grip on the wheel, Nile is looking straight ahead, perfecting her thousand-yard thousand-year stare. Bookending her are Booker and Nicky, looking completely miserable.

Andy waves the money impatiently.

“Come on, easy bet.”

Nicky scoffs. “Is not so easy.”

Andy arches an eyebrow. “Oh really? Cos it seems to me that--”

“Joe,” Booker says softly. “It’s always Joe.”

Nicky yelps, outraged. “It is not always Joe.”

A tiny sliver of a smirk tugs at Joe’s face, and Andy relaxes a little.

“He has a point, habibi.”