#togpositivity

So Nicolo kept his secret. A bright, wondrous secret, that felt so warm in his young heart. And every night he heard the laughter in his dreams and awoke with a smile on his lips.

Nicolo was only six when he began to understand God’s plans did not always match his own. It could be argued the unfortunate coupling of Nicolo’s birth and his mother’s death was a clear sign God and Nicolo’s plans had never properly aligned, but that blasphemous thought did not occur to him until later. Anthonia came rushing home from the beach, her cheeks ruddy and wind chapped. She brimmed with so much energy he felt dazed by the proximity. He felt the warmth in her smile and in her eyes and it hit him as a dizzying blow. His father’s house, like its master, still mourned and this joy felt so out of place here.

She had met a man, Giacomo, and she had made him laugh.

They married in the spring and Anthonia was beautiful, like an angel from scripture. She took Nicolo’s face in her hands and bent down to rub her nose against his. There were glittering tears in her eyes but they did not spill, even as Nicolo’s were rushing down his cheeks. She kissed him goodbye. She promised to return, but he knew that it would never be the same.

Nicolo did not have the heart for much laughter then.

It was Nicolo’s tenth birthday when divine intervention plagued him once again. Anthonia had promised to come, with his nieces, and Nicolo could barely contain his glee. A strange energy seemed to fill the house and everyone felt it. The twins, always a handful, felt whipped into mania and decided to steal the cake from the cook. With great whoops and hollers, they raced through the halls, tossing it between them. Nicolo ran deliriously alongside. As the twins turned a corner, they decided to include Nicolo in the fun. Shrieking, he dove blindly for his prize.

Only to run directly into their father, Offredo, and priest, Father Manuel. Nicolo ended up on the floor. The cake ended up in Manuel’s hair and Offredo’s coat.

Nicolo could not help himself. He laughed. A loud noise that almost seemed to crack the very air in the house.

The two cake-covered men shared a look that instantly cut the laugh from Nicolo’s lungs. Within two months, Offredo di Genova oversaw his youngest child take his vows.

Nicolo found even less reasons for laughter then.

He answered Pope Urban II’s call to retake the Holy Land because he felt called to do God’s will. This, he reasoned, was where he and God could agree. Which would finally, hopefully, be enough to earn his rightful place in the kingdom of heaven. Nicolo never considered that heaven might spit him back out.

When he awoke after his first death, clutching at his stomach, pulling apart his tunic to check for the gaping wound he can reflexively still feel, the one stupidly clear thought he managed to knock together was this: Must I always be born from death?

And then a rather familiar, bloodied blade cut into his vision and everything went dark again.

God, it turned out, didn’t even have the decency to send Nicolo back alone. He spat back out his enemy as well. Nicolo, in his admittedly limited earthly experience, had looked at the events before him and assumed the two events to be linked. So Nicolo killed the Muslim again. And again. And again. Until, woozy from the stench of their combined blood, he looked up to an outstretched hand instead of a blade and, without really understanding why, he took it.

Learning Yusuf spoke Greek was a pleasant surprise, though, admittedly, Nicolo had not used it for many years. The speed at which Yusuf picked up zeneize was also a pleasant enough happenstance, and Nicolo told himself he was not in any way jealous. But the language that Yusuf spoke refused to lie still on Nicolo’s tongue. It slipped and flowed like poetry out of Yusuf’s mouth and seemed to tumble out of Nicolo’s, heavy as mud.

But then everything about his companion was poetic, his mind unhelpfully supplied in the long march through the desert. The darker man’s movements with his sword or on a horse were always measured. The soft words that he whispered as he prayed five times a day soothed something in Nicolo’s worried soul. The easy way Yusuf made friends in the villages they passed. The endless patience in which he repeated any word Nicolo asked.

How that first night, after they had come to the agreement not to murder one another in their sleep, Nicolo had woken to find Yusuf’s cloak draped over his shivering frame while his companion had begun his morning prayers.

But we can choose what we do. And we should always choose to be kind, Anthonia had said, during a life he no longer recognised. Sometimes, when Nicolo looked at the endlessly kind Yusuf, all he could see was the blood he’d drawn from him. And he was ashamed.

This blood was so familiar to him. He imagined he could tell the difference of it’s hot spill across his face, his side, to the bandit’s blood from only moments before. His mind was racing, his body no longer under his command as one hand pressed desperately to Yusuf’s chest and the other gripped the arrow he had just pulled from Yusuf’s throat.

‘Please wake up, my friend. Please Yusuf.’ He saw his hand moving, touching Yusuf’s neck, his cheek, the rough curve of his beard. He did not remember telling his hand to move. ‘You cannot leave me here alone.’

Yusuf awoke with a violent gasp. Nicolo felt his own heart thump widely. His breath seemed to rush from him, leaving him dizzy. ‘What happened?’ Yusuf asked, his voice rough from pain, but strong. Nicolo sat back on his feet. He had been on his knees, bending over Yusuf as if in prayer. He could not remember the last time he had prayed.

‘Bandits.’ Nicolo willed his voice to be even, but he didn’t think he managed it. He indicated towards the bodies he knew would be there, but didn’t look. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Yusuf. ‘They shot you with an arrow.’ He held up the arrow, still clutching it so hard he thought it might snap. ‘You did not wake up. Not until I pulled out the arrow. I had thought-’ He was babbling now. A sharp pain in his chest cut him off. Nicolo had a sudden vision of himself sitting there, bowed in prayer, as the night passed and the sun rose. Waiting for a breath that would not come. ‘I was wondering if your stubborn refusal to die was just at my hand.’

Nicolo had not meant to say that out loud. He had not meant for the fear he had felt to force itself from his lips. But the way Yusuf looked at him now, the softening of the other man’s eyes, made him feel naked as a babe.

‘Are you well?’ Yusuf reached out, as if to touch him. Nicolo felt the tension in every inch of his skin. Would he know that touch, as he knew the other man’s blood? ‘Did they hurt you?’ Yusuf asked softly, pulling his hand back.

‘This is mostly yours.’ Nicolo said, still feeling the sticky heat across his skin. ‘It sprouted out of you like a fountain when I pulled this out.’ He threw the arrow from his hands then, unable to bear the weight of it any longer. He rubbed a hand across his cheek and felt the smear of blood. He grimaced ‘How bad is it?’

‘For you? It’s an improvement.’ Yusuf said in absolutely perfect zeneize, completely seriously. The adrenaline and fear shimmered out of Nicolo’s blood. He felt almost drunk with relief and he couldn’t help himself.

He laughed.

The next moments were so sudden, so unexpected, Nicolo’s brain took almost a full thirty seconds to catch up to the reality of what was happening. Yusuf was in his lap. Nicolo was painfully trapped with his arse half on his feet and half his pack. Yusuf’s hands bracketed his face. His mind spun. His hands grasped instinctively for a weapon that he knew was out of reach. He wondered if Yusuf would rub his nose to Nicolo’s as Anthonia used to do. He unhelpfully acknowledged that he did know the feeling of Yusuf’s skin just as intimately as his blood. And then he wondered why he was thinking about that at this exact moment.

Yusuf was shushing him, softly, gently. He pressed Nicolo’s hair away from his face with trembling fingers and stared into his eyes as if he could divine Nicolo’s very thoughts. Nicolo wished to blink. Looking at Yusuf’s eyes like this was as if staring into the endless night sky.

‘What are you doing?’ Nicolo wanted to moan at the dismal way the Arabic toppled from his tongue. His mind was writing poetry and his mouth refused to bring the words to fruition. He huffed out a small laugh at his own absurdity.

And with that small sound, Yusuf seemed to find what he was looking for. He smiled and Nicolo re-evaluated his previous reflection. Having the full enormity of Yusuf al-Kaysani’s smile turned upon you, that was as if being blinded by the sun.

Yusuf threw his head back and laughed.

Nicolo’s entire mind seemed to narrow to one point. One bright, flashing moment of understanding. Energy sizzled in his veins and for a moment he felt as he had done at first death, trapped between two worlds. The one that had been, and the one that would be.

‘Mio Dio.’ Nicolo gasped. Yusuf laughed again.

And Nicolo finally knew, in that moment, what it meant to be born from joy, not death.

Prologue (kinda)

‘After my first death, when I did not dream of any laughter for those many months. I worried my death meant my soul was no longer bound to the same man.’ Nicky says slowly, sipping his coffee

‘Ha, as if you could get rid of me, hayati.’ Joe leans back in his chair and nudges Nicky with his foot.

‘I would never have tried.’ Nicky replies easily. ‘I used to rush to bed after Compline so I could get to sleep, just to hear your laugh. It was the best part of my day.’ Nicky reaches across the table, offering his hand palm up. Joe takes it.

‘Okay, come on Nile.’ Andy screws the lid back onto her liquor and shrugs into her jacket. ‘We’re off.’

‘Why?’ Nile asks, standing up as Andy pulls her t-shirt and moves her towards the door. Behind her, she hears the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and a low voice.

‘And now, tesoro? Is being in bed still your favourite part of the day?’

A low voice curses from somewhere in the house and she startles a little when the door swings open to reveal a dishevelled man, thick chest flexing as he struggles to put on his shirt. He looked tired and rather perplexed at the sight of her.

"Sorry! Sorry!" He huffs, brushing his fingers through dirty blonde hair as if it can tame the wild rat’s nest it made. “Ah, can I help you?”

“Who are you?” Maddie asks, eyes flicking over him. He tilts his head, blue eyes meeting her inspection head on. He’s clearly not British and he is definitely not her uncle. “Where’s Uncle James?”

“James?” He frowns before his eyes widen, sucking in a quick breath. “Oh, you’re Madeline!” He gestures at her to come in. “Come in, come in! Stay here, I’ll get you a towel. You must be freezing!”

Maddie watches as the man takes off on a run up the stairs to where she knows the rooms were and listens as the man starts speaking in a rush of languages that she can only pick up the half of. He comes back down a little while after, fluffy towels in his arms, head cocked to the side to hold his phone between cheek and shoulder. He smiles at the sight of her. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s here. Do you want to talk to her?” His eyebrows rise, handing over the towels to her, miming for her to wipe herself down while he turns to the thermostat to raise the temperature.

“Your Uncle James wants to talk to you,” He says, smiling as if caught in some private joke. “Pass me your bag and take off your shoes and socks. Go upstairs to the guest room. You know the one? Okay. I’ve put a change of clothes on the bed. Go get warmed up. Take my phone with you. I’ll bring you some soup later, alright?”

Maddie has barely wrapped her hand around the body of the mobile before he is dashing off to the kitchen. “Hello? Uncle James?” She says, bewildered.

“I see you’ve met Sebastien,” Her uncle says warmly in her ear and she feels all of 6 again, crying when he had to leave after Christmas lunch “Hello Maddie. Your parents are worried about you.”

She bristles. Kicking off her shoes and socks, she drops her bag and takes off on a run, skipping the steps of the stairs two at a time. “No, they’re not,” She replies hotly, heading straight for the guest room as she had been told to. “They’re not worried about me. They don’t even want me anymore. They only want the baby.”

“Maddie...”

She throws herself onto the bed, still in her wet clothes. Stifling the hot burn of angry tears, she bites the insidide of her cheek. “You know it’s true.” Of course Uncle James would know. There was an age gap between him and Dad, and he would have been only a little younger than her when he came along. If anyone would know just how painful it is to not be the one her parents loved anymore, it would be Uncle James.

Silence comes over the line, punctuated by the quiet hum of a car on the move. “Can’t I just stay with you? Just for tonight?” Maddie asks, sniffling. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she tucks her knees close to her chest. “Please?”

Uncle James sighs. “I’ll talk to your parents, alright? Just to let them know you’re safe and that they can come by for breakfast tomorrow,” He says and Maddie feels a knot in her chest uncurl at that. “Where’s Sebastien?”

“In the kitchen. He told me to shower and change,” She replies, looking over to the foot of the bed where a set of clothes sat folded on the blanket. “Is he your boyfriend or something?”

A soft laugh flutters through the speakers and for her, it was an answer enough. She hadn’t heard him laugh like that since her aunt died and Sebastien seemed nice enough, if not a bit odd. Maddie decides she likes him anyways. He made her uncle laugh even when he wasn’t in the room. It must be love, at least. “I’ll be home soon. Do as he says.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Maddie chuckles wetly, feeling slightly better about running away on a Tuesday. “See you later, Uncle James.”

Now left in the quiet of the room and the gentle rain against the window, she lets the hush wash over her. Maddie strains her ears and listens to the muffled sounds of cooking coming up from downstairs before the thought occurs to her.

This house only has three rooms. One of them is an office she has never been allowed into, the other she knows is her uncle's room, while the third is this one. There is no sign that this room has been slept in at all.

“I will leave my heart at the door, I won't say a word. They've all been said before you know,” Comes the words in time to the singer’s. Nicky shakes himself dry, pulling up his boxers and flushing.

He loses a few bars to the rushing of the water and the creaking of the old pipes as they work to pump enough for all three of them. 

“Look, don't get me wrong, I know there is no tomorrow,” Booker tilts his face up into the direct spray of the shower. “All I ask is If this is my last night with you.”

Nicky nudges Joe by the hip, moving into the space next to him at their sink. Jerking his head at Booker, he washes his hands with soap and water before pulls out his toothbrush from the holder and squeezes the toothpaste onto it. They’re running out. He will have to put it on their grocery list.

Joe raises an eyebrow but says nothing, leaning against the tiles to watch their younger lover. “Hold me like I'm more than just a friend,” Booker’s voice warbles as he pushes his hair back. “Give me a memory I can use, take me by the hand while we do what lovers do. It matters how this ends, 'cause what if I never love again?”

Nicky takes his time brushing his teeth, musing the lyrics over in his mind. They sound sad and they feel it too. Where had Booker picked it up?

“No one knows me like you do, and since you're the only one that matters, tell me who do I run to?”

Heartbreak drips off the cadence of Booker’s singing and looking over to Joe tells Nicky that he is being swept up in the emotions of the whole thing. He spits out the foam in his mouth, rinsing with water. Nicky realises that this must have been something he listened to when they had exiled him. The thought seizes his heart with a fierce surge of longing and regret that he wished he had left behind. 

“Let this be our lesson in love, let this be the way we remember us,” Booker sings, hands moving between his thighs to wash at his cock and balls. “I don't wanna be cruel or vicious, and I ain't asking for forgiveness, all I ask is.”

The piano crescendos into the last chorus and the singer matches it with her voice. 

Booker turns off the shower, plunging the room into the slow steady dripping of water and the shower curtains being pulled aside as he reaches out to grab his towel from the hook. 

Joe moves first. Taking the towel from Booker’s unresisting hands, Nicky sees him murmur something softly that has Booker ducking his head shyly and Joe wrapping the towel around his shoulders, wiping him down. 

Behind him, the radio tinnies off into an advert. The spell is broken for now. 

Nicky leaves the bathroom to grab Booker’s second preference of sleepwear; one of Joe’s old shirts and his boxers. They never fit him quite right but he once said he liked feeling enveloped by them in his sleep. Joe and Nicky had been struck dumb by the overwhelming fondness for their Booker that they had easily capitulated to sharing their clothes with him. 

He makes a note to look this song up later. Or at least to talk to Booker about it. They’re all working on communicating better and it has made for a better back and forth of expectations and managing their emotions. It is tiring work and sometimes Nicky wishes he could stab and hack at the problem until it submits to him. But this is love. Love is hard and messy and never always easy, and to have been blessed with love like theirs not once, but twice over? A miracle. So Nicky will do what it takes - knows Joe will do the same - to work at it because theirs is worth it and it never feels like hard work when Booker smiles.