#warwine

this is a very observant man, vincent thinks as he enjoys the late morning sun, after mass.  he cannot say he knows nicoló very well;  after all, vincent has arrived in this small mediterranean town only a few weeks before, alone and with little more than a rosary to his name. he needed to be near the sea, he explained to the elderly nun that lives not too far from him  (she likes to remind him to eat enough, tender like a mother, a sister, a longtime friend). he needed to rest. to reflect and pray.

he comes here almost every day, to this small cafe nestled in a quiet corner of the town's square, in what has become a routine for him.  he rises, as always, very early, prays, co-officiates mass, then he allows himself this little indulgence. good coffee, a book and, when he feels like it, something sweet to go with the rest. still, the observation surprises him — rather, the directedness of it does — but just a little. there is a gravity to nicoló's eyes that makes vincent feel like he would know, if vincent were to deny, that he would not be telling him the truth.

nicoló reminds him of the holy father  (who vincent has met only once).  a good man with an unfailingly piercing gaze. one that read right through vincent, not too long ago, when he had tried to resign, suffocated by the dark weight of his thoughts. vincent smiles, somewhat sheepish. it is a rather bold comparison to make, he knows, even if only among the privacy of his own thoughts.

'' i had a crisis of faith, you could say. not in god, no, never.. in myself. in my worthiness of his love. it's why i came here, away from my parish in baghdad. ''

he stops there, not wishing to place his burdens on the man's shoulders.  it is not his help vincent is seeking in coming here;  i sought the lord, and he answered me, he delivered me from all my fears.

vagabond.

the weight of the weapon tugs at the sinew of his arms. it's hefty, he thinks, and old. he is not sure of its origin, though it appears southeast asian—maybe a cousin of a klewang. some earlier version even, a prototype.

either way, he feels as if he is carrying a fragment of andy's whole long life in his hands.

vagabond.

being stuck with the bottomless pit stomach of an adolescent meant that the associated metabolism is permanent. his appetite comes and goes, shifts between a ravenousness and a rootless nausea. he had learned to ignore the sharp pains in his belly to where he did not feel them. being hungry, though, he’s discovered, is like being lonely. he never knows how bad it is until he starts to eat, or spends time around other people, listening to breathing that isn’t his own.

nicky had always been feeding him. more than once, so long ago, mutt wondered if he weren’t trying to stuff him full for something evil. but the moment never came. it is a warm feeling, now, his quiet, understated thoughtfulness making mutt’s chest feel tight.

and then we danced.

though not immediately attentive, the collision of a voice upon his ears near-instantly tugs mutt out of momentary distraction. two-fold vigilance of the battered kid and the soldier curl and flex within him like a phantom limb with nowhere to go as he turns.

he shrugs, somewhere around dismissive. somewhere just to the left of exhausted.

"took the words right out of my mouth." and he does not want to sound like he misses him, or ever looks for him at his haunts, or anything, but— "where you been?"

and then we danced.

the sun begins to set on the vast open countryside of portugal's alentejo region. it's been a long day. a long week. what's done is done. their hands have been washed. literally. figuratively. they had been preparing to leave, but—

mutt doesn't remember if they had been invited to this particular wedding. only that it seems they weren't there and then they were, the family over-friendly and welcoming on one of their happiest days. yusuf couldn't deny them. nicky can't deny yusuf anything. and andy can't deny any of them.

he watches a dance begin from the edges of the make-do dance floor, grass flattened by so many feet. something lively and traditional, hands clapping and feet stomping. out of his peripheral, he sees nicky making his way toward him. mutt gives one, two, three sidelong glances between him and the grinning dancers before nicky sidles up beside him.

he should've known better. the way nicky had approached him had only spelled trouble. the half-frigid—warmed only by their bond—level stare mutt gives him is a trade-off in place of an eye roll.

in the country of men.

the first three times nile died, it was instantaneous. the knife clawing in her throat. andy shooting her to prove a point. the free fall. coming back from that had hurt the most, but at least she didn't have to watch.

she manages to gasp-grunt, "holy fu—holy shit! oh, my god. fuck!" through her teeth. her eyes are unable to look away from her stomach as it begins to heal. morbid curiosity has her wanting to touch it, try to impede it, just to see if she could. it is only when nicky is right over her, then beside her, then touching her, can she look elsewhere, think about anything else.

his large hand holds her head steady from where it rests on her left cheek. it is with effort that her rapid, rabbit-like breaths become heavy, labored. suddenly, she feels the last of the wound disappear.

in the country of men.

marcus looks—stares—at carmy in that quiet, deeply concerned way of his. his reassurance sits somewhere adjacent to cliche, like those sports movies marcus watched as a kid where the coach has to knock some wholesome sense into their underdogs during a late-game huddle. and yet it still tugs promising at the base of his spine and the broadness of his shoulders.

they call that trust.