literally a hostage to my fandoms

05:15 PM, 16 February, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy. Ilyas slept for most of the day now, his windows of consciousness were all together no more than a couple of hours per day. When he would wake, it was usually due to pain. His stomach began to be another source of discomfort, and he would often bar his arms tightly across his belly while lying curled on his side. Nicky knew that the gut inflammation was a secondary effect from the high-dose antibiotics, so he did his best to manage the symptoms with antispasmodics and painkillers.

The list of supports they were using to keep Ilyas comfortable was ever-growing. Fentanyl for pain relief, antipyretics to suppress fever spikes, the broad spectrum antibiotics to try and slow the progression of the infection, antispasmodics for nausea, the feeding tube, and now Ilyas needed constant oxygen to help keep his blood saturation levels up. The hiss of the oxygen tank became an additional permanent background noise in the bedroom. Nicky had fitted him with a nasal canula a few nights ago to help him sleep easier, and while it did have the intended effect, it was another device connected to his body, another annoyance that he sometimes reached to pull out.

The seizures began soon after the night they scrambled to bring Ilyas' temperature down.

Nicky was alone with Ilyas for the first. It came on while he was reading to him in the late afternoon, a story of crossing the desert on camelback and being visited by different funny spectres. As he read, Nicky could hear the sounds of Joe moving about down the hall. There was the gentle closing of dresser drawers and the shuffling of his feet over the floorboards, all signals that he would soon come in to start the night shift.

It was lucky that he had been sitting along the bed's edge, because when the episode started, it was something that he felt rather than heard. One moment, Ilyas was curled on his side, small and fever-warm, listening to the steady rhythm of Nicky's voice as he read to him. The next, he suddenly went stiff. His body arched unnaturally, his head pushed back against the pillows. His breathing sounded wrong, the book in Nicky's hand immediately slipped down to floor, forgotten.

Just as the convulsions started, Nicky's hand shot out instinctively, reaching to cushion the back of Ilyas' head. There wasn't any great danger of him striking against something, but he wanted to help brace him so he remained on his side.

"Piano, Ilyas, piano..." Nicky murmured, tone low and calm, despite the pangs in his own chest. "Tra poco passa. Respira per me." (Easy, Ilyas, easy. It will be over soon. Breathe for me.)

But he could already see that Ilyas wasn't breathing properly. His chest rose and fell in short, jerking gasps. Nicky's fingers pressed to the pulse point in his neck, knowing all he could do was monitor his airway and count the seconds until the fit ceased.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

Ilyas' dark eyes had rolled back, leaving just the gleaming whites visible. His small hands clawed at nothing. A thin trickle of saliva trailed from his parted lips, his breaths came in ragged grunts. 

Forty-five. Forty-six.

Nicky could only count the seconds in his head, not having any other way to time the duration. He reached 115 seconds when the convulsions finally tapered off. The rigor slowly melted from Ilyas' body. The line of his back softened, only his feet twitched beneath the blanket. His half-lidded eyes fluttered, the pupils now visible once more. They were small signs that consciousness was returning to him in languid, incremental waves. 

Then a whimper escaped from him, high and frightened.

Nicky dropped onto his knees by the bed, leaning his head down onto the mattress, bringing himself level with Ilyas' face.

"Dai, piccolo, guardami." He gently urged, tapping his own nose to guide those dazed eyes back to him. "Guardami qui." (C'mon, little one, look at me. Look right here.)

Ilyas blinked, his breaths still ragged. Nicky watched the way his pupils responded to light, observed how his mouth moved in an attempt to form words, but the only sound he managed was a slurred, unintelligible plea.

"What's wrong?"

Joe's voice came from the doorway. His tone was soft, but the underlying worry was present. He stood there frozen, firmly gripping the doorframe.

Nicky didn’t turn. His fingers brushed gently over Ilyas’ cheek, wiping away the dampness there. “Febrile seizure,” he said quietly. “Just over two minutes.”

"What?"

Despite the hushed alarm in his voice, Joe's approach was measured, careful not to raise the tension anymore in the room. He settled himself onto the edge of the bed. His hand came to rest on the small of Ilyas' back, providing a warm, grounding weight. The only reassurance he found was the sight of his chest expanding and retracting with each breath. His eyes were vacant, staring straight ahead at nothing. 

"Ilyas?" Nicky tried again to pierce through the fog. He reached over the boy's body to retrieve the crocodile figurine, hidden just beneath the tangle of blankets. Slowly, he slipped the wooden toy into Ilyas' slack hand. "Guarda, guarda cosa ho per te." (Look, look what I have for you.)

Ilyas' feet shifted under the blanket once more. As his fingers were manually wrapped around his favourite companion, a faint whine escaped from him, but he gave no sign of recognition or understanding. The moment Nicky let go, the crocodile slipped from his limp grasp, falling abandoned onto the bed.

Joe grimaced while he took the boy's hand in one of his own, his large fingers pressing against his clammy palm.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay." He smoothed his free hand over the crown of Ilyas' head, cupping around the back of his skull. "Ilyas, can you squeeze my hand? Just like you did before, remember? Squeeze my fingers."

Between the two of them, Joe had the most success at being able to provide comfort to Ilyas. His voice could usually reach him in those difficult moments when his small body was gripped by pain, or when he would wake deep in the throes of fevered confusion. Joe would only have to sit with him and hold his hands, usually able to quiet his cries with just a few steady words.

But this was different. There was a hollow left behind by the seizure, leaving them to try and shout across an unknown gap, not sure if their voices could reach the other side. They could only stubbornly cling to the hope that the boy was still in there, that he was still reachable. Any other alternative would be a loss too profound to bear.

"C'mon, show me." Joe continued to push him. "Show me that you can."

For a long moment, there was nothing, just the wet sound of Ilyas breathing through clenched teeth. Then, they watched with held breath as his fingers finally flexed. He gasped and sputtered, curling in on himself once more, but his hand remained folded around Joe's fingers. He didn't let go. 

"Eccoti qua. Torni da noi." Nicky breathed out in shaky relief, reaching to adjust the oxygen tubing curling around his ears. (There you are. You're coming back to us.)

Ilyas' eyes were no longer as vacant as they had been before. He began to follow the small amount of movement surrounding him, showing the first real flickers of presence. He frowned, his mouth struggling around the word hurts.

Joe's shoulders slumped, the tension trickling out of him. His hold on the boy's hand remained firm. He watched as Nicky helped make Ilyas more comfortable, correcting anything dislodged during the seizure, administering another dose of pain relief through the IV port. They didn't push him to speak anymore or perform any other movements. They simply watched over him, observing the awareness solidifying in his dark eyes. There was relief to know that he was seeing them now, that he had fought his way back to that dimly lit bedroom. 

"It's okay, small man. Nicky will make it better. Just rest now." Joe whispered, dipping his head to kiss the fingers still trustfully curled around his own. "Close your eyes and rest for us."

It was the first of many grand mal seizures. In that same evening, Ilyas began to convulse two more times, even after diazepam was introduced into his system. With each episode, his return to them grew slower, his awareness thinner. Over the course of the next two days, Ilyas fitted dozens of times. Like a rip current dragging its victims away from the shore, he was being pulled further and further away. In the space of fortyeight hours, the boy who could once speak to them and ask for his favorite toy could now only whimper, his voice stolen by the illness.

Nicky had been aware that this symptom of seizures could likely occur as the infection progressed. As the inflammation of the membranes around his brain and spinal cord grew worse, so would the neurological decline. He thought back to the times they called Ilyas' name and received only a glassy, distant stare or a sluggish, incoherent mumble. Nicky had written it off as delirium, as just the expected confusion that came with high fevers. But now he wondered if he had been gravely wrong in this assumption. Had there been subtle, non-convulsive seizures before? Small electrical fires sparking in the deep structures of the brain, eating away at his awareness? There was a possibility that he had missed the signs, that he had failed to see the warnings before the storm.

Ilyas' condition from that point on only spiraled with a terrifying momentum. The signs were no longer possible to ignore. He couldn't keep the formula from the feeding tube down. His urine output had dwindled to almost nothing, and a greyish-yellow cast dominated his skin. The mottled, bruise-like rash that started on his back had now spread across his trunk, creeping toward his arms and legs. These were not symptoms of illness anymore. They were signs of systemic collapse, of his organs failing, one after another.

For days, Nicky had carried a low, persistent feeling of sickness in his own gut, a churning unease he attributed to stress and fatigue. It was only when he realized that he and Joe could no longer avoid a certain, awful conversation that he identified the sensation as pure, undiluted dread. The terrible reality had been lingering inside his head for many days, and now he had to give it words. He had no idea how to begin such a talk, no idea how to destroy the final fumes of their hope.

It was clear what was happening. They were actively losing Ilyas. Not in the sudden, shattering way they had seen shrapnel and blades take lives, but in slow and unforgiving increments. His words were gone. His response to their voices was nearly non existent. His pulse was growing weaker, his breaths shallower.

In the end, there was no need to worry over how they would arrive to that discussion. Late one evening when Nicky should have already retired to bed, he chose instead to stay with Joe for a bit. While the two of them sat together in the orange-gold glow of the guest bedroom, the inevitable made itself known.

Another seizure had taken Ilyas that morning. When the convulsions finished and his breathing evened out, he hadn't recognized Nicky at all, he didn't grip his hand or react to the sound of his name. It didn't matter if Nicky tried speaking to him in Italian or English. The boy was entirely blank.

Now, the oxygen tank exhaled softly in the corner, a sort of clinical metronome softly punctuating the hours. Outside, the night was still, the kind of quiet that pressed against the gleaming black windows.

Joe sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers curled around Ilyas’s small, slack hand. He watched his chest rise and fall in shallow, uneven bursts. Each breath was now a battle. Ilyas' skin was grey even under the warm lamplight, the veins beneath too visible, too blue. Joe was thankful that Nicky had agreed to stay with him a bit longer this evening, because he had grown afraid to be left alone with the boy.

Every evening when Nicky left to sleep, a knot of worry gnawed at Joe deep in his chest. Nicky had shown him what to do if Ilyas seized, how to turn his body and monitor his airway. He had also shown him how to push a dose of pain medication through the IV port if he couldn't settle. Joe knew which numbers on the vitals monitor signaled trouble. But he still worried there would be a moment when Ilyas might slip away while Nicky was not there, while he was the only one sitting with him. That idea of being alone if something went wrong, if the boy needed Nicky's care, it terrified Joe. Because what if Ilyas woke in agony and he could not do anything to ease it? What if his last moments were feelings of fear and suffering?

He was ashamed to have such thoughts. It seemed selfish at its core, but this was the truth of things.

That evening, Nicky sat nearby in the rocking chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“He’s not coming through this.” Joe said, voice low. It wasn't phrased as a question. It was a truth they had both been circling for days.

Nicky exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. “No.”

A silence settled between them, neither heavy nor easy. They had seen children die before—from war, from disease, from blameless disasters and callous negligence, but never once did they think they would encounter this. Never for someone who was made entirely of their parts, to whom they held an unspoken duty to protect.

“The antibiotics didn't work.” Joe’s thumb traced the ridge of Ilyas’s knuckles. They weren't sure if the boy could hear anymore, so he had pressed Ilyas' hand to his beard earlier, hoping against reason that he could feel the rough texture beneath his palm and understand that it was him.

“They were never meant to.” Nicky replied bitterly. “They only bought him time. And I'm not—” He cut himself off, swallowing the rest as he shook his head.

I'm not sure if that was cruelty or a kindness.

Joe's rich, dark eyes settled on him, and Nicky's ribcage wanted to cave from the gentle warmth he found. No other soul could read the pitch of his voice better, no other pair of eyes could carefully strip him bare in the same way.

It was understood in that moment that neither of them needed to pretend to be stronger than the other.

"I'm not sure if that was enough." He admitted.

What happened next was not a pardon by any means, but it was an acknowledgement, a nod to what they both shared.

"Nicolò..."

Joe simply breathed his name in a way that spoke volumes, in a way where his body sagged from the very weight of it. Somehow in that instant, through all of this mess, Nicky's heart was able to find a moment of respite.

Nicky knew then that he had to make himself believe it was enough. No matter how fragile the conviction, he had to cling to the belief that they hadn't just prolonged Ilyas' suffering. That the time he had with them, the only other life he ever knew outside the hell he was born into, that it had provided him some good. He needed to believe that those stolen weeks had mattered. That the warm baths, the real clothes, the stories murmured in two languages, the way Ilyas would press his fevered cheek against their shoulders when they held him, the way his hands would fist their shirts. Even if none of it could outpace the hurt he had known, all of this had to have meant something. 

It took time for them to accept the heavy, dark-bottomed cloud descending upon their lives. Its unspoken presence settled slowly within the walls of their home, seeming to fill every corner. Nicky's centuries of medical knowledge felt useless, the privilege of their own immortality was a taunt. They had such an unrivalled familiarity with death, and yet they struggled to face the idea that Ilyas only had a matter of days, likely no more than a week.

A piece of themselves was preparing to leave this earth, and they were powerless to know if he would return. Even though they concretely understood very little about their own immortality, they both did not believe that their strange gift could be replicated in a lab and passed on. Every clinical report Nicky read on the eight children who came before Ilyas only served to further cement this. Kozak had not created new immortals. She engineered nine short, brutal lives, and Ilyas would be the last.

So their duty was framed by this context. They would be his guides. They would accompany Ilyas as far as they possibly could on the journey he was about to take. It was a path that they had walked numerous times, having passed back and forth between life and death with impunity. This unique knowledge they possessed offered little in terms of comfort. It only made that final, uncrossable boundary feel heavier. They could walk him to the very edge, but they could not follow him beyond the veil. In the end, his journey would have to be his own. 

While the when of his passing was surrendered to a force beyond their control, the how thankfully remained theirs to command. This was the last, most precious power that still belonged to them. Nicky could find a fractured sense of peace in knowing that they would not be helpless bystanders. They were armed with the aid of modern medicine to assure that Ilyas would be guided gently to that unwavering edge.

He would be held, he would be known, and he would not suffer.

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01:20 AM, 22 February, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

They knew he would likely go sometime in the night.

The room was awash in soft shadows, quietly held in the glow of the corner lamp and the small star-shaped nightlight near the door.

Leaning back against the headboard, Nicky cradled Ilyas' fragile weight across his lap. Everything they might need was within arm's reach, a suction bulb to clear any secretions stuck in his throat, the button controlling the flow of medication through the IV, a book to read aloud if they wanted to fill the silence with something that wasn't their own thoughts.

Most of the medical apparatus connected to Ilyas had been stripped away.

The feeding tube was gone, as was the pulse oximeter. Only the nasal cannula and IV line remained, so they could provide enough pain relief and breathing support to keep him comfortable. They knew that they were no longer fighting any battle here, but rather suing for peace. Even as it became gradually more difficult for him to breathe, the morphine would keep him from feeling oxygen hunger, allowing him to drift without distress. 

Joe sat facing Nicky, their folded knees touching. Earlier that evening, Ilyas' face had twisted into a grimace while he slept. The feverish heat had finally left his body, but now his core temperature was beginning a slow and gradual descent. They acted in unison, swaddling him in an extra blanket, a futile gesture against the encroaching cold.

Then, without a word of explanation, Joe gently lifted Ilyas’s body from the mattress and settled him directly into Nicky’s arms. He deliberately arranged him so his head rested near the steady drum of Nicky's heart. He wanted his husband to have this, another moment where he could simply hold him, where he could be free of his role of physician and just be a source of comfort. Joe had felt an immense guilt watching Nicky shoulder the responsibility of Ilyas' treatment. While he had the privilege of only providing stories and soothing words, Nicky was the one who handled the needles and medication every day, balancing the desperate need to keep Ilyas alive without causing him unecessary pain.

For hours, there was nothing but the soft sound of the oxygen tank, the hushed scratch of Joe's charcoal pencil in his sketchbook. Over the past two weeks, an inexplicable urgency took hold and compelled him to draw. He sketched Ilyas in the few rare occasions when he was awake, but mostly he captured his likeness while he slept. He didn't know where it came from, this imperative need to capture this moment in their life when everything felt mournful and downturn, but a nameless instinct said that they must keep this memory of him, even if he and Nicky would likely be unable to look at the drawings for decades. He knew one day they would be grateful to have them.

So he drew. He captured the way Ilyas' long lashes fanned against his face during sleep, his small hand clutched tightly around his wooden crocodile, the look in his eyes while he listened to Nicky read to him. In these images Joe could construct memories that were more forgiving, where his protruding ribs were softened, where the hollows in his cheeks were warmed by light, where he was just a boy. 

While he was cradled securely between them, there was a moment when Ilyas issued a hushed cry before slowly twisting his head to the side, hiding his face against Nicky's chest. A sudden pain had managed to peak its way through the haze of pharmaceutical relief.

Joe let go of Ilyas' hand just long enough to reach for the button that controlled the drip of morphine. He glanced over his shoulder with an unspoken question, wanting to confirm that it was okay to increase the flow of medication.

Nicky gave a single, grim nod of approval before he bent his head, his lips brushing Ilyas' crown.

"Shh, siamo qui." He spoke in a low murmur against the boy's hairline. "Siamo tutti e due qui, Ilyas. Non sei solo." (Shh, we're here. We're both here, Ilyas. You're not alone.)

Joe's molars agressed the inside of his cheek. The sound of Nicky's promise caused an ache to travel from his chest, up to his throat, to the very corners of his eyes. He could hear Ilyas let out a wavering sigh of air. His thumb stroked circles into his palm.

"We'll stay, okay?" Joe whispered. "We won't leave. Not for a second."

Ilyas fell silent as the pain was chased away once more, leaving him floating. They had reached the maximum levels for both the oxygen support and flow of morphine. Now the only movement came from the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest.

Joe wished it weren't winter. They had so often told Ilyas that they were only minutes from the sea, that he would be able to hear the waves if they opened the windows. He wondered, desperately, if it was worth opening the bedroom window and letting the cold seep in for a few short minutes, just to give him that one last experience. But then his mind treacherously spiraled further, towards all the things the boy would never experience, all of the mundane pleasures his captivity stole from him. Running barefoot along the beach, feeling the bark of a tree beneath his palms as he climbed the branches, his first taste of gelato, chasing after terrorized pigeons in the piazza like every other toddler.

He looked to Nicky as he allowed the pad of his thumb to stroke the outer shell of Ilyas' ear. They were slightly rounder than his own, the lobe more attached.

"These are from you."

It wasn't clear what possesed him to make such a comment. But it still managed to bring a brief smile to Nicky's face, if only for a second.

"There had to be something." Nicky ceded in a quiet sigh.

He could grant this point to Joe, for it was undeniable who Ilyas truly resembled between the two of them. The boy could have his ears, his knees, even the wide shape of his feet, but none of it would change the fact that his face was a living portrait of Joe. Over the past three weeks, in the moments of calm while Ilyas slept, Nicky had been offered a heart-stirring image of the little boy his husband must have been over nine centuries ago, growing up in the markets of Mahdia, full of a life not yet touched by immortality. 

But thoughts like this were a sweet, bearable pain.

What truly carved away at Nicky's chest was all that would remain unknown. Who exactly would Ilyas have become? What parts of their personalities would have taken root in him? Would he have inherited Joe’s creative passion? Joe's ease and warmth with people? Or Nicky’s own quiet stubbornness? His not-so-secret fondness for petty wagers? And then, most agonizing of all, what parts would have been uniquely, brilliantly his own? The quirks, the interests, the character built from his un-lived experiences. The man he would have grown into would forever remain a ghost to them, a future that sprouted but would never take form.

He and Joe would be grieving that ghost for as long as their limited eternity allowed. 

Beneath their shared gaze, Ilyas' chest continued to slowly rise and fall. His icy fingers twitched against Joe's palm, but it was only a mere spasm of nerves, devoid of any intent. His face remained turned toward Nicky, a silent trust even in this deepest of sleeps. His breaths were now so shallow and spaced so far apart that each one felt impossible, like stolen time.

In the soft, forgiving light of the lamp, with his lashes dark against his cheeks, one could almost be fooled. It was almost possible to believe that he was merely sleeping, that a gentle word or a touch would rouse him. But the pallor of his skin betrayed the illusion. There was a waxy, translucent stillness that spoke not of rest, but of a quiet, certain end.

Joe enveloped Ilyas' hand in both of his, pressing his thumb to the pulsepoint in his wrist. The rhythm was barely there.

A faint sigh slipped from the boy, and Joe bent to kiss his knuckles.

And then—  

A stillness that stretched for too long.

An uninterupted silence.

Ilyas’ chest did not rise again.  

For a moment, neither Nicky nor Joe moved. The world had shrunk to only this, to the weight of a child in Nicky’s arms, to the absence of breath, to the terrible, permanent void where a heartbeat should have been.  

Nicky was the first to make a sound. It didn't come out as a word, not even a cry, just a fractured noise, like something inside him gave way and collapsed. His body began to rock of its own volition, a futile attempt to soothe a presence that was no longer with them. He held Ilyas tightly against him, his upper half curled around the boy's lifeless form.

What Joe then heard him whisper stole the air directly from his lungs.

"Piccolo mio, ti prego di perdonarci. Perdonaci, per favore." (My little one, I beg you to forgive us. Forgive us, please.)

Nicky's arms were shaking as he then gently, carefully, laid Ilyas back onto the bed. He positioned him slowly, resting his head delicately onto a pillow. His face bore tearmarks, but no sobs left him.

Joe stood abruptly, staggering across the room to the small, connecting bathroom. He was overcome by this need to move, to distance himself from Ilyas' sickbed. His sock-covered feet crossed over the tiles, his hands trembling so badly that he failed to turn the faucet before he began to retch into the sink. 

Nicky didn’t follow after him. He remained behind, his gaze still locked on the small, still form of Ilyas' body, on the way his lashes lay againsth is cheeks in a cruel imitation of sleep. 

He scrubbed over his face, over his scraggly stubble with the heels of his hands. It was as if he wanted to wipe away the reality seared into his vision. His breaths came faster, his chest working diligently with the effort of each inhale and exhale. 

He scrambled off of the bed, not knowing where he was going. Unable to walk upright, his head remained bowed as he moved aimlessly toward the door. A hand stayed pressed over his mouth to stifle the scream building in his throat. A visceral pressure tightened within his chest, causing his face to contort, his teeth gritted together.

The scream erupted anyway. It was a raw, guttural roar that seemed to shake the walls and rattle the window. He slammed his fist into the solid wooden doorframe. Once. Twice. He felt the splintering under his knuckles, but he didn’t stop. The crack of the wood was a satisfying, punishing sound. He could not stop, would not stop until he beat a portion of the frame into a wreck. His fingers grew wet with the warm, slick feeling of his own blood, but the pain was meaningless. 

"Perché?!" he snarled through clenched teeth, face turned towards the ceiling, towards a sky he could not see, towards a seemingly indifferent God that he knew did not give answers in the way he so selfishly needed. "Perché lui?! Perché così?!"  (Why? Why him? Why like this?)

There was never going to be an answer.

His life had been a litany of missing answers, of reason cruelly withheld and denied. As a young man living in a monastery, he had begged for purpose, for absolution from the affliction of loving men, a sin that kept him from desiring a wife and children like his brothers. Then came Jerusalem and immortality, and he once again cried out for answers as to why God left him behind on this Earth, denying him judgement for his sins, denying him an end. Then with Joe, as their love eventually bloomed and became the only guiding force on which he could rely, they wondered fearfully together why they were joined in this way, in a bond so fierce it felt like defiance, but to always be burdened by the knowledge that time would eventually take everything from them.

But this? This was a new, exquisite tier of divine cruelty. This one gaping question strangled. It felt as though it had stopped the air from entering his lungs, as if it had blocked the blood in his veins.

And he and Joe were men who knew loss, who had encountered untold amounts of human suffering. They had watched many times before as innocents mercilessly perished for little to no reason.

But none of it, nothing throughout the thousand years, had prepared them for this. To receive a child that they never asked for, a child who was forged from their very blood and then kept hidden from them. To learn of his existence only to hold his broken body. To free him from the hell he was born into just before he would be forced to exit this world. They were granted a glimpse of a soul they could never truly know.

On the ground, he curled inward, pumping his injured hand open and closed, purposefully re-tearing the skin of his knuckles to impede the flesh from stitching back together. He didn’t want to heal. He needed to bear these marks. 

But even in this, he could not succeed. His body pushed past his desire for self-destruction, eventually outpacing his efforts. The skin closed, smoothing over once more as if nothing had occurred. Only sticky, tacky blood remained on the unmarked surface.

It was Joe who found the strength to crawl across the floor to join him. He didn’t speak. He simply wrapped his arms around Nicky’s heaving shoulders, pulling him away from the wall. Joe collapsed beside him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Thousands of deaths between the two of them, and here they were breaking apart on this one. They didn’t speak. There were no words for this, for the child they had failed, for the grief that was too far reaching to fit inside the walls of their home.

They wept.

Not the silent tears of old men who had encountered lifetimes of loss, but the ugly, grimacing sobs of two guardians grieving a child they hadn't been able to save.

They stayed there, on the cold floor, Nicky’s blood covered hand held between Joe’s palms, for a very long time.

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04:35 AM, 22 February, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

They sat side by side against the far wall of the bedroom. Unmoving.

They had spent nearly three hours this way, frozen to that spot on the floor ever since the final, faint breath had left Ilyas’ small body. In that time, it was impossible to conceive of any sort of world existing outside this room. Ilyas remained undisturbed on the bed. Any dregs of hope that may have still remained had been entirely drained away. He was gone from them, but how could they move him? How could they begin to move forward from this moment in any way?

There weren't sobs anymore, the sound of their anguish had ceased to fill the space. Each one sat with identical posture, legs bent, hands resting on knees, heads bowed. Joe couldn't look in the direction of the bed, he could only focus on the vacant gap he felt growing inside him. After he crawled back out from the ensuite, there was nothing left in him to expel, not bile, not tears. All had been spent in that first hour, through great, wrenching sobs that left him torn open. This pain had made him go numb in every sense. There wasn't anything else to give.

The practical part of Nicky’s mind, the part that had seen centuries of death and was familiar in dealing with its aftermath, began to stir. He took a shuddering breath, resolving himself to move.

“I will, I-I want to…” he swallowed, his voice hoarse and foreign sounding to both their ears. “I will bathe him. You do not have to come. I can—”

Joe shook his head. His eyes were expressionless as he let his arms drop from where they rested atop his knees. "No, no, I can help." He choked out softly. "Please, I want to—"

The truth was a knot in his throat. The idea of touching Ilyas’ cold, still form seemed impossible, a too hasty step that would surely send him tumbling down from this mountain of grief. But the thought of Nicky facing that task alone, of bearing that final, loving ritual, was a pain Joe could not abide. He would not let him stare into the small, lifeless face of their child by himself. 

A sound from within the room startled them both. 

It was a gasp. Sharp, wet, and utterly impossible.

Their heads snapped toward the bed in unison.

Ilyas’ small body jerked, his head lifting off the mattress in an unnatural spasm. A gurgling noise filled the dark, followed by a desperate, rapid inhalation of air. A wet, choking cry tore from his throat as his eyes split open, the pupils blown black with terror, seeing nothing and everything all at once.

It was akin to watching a drowning man breaking surface.

He sputtered and coughed before a full-forced wail errupted from his lungs. It was a raw, terrified, piercing sound. It was a cry from a stupefied soul that had been removed from its shell, only to be tricked back inside.

For a moment, neither Nicky nor Joe moved.  

What held them in place was not relief or hope, but rather a shared, visceral horror. They knew this. They knew the brutal, shocking violation of being dragged back from nothing. The disorientation, the primal fear of being suddenly and painfully re-anchored to the body you left behind.

Ilyas just barely began to roll onto his side, struggling to free himself from the cocoon of blankets, blindly reaching into open space for purchase. His movements were uncoordinated as he teetered dangerously at the edge of the mattress. 

Joe scrambled up so fast that his vision blurred. He practically fell onto the bed, his knees trembling so violently he could barely function. He gathered the crying, gasping child up into his arms, crushing him against his chest. Still as stone, he made sure not to rock him, but to keep his body calm and solid. There was a lingering dizziness that came immediately after revival, like being pressed against the outermost edge of a cyclone, spinning so fast you feared being catapulted back into the ether at any moment. It was as if the body needed time to readapt to the gravitational turn of the planet, to remember what it is to be stuck on this rock rotating the sun.

So Joe made himself the fixed point that Ilyas could cling to. He remained planted there on the floor of the bedroom, keenly aware of the way their two heartbeats pounded out of sync.

“Shh, you're here. You're right here,” his own voice was breaking. He curled his large body over Ilyas, shielding him from something he couldn't name. “It’s over now, okay? You’re okay. I have you.”

The boy had died. Just hours ago he had been lying dead in Nicky's arms, the heat rapidly leaving his body, all color gone from his skin. Now he was squawling and squirming, his face growing red.

Joe had been an adult when he first experienced the unnatural sensation of revival. It was a trauma that never got easier, even after nine hundred years. He couldn’t begin to fathom the sheer, incomprehensible fear of it through a child's eyes. 

He didn’t notice when Nicky silently slipped away to the bathroom. The soft sound of running water didn't register in his ears, nor did the quiet footstep's of Nicky's return. Joe only realized when he felt strong, familiar hands on his arms, gently but insistently prying.

“Yusuf,” Nicky’s voice was strained, a thin wire of control stretched to its limit. “Let me see him. I-I need to.”

Reluctantly, Joe loosened his grip enough to recline Ilyas onto his back, cradling him securely in one arm like a babe.

"It's okay." He whispered, his large hand trying to clear away the mess of tears streaming down the boy's face. "Let Nicky see. It's okay."

Ilyas' long, monotone wail of terror quieted down to stammering sobs. His chest heaved as he stared between the two of them, unable to process this life-shattering reset. 

With his hands now cleansed of all dried blood, Nicky pressed his fingertips to the pulse point on Ilyas’ neck, finding the rhythm strong and frantic. He laid his other hand flat against his heaving chest, feeling directly under his palm the powerful beat of his heart. Gently, he reached down and tugged at the bottom hem of his pajama top, lifting the material to reveal his abdomen. The murky sepsis rash was all but gone from his skin. Nicky covered him once more before using his fingers to guide the boy’s chin up so he could briefly inspect his throat.

Ilyas swallowed normally. His glands didn't feel swollen. His airway sounded perfectly clear, his lungs strong.

"Madre de Dio..."

The examination lasted only seconds. Nicky finally pulled away, his face unreadable, a mask of profound shock and dawning realization. His eyes met Joe’s, wide and clear.

Immortal.

The word hung between them, heavy with implication that was both a miracle and a curse. It was a future that they were not ready for, but there simply was no choice.

“He needs to eat.” Nicky announced, his voice quiet but steady. He looked at Ilyas, whose cries no longer held the full-throated vigor of a newborn, but had faded to breathy, stuttering whimpers. “I'll make him something.”

Joe could only nod as he brought Ilyas back to his chest. They both understood the way revival took from the body's stores of energy, leaving you empty. He glanced once over his shoulder to catch Nicky's form retreating from the room. The child in his arms continued trembling like a foal, small hands struggled to grip onto the fabric of his sweatshirt.

His eyes slipped shut as he cupped the back of Ilyas' head, anchoring him. 

They were in uncharted waters now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

05:00 AM, 22 February, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

The house was silent except for the soft scrape of the wooden spoon against the ceramic pot. A sound so ordinary it brought a profound ache to Nicky's chest, a counterpoint to the fragile miracle that had just taken place upstairs.

He worked diligently to finely chop carrot, celery, and onion into a soffritto. He sauteed the vegetables until soft, adding leftover broth and blending it all to make a hearty base before adding in the small, star-shaped pasta. Nicky moved through the kitchen like a man walking along the narrow ledge of a cliff, each step careful and thought out. His hands were steady as he stirred the pastina, the tiny stars swirling around in the rich broth, but his eyes—Dio santo, his eyes—were stinging with the blur of tears, his jaw clenched so tight he could feel the muscle straining beneath his skin. He worked in silence, clinging to the process of preparing a simple meal. Measure the broth. Stir the pot. Beat the egg in a small bowl, then fold it in. Add in shredded parmesan, a pat of butter. Each step was an anchor, a ritual to keep himself from falling apart.

He turned at the sound of Joe entering the kitchen with Ilyas. The boy was no longer crying, just shivering faintly against Joe's chest, one hand clutching the sleeve of his sweatshirt, the other closed tightly around his crocodile. He was dressed in fresh pajamas, with a forest green sweatshirt tugged over the ensemble for extra warmth. He looked vaguely damp, and Nicky knew with a pang that Joe had taken the time not just to change his clothes, but also to bathe him, to cleanse away the invisible film of death that clung to his skin.

"Va bene?" Nicky whispered, his voice shot from the strain of the past six hours.

Joe paused at the opposite side of the kitchen island, his hand curled around the back of Ilyas' head. The boy was tucked just beneath his jaw, resting down against him like he had just been prepared for bed.

"Si, amore." Joe's response was soft. The overhead lights gleamed in his dark eyes, his mouth pressed into a weak, worn smile.

The bulk of their communication passed through looks alone.

He will be okay. I am not and you are not. But he was given back to us. So we will learn how to be okay again, we will learn to continue for him.

"Sit." Nicky nodded to the kitchen table. "È quasi pronto." (It's almost ready.)

Joe sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. He swallowed before blinking hard, trying with everything he had to not think about how this little boy shouldn't be alive in his arms right now.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of Ilyas' head before drawing him against his chest once more, bracketing him close. His throat burned, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not when the terrible sensation of the boy's stillness remained fresh in his memory, that unbearable stretch of time when Ilyas' body didn't move. He allowed himself to hold him tightly, one arm banded around his waist, his free hand stroking slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades.

Nicky tapped the wooden cooking spoon lightly on the edge of the green bowl he prepared. The sound brought Joe back into the present. He watched as Nicky cradled the dish in both hands, carrying it over to the table like an offering, like something holy. 

Joe's head bowed, his lips near Ilyas' ear before he murmured, “Are you hungry?”

There was no answer. Just the nudge of Ilyas' nose against his throat, the silent press of his body as if he could burrow into him and disappear entirely. 

"Ilyas?" Joe gently tried again.

Nicky lowered himself into the neighboring chair, watching the way Ilyas clutched his crocodile. He only produced a disinterested hum in response to the question, a deep frown marking his small features. His one desire in that moment still looked to be seeking comfort, as if clinging to Joe was the only thing keeping him from falling back into that unknown that claimed him moments ago. 

"No, no, hey—" Joe now sat him upright, taking the boy’s face between his palms, making their eyes meet. "Will you please eat something? For us?"

Ilyas' full lashes were clumped together with dried tears, his cheeks were gaunt, his sable colored eyes looked glassy, but he held Joe's gaze.

There was a long pause. Then, finally—a solemn nod. It was small, tired, and too obedient, but it was there. 

Joe nearly choked on a broken laugh. Because of course. Of course this child, this miraculous, impossibly brave little soul would force himself to try just because they asked. As if he heard the fracture in Nicky's voice when he spoke, as if he felt the way Joe's hands shook while they carried him. As if, even now, he was trying in his own way to take care of them in return.

"Shukran, habibi." Joe whispered, his eyes softly shutting as he dipped to kiss his forehead. (Thank you, my love.)

He shifted Ilyas in his lap, turning him just enough so his back was supported by his chest. 

"Ilyas…" Nicky’s voice cracked, but the boy's name still came out like the first notes of a song. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he managed a small smile for him.

Ilyas blinked sluggishly, his body slumped from the weight of fatigue. But to see him responding to his name and reacting to their voices brought on immense relief. He may not be speaking for the moment, but he was undoubtedly still in there, still present with them. They couldn't help but marvel at how whole he truly was.

"Dai, provane un boccone." Nicky murmured the gentle instruction as he lifted the first spoonful to Ilyas’ lips. (C'mon, try one bite.)

Ilyas frowned but still opened his mouth to accept the offering. A portion of the first bite dribbled down his chin, but Nicky easily wiped it away with his thumb.

"Molto bene, piccolo." He praised him. "You'll see, this will help." (Very good, little one.)

The second bite went down easier. By the third and fourth, Ilyas was eating ravenously, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to grab the spoon himself, instinctively understanding now that revival takes, revival demands. You must fill the hollow places left behind or the body will grow too weak to function.

Every bite was a relief, a confirmation of the truth that he was alive, so fearfully and wonderfully alive. His eyelids drooped between swallows, his head lolled back against Joe’s chest, but he kept opening his mouth for more, compliant even through his exhaustion. 

No one spoke.

There were no words for this, for the way the kitchen light cast a golden hue to Ilyas' cheeks, for the way Nicky’s breath hitched every time the boy blinked up at him. 

For now, nothing of the outside world mattered. There was only the quiet click of the spoon against the bowl, the impossible weight of a living, breathing child on Joe's lap, and the terrible, frightening knowledge that nothing would ever be the same for them again.

An hour later, the empty bowl of pastina sat forgotten on the kitchen table. It was the first full meal Ilyas had finished since he came to live with them. After polishing off a smaller second helping, the boy was struggling to remain upright at all, his eyes closing for longer, more dangerous stretches. They knew they had to move him before he fell asleep at the table.

They migrated to the living room, a space in their home that Ilyas had never inhabited. The room was a juxtaposition of things they collected over time, the furniture a mix of antique and new. The large Turkish area rug was an heirloom gifted to them by Andy long ago, but their sofa was something Joe purchased on a whim from IKEA in 2012. Upstairs, the guest bedroom remained sealed like a tomb, the thought of going back inside too unbearable. Nicky was sure he would dismantle the bedframe and burn it, along with the sheets and the clothes Ilyas had died in. They would scour the room to its bones, open the windows and let the sun bleach away the memory before the boy would ever set foot inside.

Now, still safely cradled by Joe, a silent war waged within Ilyas. His body's fundamental need for sleep battled a terror so primal it overrode all exhaustion. His eyes would shut, his breathing would slow, but then he would frantically jerk awake with a startled whine, abandoning the stillness so he could scramble back to the safety of awareness.

After the fifth time, the distress on his face was a physical ache to witness.

"Ilyas..." Joe sighed the boy's name with a sorrow-filled understanding.

They knew the memory of the dark was to blame. It was the fear of letting go, of being pulled back under to the place that had almost claimed him hours before. It was a fear they themselves understood intimately, how the threshold of sleep could feel so frighteningly similar to dying, very much like the slow and gradual death Ilyas' body had just experienced. 

Nicky delicately took the blanket draped over the back of the sofa and settled it over Ilyas' small form. Together, they removed him from Joe's lap and place him onto the cushioned surface of the sofa, making a warm nest. The boy immediately fussed at the loss of contact. His hands tried to cling, but he was far too weak.

"Ilyas, it's alright." Nicky whispered, his fingers carding over his short hair. "Nothing will take you, tesoro. Te lo prometto." (I promise you.)

"Just rest your eyes." Joe bargained, letting the full weight of his hand rest against his small chest, warm and steadying. "We are right here."

He fell quiet at the sound of their voices.

They didn't plunge the living room into total darkness, opting instead to leave the dim glow of a distant lamp in the corner. They remained on either side of him, their soft conversation passing just over his head. It took another twenty minutes, but finally, surrounded by their presence as tangible proof of his own safety, Ilyas surrendered. His breathing deepened into the slow, even rhythm of true sleep. 

For themselves, Joe and Nicky could not imagine sleeping.

Despite both of them desperately needing the rest, their universe still felt too upturned, the pieces scattered and lost all around them.

Nicky slipped down from the sofa to sit on the floor. The weight of the past few days bowed his shoulders, driving him to drop his head into his hands. The ache he felt went deep within him, affecting every part of his frame, making him frighteningly aware of his age. Within an instant, before he could truly break, there was a soft grip on his upper arms. "C'mon, c'mere," Joe urged in hushed tones, dragging him backwards into the vee of his legs. 

As Nicky settled against the sofa, long and familiar fingers began to work through his hair. One hand cupped beneath his jaw, gently coaxing him to open his chest and rest his head back.

The silent message of I've got you, I've got you, I've got you, washed over him. 

"You're starting to look like a man I knew a long time ago." Joe mused as his fingertips lightly traced over the bridge of Nicky's nose. "That very first time in Malta. Before the siege."

It was no secret that Joe had been delighted a year ago when he decided to let his hair grow out again. Nicky's previous clean-cut look certainly had its success, but his love would always hold a soft spot for the hairstyle he wore throughout much of the middle ages, a time when he was infinitely more pious and reckless, quick to anger with others and himself. A time when their companionship cemented itself into the foundation of what they share today. 

The deliberate tenderness of the attention drew a weighted, pained hum from deep in Nicky's chest. He wanted to melt into the comfort, to allow his husband's flattery to reach him in its intended way. But he could only swallow against the tension building in his throat, so tired of this ever-returning emotion, this cursed gratitude of having yet again survived something no person was meant to.

"Parlami, Nico." Joe whispered to him. (Talk to me, Nico.)

Nicky closed his eyes, ever-aware that this gentle touch was the only thing holding him together. "I felt him die," he began, the broken words splintering off from his very soul. "I felt the life leave him. His body was cold in my arms." 

His gaze drifted back to the sleeping boy, the imprint of grief still fresh in his reddened eyes.

"I know." Joe soothed, his thumb stroking from his temple down to the hinge of his jaw, wanting nothing but to absorb his share of this burden, to ease this suffering.

Nicky shook his head in a firm, desperate motion. "He was gone from us." He insisted, softly breaking under the weight of it. "It doesn't work in this way. We know it doesn't. It isn't something that we can simply give-"

Joe’s thumb pressed against his lips with a soft, silencing pressure. The shock of what happened was an exposed nerve in his own chest, but they could not afford to spiral, not now. "I know, I know. But he came back." He countered, his voice transmitting a fragile hope that he himself didn't quite yet believe. "He sat on my lap and ate the food you made for him. He is sleeping right here beside us. For now we cannot think beyond this, my heart. It does no good."

In the quiet that followed, they sat together in the near dark. A child cursed with a miracle rested beside them, his lungs steadily expanding and retracting beneath Joe's palm. They had no choice but to remain here, in this moment, clinging to the solid reality of his breath. To look too far ahead or behind was to risk unraveling the fragile, unsolid ground upon which they now stood.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

10:19 AM, 22 February, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

Nicky woke to the late morning light, warm and heavy where it fell across his face. He fell asleep curled on the loveseat opposite the large sofa, his legs unable to fully extend but still more comfortable than the floor. A dull ache radiated in both his knees, a familiar penalty for unnatural rest, but one that would correct itself once he was up and moving.

There was the sound of rustling within the room, followed by a faint murmur, a thread of distress traveling through the deep quiet of their living room.

Nicky blinked to bring things into focus, his attention funneling over to the large sofa. Joe was still asleep, slumped in a sitting position against the armrest, his posture speaking of utter exhaustion. And there, nestled beside him under a thick blanket, was Ilyas. One of Joe’s hands rested near the boy’s head, a protective gesture even in sleep.

They had spent the past few hours like this, after the unspeakable terror and grief of the previous evening.

Nicky sat up slowly as he realized Ilyas was stirring. The boy’s small face was pinched, his hands struggling to free themselves from the blanket before he finally managed to rub at his eyes. He blinked in confusion as he took in the unfamiliar room. Since they brought him home, his world had consisted entirely of the upstairs. Waking here in a strange place, in the soft morning light, was undeniably disorienting.

His face twisted into a deeper frown. A true whimper escaped from him, as if the memory of the previous hours began to surface.

"Ilyas." Nicky whispered the boy's name as he stood.

He turned his head at the sound, his bleary eyes finding Nicky as he crossed the room and knelt by the sofa.

"Ciao, piccolo." He murmured, his warm hand moving to feel the boy's forehead, then his cheek. For the first time in all of Nicky's memory, his skin was not burning with fever or chillingly cold. It was simply warm in the way that came from sleeping well bundled beneath multiple layers. There was no reason for alarm. He was still pale, his vitality clearly sapped, but the dreadful grey pallor of death was gone, replaced by the soft flush of life.

Ilyas looked at him, the frown still set in his features, a wavering sigh escaping from his chest.

"Shh. Non dobbiamo svegliare Joe. Sta ancora dormendo." Nicky held a finger to his lips, nodding over to where Joe was still resting. (Shh. We musn't wake Joe. He is still sleeping.)

Ilyas seemed to comprehend the sense of the instruction, if maybe not the words. He sniffed wetly, then gave a small, accepting nod.

Carefully, Nicky slid his hands under the boy's arms, lifting him blanket and all from the cushions. He stood, feeling like he was holding a collection of fragile bones swaddled in wool. In the very way Ilyas rested his body against him, Nicky could feel the profound weakness. There was no muscle tone, his core wasn't yet stable. Revival may have flushed the infection from his body, but the disease had stolen so much in its wake. The long, patient work of building him back lay before them, of helping him put on weight and regain the strength that had been stripped away.

With these observations came the first idea of where to begin. Nicky moved out of the living room, carrying Ilyas to their sunny kitchen. He shoved his feet into Joe's rain boots settled neatly by the back door. 

“We should get a little fresh air.” Nicky whispered, pushing the door open with his boot-covered foot. “Just for a moment.”

He crossed the shaded space of their back patio to step out into the walled garden. The winter sun was a point of golden foil high up in the blue sky, its warmth contrasting with the crisp air. And it was there, holding the boy in the profound quiet, watching his eyes struggle to adjust, watching the way he almost needed to turn his face away from the natural light, that the realization struck Nicky with the force of a blow.

Ilyas had probably never been outside.

Not like this. Not to just simply be. There was the transfer in middle of the night from the lab, the dash from the side door to the waiting van. There had been the rushed transfers to and from Copley's home in Kent. He had also seen a blurred view of the world through a car window, but none of this counted as real exposure.

This was his first true time outdoors. This cold air, this open space with the sound of birds overhead. This was his first proper moment in his new world.

The night of the raid, Nicky had seen only a few, high windows in the lab that might have offered a sliver of sky. But nothing in the files mentioned him ever leaving the facility. He was holding a child who had likely never felt the sun on his face, who had never walked beneath trees or felt grass beneath his feet. The brutal cruelty of such an existence was a cold brick of ice in Nicky's gut, but he knew he could not dwell on it. They were powerless to go back and save him sooner. They could only move forward.

So, he reframed his thoughts. They were lucky. Lucky to have him here in Genoa, where Mediterranean winters still held days of brilliant blue. Lucky for the small, private sanctuary of their garden, a perfect place to gradually introduce him to birdsong and the rustle of the wind. Lucky for the gentle chill, just around 10 degrees, where a simple blanket was enough to keep him warm as he experienced the world for the very first time.

Ilyas had been resting against his shoulder. The moment they were fully out underneath the sun's weak warmth, the boy lifted his head and instinctively looked up. His gaze fixed not on the garden walls or the bare fig tree, but upward into the endless, impossible stretch of blue. His mouth partially opened in a silent gasp, and then his shoulders shrugged in a full-body flinch as if he feared the very vastness of it all. The sky was not a ceiling. It was something infinite in a way he had never seen before.

A small hand moved to clutch onto Nicky's sweater, fisting the material in the same manner an alpinista holds on to the face of a mountain.

Nicky found himself glancing upward as well, one hand splayed supportively across Ilyas' back. They could not go back inside just yet. Retreat now would only cement the garden and the sky as things of terror. Instead, Nicky gripped the hand holding tightly onto him, enveloping it with his own. Ilyas' eyes finally tore away from the sky, unsure as they settled on him. 

"It seems very big, sì?" He murmured, releasing Ilyas' hand so he could point upward. "Il cielo. The sky." 

The boy only frowned, tucking his chin downward in a manner that concealed his face, his grip on Nicky's sweater remained firm. 

He was not enjoying this, Nicky realized. He was merely tolerating it, enduring the experience as he waited for it to be over.

Birds passed overhead. A small group of black sparrows. They settled directly into the barren branches of the fig tree. 

Nicky decided to switch focus onto smaller things, closer and more manageable. He began to move, taking a slow, rocking pace along the short path of stepping stones. Ilyas' hold on him remained rigid, as if he didn't quite trust where this journey would end. 

"You know, Joe and I argued many times about this tree." Nicky began to speak to him as they approached the trunk. "For a very long time, it didn't give us any fruit. This made Joe very frustrated, and he said we should cut the tree down for firewood. This wasn't a bad idea, you know. That winter was unusually cold, and we didn't have any heat in the house, so we could have used the wood. But I still said no. Joe called me a stubborn mule, but he let me keep the tree. Now, every summer, we have so many figs that we have to give them away." 

Ilyas listened intently as he recounted the small story of a winter over eighty years ago, back when their home was the only thing standing in this area. It wasn't important how well he understood everything. For now, he just needed to hear their voices, to be exposed to as much language as possible. 

"And Joe loves figs." Nicky continued, once more allowing his larger hand to fold over Ilyas' own. "They're his favorite fruit."

Slowly, he stepped closer to the tree before guiding Ilyas' hand outward. He placed his palm flat against the smooth bark, letting him feel the surface for himself.

"We will have many figs this summer." Nicky explained. "And I wonder if you will like them as much as Joe."

Ilyas looked from where his hand was gently pressed against the tree, to upward at the gnarled top branches, where a few sparrows remained perched in a group.

Nicky followed his gaze. 

"Uccelli." He supplied quietly. "Birds."

Ilyas' hand fell away from the surface of the tree, finding the sleeve of Nicky's sweater as he stared up at the birds. He looked at them in the same way he had observed everything so far—the sky, the trees, the feel of the bark—with an expression of profound perplexity, as if he were being asked to solve a puzzle for which he held no reference. 

Suddenly a new movement caught both their eyes, something at midline. The neighbor’s sleek tortoiseshell cat slinked along the top of the garden wall, its tail gracefully extended behind in the hunting position.

Ilyas’s head jerked toward it. His stare was now transformed into something utterly captivated. His mouth opened slightly once more, but this time in astonishment rather than fear.

“Cat…” he breathed in surprise. The word was scarcely more than a whisper, but it was unmistakable.

It was the first true word he had spoken since his death. 

A soft, proud smile touched Nicky’s lips. “Sì,” he whispered, his voice showing the strain of his own emotion. “Un gatto.”

He stood there, letting Ilyas stare at the cat until it disappeared over the wall. He imagined that Ilyas had seen pictures of cats before, maybe in a book during a cognitive exercise at the lab. But to see one living and moving was entirely new. The boy remained still, his body frozen in the aftermath of his wonder.

Nicky felt the small, fragile weight in his arms settle more heavily. The initial shock of the outdoors was beginning to give way to a sleepy sort of calm. Ilyas settled his head back onto his shoulder, a small yawn signaling that it was already quite a lot for one morning. The goal had never been to conquer the world, but merely to introduce it, one small, non-threatening piece at a time. 

“I think that is enough new things for now.” Nicky murmured, adjusting his hold. “Let's go wake Joe and start breakfast.”

He turned and carried Ilyas back toward the house, the warmth of the kitchen waiting to envelop them inside. 

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12:14 PM, 28 February, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

The new reality they began to forge was ever a fragile thing. It was beautiful and terrifying, carrying both a blissful peace and overbearing threat of impermanence. In the first week after the revival, a word Joe still couldn't voice without shivering, they moved through their home with every intent to reclaim their past normalcy. 

The fundamental physics of their world had been irreversibly altered. Now, the only fixed point by which they could navigate this strange new landscape was Ilyas. He was theirs to care for. His presence was no longer a miracle to be questioned, but a fact as undeniable as their own breathing. And they, in turn, were his, in whatever capacity he might need.

During those first few days, an incalculable apprehension hung in the air—a shapeless, omnipresent fear that felt inescapable. Yet, through it all, Nicky and Joe understood their mission with astute clarity. There was no time to think beyond this very simple framing of their situation. There was no time to slow down and figure things out further. To pause would be to feel the weight of their impossible fortune, and that weight threatened to crush them, to crush the fragile routine they were creating, stone by careful stone. They could only move forward, trusting that the path would solidify beneath their feet.

A week after Ilyas died and came back, the nature of their vigil had clearly transformed. They were no longer sitting watch beside a deathbed, trying to ease the arrival of the inevitable. They were now with him along the slow path to recovery, trying to help rebuild what the illness had ruthlessly stolen.

Ilyas’s strength was returning in fits and starts, a slow tide coming in at unpredictable moments. After two days, he was able to sit up unassisted for an hour at a time. He finally possessed enough energy to be interested in the toys they gave to him—not just in his crocodile, but in toy cars and a wooden train set that connected together with magnets. They often found him napping with several of his new toys strewn around his body, as if he refused to pause his play even for sleep, too worried they might disappear.

Their primary focus for the moment was food. Every meal became an act of reassurance, a lesson they repeated multiple times a day with unwavering patience. In their home, food was dependable, abundant, and would never be used for coercion or withheld as punishment.

Nicky and Joe began introducing Ilyas to the vibrant, varied world of food that he had never known. A slice of pear, its juice running down his chin. A crust of warm, salted bread with butter. A sliver of roasted chicken. So far, Ilyas met each new offering not with suspicion, but with the wide-eyed curiosity of an explorer, his palate fearless even when the textures and tastes were foreign to him. 

One morning, only three days after Ilyas came back, Joe was attempting to spoon-feed him a mixture of yogurt and granola for breakfast. Up until now, this method of operation had been acceptable. Ilyas was happy to take whatever they fed him directly from their hands. But on that particular morning, a new spark of autonomy ignited from nowhere. Ilyas turned his head away from the offered spoon, his face screwing up in displeasure. He let out a cry, not of distress, but of pure frustration.

Joe paused, his head tilting in surprise.

"What's wrong?" He whispered. "Why that face?" 

When he tried once more to offer a spoonful of yogurt, he was met with the same response. A frustrated huff of air and a look that could spoil milk. 

Joe had to admit, the glare Ilyas produced was a rather effective example of non-verbal communication. The boy's dark eyes stared at him, then down at his breakfast, then back at the offending spoon before he finally reached out to grab the utensil for himself. 

"No!" Ilyas sternly insisted, his small brows knitted together. "Me!" 

Joe's eyes met Nicky's over the boy’s head, a flicker of shared understanding passing between them. Without missing another beat, Joe surrendered the spoon.

“Alright, small man, you do it,” he encouraged with a nod, sitting back and relinquishing control. 

A faint smile touched Nicky's lips as they watched Ilyas plunge the spoon into the bowl. By the end, more yogurt coated his hands and chin than what had actually landed in his mouth, but it was still a victory. It was a declaration of I can.

The reclamation of his body was a staggering thing to witness. Within the first week of revival, he fully mastered sitting up without swaying. By the second week, Nicky and Joe witnessed him throwing his body off the sofa to chase after fallen toys. His movements were still uncoordinated, his legs too weak to hold his weight, but nothing could dim the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes as he maneuvered his lower half over the edge and landed squarely on his bottom, finally stretching for whatever prize had rolled under the table.

The true shift came when Ilyas began to pull himself upright. The moment he began to use the furniture to cruise around the living room, Joe and Nicky saw their home transform into a landscape of potential dangers. They performed multiple thorough sweeps. Weapons were locked away or exiled to the highest shelves. Nicky begrudgingly stopped sleeping with his pistol, opting instead to have a biometric safe installed by the bed. The umbrella stand by the door now contained only umbrellas. All swords and knives were stored away. The staircase was closed off with baby gates, at least until Ilyas was stable enough on his feet to navigate it by himself. 

Three weeks after their world had remade itself, a small procession took place in the upstairs hallway. Fresh from his bath, smelling of lavender soap and dressed in clean clothes, Ilyas stood clinging to the bathroom doorframe. His small hands, still wrinkly from the water, gripped the wood as he slowly inched one bare foot forward, then the other, using the wall as his crutch.

Nicky, having just hung up the damp towel, watched from the bathroom doorway, quietly monitoring. He followed a few steps behind as Ilyas navigated the new frontier of the hall, his own body tensed in a mirror of the boy’s concentration.

At the far end, where the hall met the top of the stairs, Joe stood with a soft, aching smile. He stepped over the newly installed gate and crouched down, making himself a smaller, more reachable target. His hands were palm side up, held out in invitation.

“Yallah, habibi,” he coaxed, his voice warm and encouraging. “Come see me.”

Ilyas fixed his gaze on Joe, his dark eyes alight with determination. He accepted the challenge.

Ever since the revival, Nicky had begun to read further back in the lab's files, interested to know more about Ilyas as a baby. It was there that he found out that the boy learned to walk early, two months before his first birthday. The surprised lab staff marked the milestone in their records, noting that he was the only subject to walk independently.

So Ilyas clearly remembered being able to do this and many other things before. The frustration of having his body betray those memories was a tangible force around him. At an age when he should be testing his physical limits and speaking in sentences, he was forced to pass through a second infancy, where he depended on adults to help him walk, eat, and do everything else. 

Nicky shadowed him closely, ready to stoop down and catch him if necessary. He could see the desire burning in Ilyas, the need to let go of the wall, to trust his own legs and cross the space unaided. As the boy wobbled, his balance teetering, Nicky’s hands instinctively hovered near his upper arms to steady him.

Ilyas’s head snapped around. His face, already set in a frown of intense concentration, darkened with a look that both Nicky and Joe had grown to recognize. It was an accusatory look that clearly communicated DO NOT.

The boy glared at Nicky’s offending hands.

“No!” he exclaimed, the word bursting from him with startling force. He swiped at the air between them. “No help!”

From the other end of the hallway, Joe was forced to abruptly look away toward the wall. A laugh, born from equal parts love and sheer wonder, threatened to burst past his lips. The expression on Ilyas' face was one he knew too well. The stubborn way his jaw jutted forward was painfully familiar, because it was a look he had been on the receiving end of for over 900 years, something so quintessentially Nicolò di Genova. 

"Dio mio..." He exclaimed with a steadying breath, his shoulders shaking slightly with the effort to contain his amusement. (My God...) "Che c'è?" Nicky softly demanded, his eyes leaving Ilyas to find Joe's across the hallway. (What is it?)

"Quando è arrabbiato, è identico a te." He swiped a hand over his mouth, struggling to surpress his grin. (When he's angry, he's identical to you.)

When he composed himself and turned back, his face was a mask of gentle seriousness. Ilyas remained standing with one hand attached to the wall, still as idignant as ever. Joe met the boy’s determined stare and gave a solemn nod.

“Okay, okay, no help.” He finally agreed, his voice firm. He retracted his own outstretched hands, placing them on his knees. “You can do it. Come to me.”

"Va bene, testardo." Nicky clapped his hands gently, redirecting Ilyas' attention. "Go on, show us." (Alright, stubborn one.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

11:51 AM. 05 March, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

In the weeks following Ilyas' revival, their home began to transform.

True to his word, Nicky cleared out and cleaned the guest bedroom with a quiet, methodical fury. He stripped the bed, gathering sheets, blankets and the old pair of pajamas, essentially every piece of fabric that had touched their dying child, and balled it all into a shapeless mass. He hauled the mattress to the curb by himself, leaving it as a solemn offering for the trash collection. Only then, did he turn his attention to the bedframe. Piece by piece, he dismantled the structure that had been the centerpiece of their grief, and carried the bones out into the backyard.

Joe was a silent witness from the kitchen window, all while Ilyas napped on the living room sofa. Nicky picked up the axe, his movements never frantic, but deliberate and precise. Each swing of the blade was a severance from the memory of what had happened in that upstairs bedroom. The crack of splitting wood echoed in the quiet, and before long Nicky reduced the frame to nothing but a jagged pile of kindling.

That evening he built a fire in the outdoor pit. He sat outside alone, feeding the pieces of the old bed to the flames one by one, watching as the smoke carried the ghost of that evening up into the darkening sky. He remained there until the last ember died, until nothing was left but ash.

The next day, he rose with the sun. Armed with a bucket of soapy water and a determination to scour the very memory from the air, he swept and mopped the empty room. He washed the window until it gleamed, and wiped down every inch of the walls and ceiling, erasing the lingering scent of sickness. He left the curtains thrown wide open, inviting the generous Italian sun to flood the space, to bleach the shadows from the corners and fill the void with light.

For now, the room remained empty. Ilyas continued to sleep on a small toddler bed tucked securely in the corner of their own bedroom. They would eventually transition him to the new space, but it would be done slowly, only once everyone was ready. Ilyas wasn't sleeping well for the moment. He woke many times during the night, frightened and difficult to calm. When he did manage to sleep, Joe and Nicky found themselves taking turns to check for the rise and fall of his chest. 

On this particular afternoon, with Nicky out purchasing yet more childproofing supplies, Joe was left on duty. He sat on the living room floor, his back against the sofa, a sketchbook lying open on the ground beside him. Ilyas, holding onto the coffee table, took cautious, wobbling steps around its perimeter. His confidence was growing daily, fueled by his willfulness. Now, any attempt they made to help him was met with an adamant shake of the head and an annoyed "Basta!"—something Nicky still could not believe he learned so soon. (Stop it!)

Now, Ilyas’s focus was locked on a particular book sitting in the middle of the rug, a no man's land far from any furniture. It would require a solo journey, with nothing for him to hold onto. 

Joe could see the calculations happening behind his dark eyes. "It's not too far." He encouraged him. "Andiamo, bring me the book and I'll read to you." (Let's go.)

Emboldened, Ilyas let go of the table. His steps were wobbly yet confident, a triumphant march. He reached the picture book, and in an impressive move, managed to squat and retrieve his prize. As he turned, a smile of victory on his face, he began the return journey to Joe.

Joe watched as he began walking eagerly back to him. His steps were noticably improving. The coffee table was bypassed as Ilyas chose to continue directly toward him, refusing to use any furniture for a rest. 

"Bravo! Vieni qua-" (Good job! Come here.)

Then, his body slowed in an unnatural way, his steps coming to a hault. His arms dropped to his sides, the book abruptly fell from his hands. His eyes blinked slowly before he frowned. One knee buckled, then the other, and he collapsed, face-planting directly onto the rug.

"Whoa, small man-" 

For a stunned second, Joe was merely surprised. 

"You okay?" He called him, his voice laced with confusion more than fear. 

The question was still hanging in the air as he watched, waiting for little limbs to begin pushing off from the ground so he could rise again.  Instead, Ilyas' small body locked, every muscle clenching into terrifying rigidity. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as the convulsions began.

No. No. No. No.

This shouldn't be happening. There was no reason. The boy had healed. He had died and come back to them, whole and healthy. He had been doing so much better.

Joe was up in an instant, his heart hammering as he swiftly slid over to where Ilyas was sprawled face down on the rug. He swept nearby toys away with one frantic hand, his movements shifting into a grim, desperate efficiency. He positioned Ilyas onto his side, cushioning his head with his palm. Don't restrain. Time it. Protect his head and watch his airway. The instructions, learned from Nicky during the worst of the boy's illness, echoed on loop in his mind. But internally, he was screaming.

Nicky should be here. He would know what to do. He would see the things I'm missing.

By some odd stroke of luck, he was wearing his watch inside the house that day. He was able to time the episode.

Joe's voice never left Ilyas while he supported his head. But as he spoke, he found his reassurance transforming into pleas. "Okay, it's okay. It's just a storm. It will pass soon. I'm right here. Just come back to me, habibi, I'm right here. Come on-"

The boy gasped and grunted as the violent tremors took over his small frame. Three agonizing minutes crawled by before the seizure finally loosened its hold. 

Ilyas went boneless and still on the rug. The silence that followed was somehow more frightening than the choked noises he made before.

Joe leaned forward, craning down until he could get a clear look at his face.

"Ilyas? Can you hear me? Can you talk to me?" He squeezed his small hands in his own, he patted his cheek with his palm, but nothing seemed to stir him. 

Then, a moment later, a weak, confused cry tore from deep in Ilyas' chest. It was the most beautiful sound Joe had ever heard.

He lifted the boy from the floor, cradling his limp body as he stood up on his knees. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped away the saliva coating Ilyas' chin. He was still so visibly disoriented. Thin, high pitched cries were all he managed to produce. His eyes remained unfocussed, his mind still lost in the fog.

"Shh, I have you. The worst is over, small man. You're safe." Joe soothed him, his voice a rough, steady mantra against the boy's temple. He rocked him gently, frustrated by the tremble in his own hands. "You're back with me now. Just rest, okay? Rest for me." He held on tight, a solid point in the storm that had blown back into their fragile new world. 

The boy's whimpering was a muffled, broken sound against his shoulder. His hands twitched in a helpless, uncoordinated flutter against Joe's chest. He tried to form a word, but it emerged as a jumbled, slurred mess, the connection between his mind and his voice severed by the electrical misfire that had just passed through him.

"Don't talk yet, okay? Just breathe," Joe encouraged, his hand a steady cradle around the back of Ilyas's head, holding him still.

He felt the boy's confusion and fear as if it were his own. There was nothing he could do to help him. His understanding of what just happened was so limited. And he feared to think that it still might happen again before—

The miraculous sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door cut through his panic.

Relief, so tangible it felt like slipping into a warm bath, flooded through Joe. He stood, with Ilyas still pressed against his chest, and crossed to the entryway just as Nicky was shrugging out of his coat. 

Nicky looked up, his movements freezing mid-motion. His crystal eyes took in Joe's face, the protective, almost desperate way he clutched the limp child in his arms, and his own expression shifted in an instant from domestic calm to alarm.

He could hear the high, reedy cries coming from Ilyas. He began to move. 

"Dammelo." he commanded, his voice hushed and firm, already crossing the space between them, shoes still on. Give him to me.

"He had a seizure." Joe began explaining, his words tumbling out in a rush as he carefully transferred Ilyas to Nicky. "He was walking by himself, then he just collapsed on the rug. It lasted three minutes."

Nicky absorbed the information without a word, his focus entirely on the boy. He cradled Ilyas in the crook of one arm, his free hand already feeling for the pulse in his neck, his fingers gentle but sure. He carried him to the kitchen, lowering himself onto a chair, settling Ilyas sideways across his lap. He spoke to him, his voice a soft, steady flow of Italian.

"Ilyas, mi senti? Guarda i miei occhi, piccolo." (Ilyas, can you hear me? Look at my eyes, little one.)

He tilted the boy's face, his thumb brushing one eyelid open to check his pupil, then the other. The response was sluggish, but present. As Nicky leaned down, intending to press his ear to Ilyas's chest to listen to his breathing, the boy finally reacted. He weakly pushed at Nicky's face, a strained, frustrated cry leaving him.

"No! Basta!"

Nicky relented immediately, pulling back. He looked up, his eyes meeting Joe's across the room. In that glance was a world of communication, a shared fear, but also a firm, grounding reassurance. 

He's in there. He's fighting. He will be fine.

Ilyas, drained from that effort, turned and buried his face against Nicky's dark shirt, his whole body shuddering with muffled, exhausted whimpers. Nicky readily accepted the hushed pleas for shelter, his arms closing more securely around him.

"Va bene, va bene, tutto fatto." He whispered into the boy's hair, his hand starting to rub a firm, soothing rhythm on his back. "È finito il brutto momento. Ti tengo io." (Okay, okay, all done. The bad moment is over. I have you.)

In the quiet of the kitchen, with Joe watching from the doorway, they waited, patient and steadfast, for Ilyas to slowly find his way back to them. Nicky spoke softly against the crown of his head, letting him hide for as long as he needed. 

Later in the evening, after they put Ilyas to bed early, they sat together around the kitchen table once more. The baby monitor was illuminated on the cental island only a few feet away. Each of them tried to nurse a glass of wine, but found it hard to descend from the day's tension. 

Joe was on edge all afternoon, all evening. He reacted to every hitch in Ilyas' breathing, every whine or frown. The boy was clingy after the episode, remaining in his or Nicky's arms all afternoon. It took over an hour for him to finally start talking again. He managed to ask for his crocodile and tell them that his head hurt. Joe fished the green reptile from the toy basket while Nicky patiently coaxed Ilyas to accept some children's paracetamol. 

Now, in the heavy silence of their kitchen, Joe found himself able to voice his turbulent thoughts.

“I don’t understand it.” He confessed, his voice rough and laced with fatigue. His eyes were locked onto the dark reflection of the ceiling in his wine. “The revival, it healed him. He was doing better."

“It is likely a lingering effect of the inflammation.” Nicky's foot found Joe's beneath the table, his thumb smoothed over the stem of his own glass. "Problems with the brain and spine are never clean, even for us. You know this." He paused, his gaze steady when Joe looked to him. “Remember Booker in Crimea, after the decapitation? He didn't understand French for a month. Or you, after Córdoba, you couldn’t walk for weeks. And what I suffered after I was shot at Merrick's…”

Joe nodded, his jaw tight. He knew. He could never forget any of it—the sight of Booker staring blankly, unable to comprehend his native tongue, or the frustrating weeks when his own legs refused to support his weight. After Nicolò was shot in the head, Joe watched helplessly as he doubled over from migraines and went dizzy from extreme nosebleeds. But knowing this intellectually was a world away from watching Ilyas regress back into that limp, confused state, where he struggled to come back to them.

“I was so unprepared when it happened." He whispered, his brown eyes finally lifting. "I felt like I was panicking and I couldn't help him.”

Nicky sat forward. "You were there. You watched over him until it passed. That is all either of us could have done." 

He could hear the terror in his husband's voice, so easily recognizable because he battled the same when Ilyas was ill, the fear of his own inadequacy to stop his suffering. They didn't know the rules of his condition. How immortality would potentially function in someone so young was beyond any of them, even Andy. 

"There are rescue medications that can shorten the duration, benzodiazepines." Nicky offered as he found Joe's hand. "My medical license is up to date here. I can order them to keep on hand, just in case." 

It was a small comfort, at least. So Joe finally nodded, feeling Nicky's fingers slot through his own.

He only wanted their boy to be well, but struggled to see how they would be able to assure this themselves. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

04:45 AM. 10 March, 2025. Pieve Ligure Commune, Genova, Italy.

The nights were often difficult. Sleep had become a complicated, treacherous territory for Ilyas. The nightmares started in earnest two weeks after his death and revival.

In the deep, still hours, the silence upstairs would be broken by frightened cries. Ilyas would jerk awake in his small bed with a sharp, gasping inhale, followed by a strangled cry of terror. They didn't know if the lingering shock of dying, or if it was him remembering the lab and feeling confused to wake not strapped to a metal crib in the middle of a tile room. But once properly awake, his small hands would clasp over his mouth, horrified by the sound he had made.

In his past life, noise at night drew attention like a beacon, and that attention was often a prelude to terrible things. They were learning that this particular fear would require time and relentless consistency to be rewritten. When he was ill, he had cried and mumbled in his sleep, but what they experienced now was different. These were full blown night terrors that left him trembling and inconsolable, sometimes for hours.

Making matters more difficult, Ilyas developed an inexplicable preference for Joe in these raw, dark moments. Not long after the toddler bed was installed in their room, the boy began to reject Nicky's comfort. When Nicky reached for him, he was met with full body flails and desperate cries of protest. Ilyas would twist in his well intentioned arms and plead for Joe. 

It was a new phase they could not decipher. During the day, Ilyas adored Nicky, following him like a shadow, clinging to his legs in the kitchen, happily parroting new Italian words. But the night flipped a switch in his mind, leaving them no choice but to accept this painful division. They fell back into the exhausting rhythm of shifts. Joe was up through the nights, Nicky took the brunt of the days. They became weary ships passing in the dim hallways, with Joe constantly exhausted, surviving on stolen naps.

Joe now spent many nights downstairs with Ilyas in his arms, trying to talk him down from whatever had frightened him in his sleep. The boy still couldn't communicate enough to explain what he saw in his dreams, little more beyond fractured cries. To be blind to this part of his suffering was greatly frustrating to Nicky, but Joe wasn't so sure that he could stomach knowing. 

He was okay to pace through the dark, murmuring to him until he quieted down. Those pre-dawn hours together became a sanctuary, a private world illuminated only by the streetlight filtering through the windows. Joe used those moments to speak Arabic with Ilyas, singing old songs, or simply pointing at mundane objects around the house and naming them. 

After one such grueling night, in the final hours before dawn, Joe surrendered to the futility of trying to sleep. He and Ilyas had managed perhaps two fractured hours between them, and the sun would be up soon enough. The need for fresh air was overwhelming. 

He bundled the sniffling boy into his new down jacket, tugging a beanie over his cropped hair and wrapping a scarf around his neck. As he dressed himself, his hand went to the secret compartment Booker had sewn into his coat years ago, a detail that brought on a complicated pang. He tucked a small pistol inside. It was a precaution he would often neglect for a solo stroll, but now, with Ilyas in tow, being without a weapon was unthinkable. Nicky would have his head if he didn't take it.

"An adventure, small man." Joe whispered, stepping out into the crisp air.

"Kay." Ilyas hummed in reply, his voice still hoarse from crying. 

They had taken the boy outside for brief walks, but never venturing farther than the local market at the end of their street. Ilyas' steps were growing more confident every day. He toddled around their house just fine, even managing to run when he was truly excited, but long journeys were still too physically demanding. 

Today, Joe opted to carry Ilyas. It helped keep him warm and meant that they traveled faster. 

Along the way, Ilyas' head remained upright, taking in the sights of their neighborhood empty and calm in the fading dark. The light was starting to whisper its arrival in the sky, with shades of purple appearing. In a hushed tone, Joe named the things they passed in the street.

He pointed to a parked car. "Sayyara."

"Sayyara," Ilyas parroted back, clear and perfect.

"Bravo, habibi." Joe's heart swelled.

He glanced up at the gnarled branches of a pine tree. "Shajara."

"Sh'jra." Came the mumbled, earnest attempt.

Joe grinned, feeling a burst of fondness as he wished Nicky could hear him. He repeated the word slowly, and he could feel Ilyas practicing the sound against his shoulder, still staring at the tree as they continued onward.

When a black cat darted out from beneath another parked car, Ilyas gasped in surprise, turning his head to follow the animal's path. 

"Qitta!" He whispered, a small finger pointing to where the cat disappeared.

Impossibly proud, Joe brushed a kiss to his cheek. "Molto bene, proffesorino." (Very good, little professor.)

The sound of the sea grew louder as they approached the beach. Ilyas tilted his head at the noise, unable to really understand what it could be or where it could be coming from. They reached a stone staircase that descended to where the waves crashed against the rocks. Joe stepped down only halfway, so they remained well above the water. 

Ilyas gaped out at the rocks and sea, unable to comprehend this moving expanse that stretched out endlessly before them. The horizon line was already transforming into a mix of purples and pinks hinting at the sun's climb. The frigid wind whipped around them, drowning out the sound of the early morning gulls. A fine, salty mist unexpectedly jutted up when a particularly large wave hit the rocks. Ilyas flinched, his small arm hooking tightly around Joe's neck. "It's the sea. Il mare." Joe explained near his ear, shifting his weight higher. "It's big and it moves all the time, but it can't hurt us, not from up here." 

He could see Ilyas' mouth forming the words, testing the shape of them. Il mare. He stared at where the waves receded from the jagged rocks, watching in a subtle mix of fear and fascination as they came rushing back. His grip remained locked on Joe, as if worried the sea might reach up to claim him as well. 

"Do you see the boats out there?" Joe redirected his attention to the small boats out fishing. "They look like the toys Nicky puts in your bath, huh?" 

Ilyas nodded before ducking as another damp gust of wind whizzed by their ears. 

"Okay, I think it's time to go." Joe conceded, turning his back to shield them a bit better. He slowly trudged up the staircase, letting Ilyas burrow down against his shoulder to avoid the cold sea breeze. 

The walk back home was calm, but homes and a few small businesses were beginning to turn on their lights. The sky was growing brighter, now a gradient of pink, yellow, and blue. Joe fussed a bit with the sides of Ilyas' beanie, wanting to be sure his ears were protected. He turned a corner and caught the familiar glow of their local pasticceria. The security grill was lifted from the shop front, signalling that they were already open.

On a whim, Joe took the welcomed detour, thinking they could surprise Nicky with breakfast. 

They stepped inside to the golden warmth of the pastry shop, and immediately they were hit with the yeasty and sweet smell of baking bread. Ilyas' head was once again on a swivel, staring at the gleaming glass cases filled with pastries and different loaves of bread. His eyes and nose worked like mad, trying to process this brand new sensory information. 

"Buongiorno!" Joe called as he stopped at the counter.

A young woman, Valeria, came out from the back of the shop, her face breaking into a smile at the sight of a familiar customer.

"Ciao, Giuseppe!"

When her eyes fell to Ilyas, her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by open surprise. Joe and Nicolò were regulars, two quiet, gentle men who always came alone. They had never mentioned a child.

“E chi è questo bel ragazzino?” Her voice softened as she leaned forward against the counter, trying to get a better look at Ilyas. (And who is this handsome little boy?)

At the direct attention, Ilyas frowned. He turned his face and buried it completely in the hollow of Joe’s neck, his arm hooking around him once more. The world was too new, too bright, and this stranger’s gaze was too direct. Other than one quick trip to their local market, they hadn't yet brought Ilyas out to the different shops they frequented. While they wanted to slowly introduce the outside world to him, they were still hesitant about which parts were allowed to discover him in return. 

Joe’s hand came up in a practiced motion, and cupped around the back of Ilyas' neck. His thumb stroked the fine, soft hair at his nape. His own smile, however, remained easy for Valeria’s benefit.

“Questo è Elia.” He offered, the name feeling foreign and yet necessary on his tongue. It was the first time he had ever used the alias from Ilyas' forged passport, a name they would probably need to begin employing at some point. He tried not to think about school registrations and official forms, about the future that was barreling towards them. (This is Elia.)

“Tre cornetti, per favore." He promptly added, steering the conversation back to safer, more familiar ground. (Three croissants, please.)

Valeria nodded, her eyes lingering on the timid child. “È molto bello, Giuseppe,” she said as she moved to gather the pastries. “Ti somiglia, sai.” (He’s very handsome. He looks like you, you know.)

She said it so casually, a natural observation one might make when seeing a child. But to Joe, the words landed with a precision that made the hairs on his neck stand straight. He felt a strange, sudden stillness inside him. The impending question was clear.

She glanced back, her hands full of paper-wrapped cornetti. “È tuo figlio?” (Is he your son?)

Joe’s breath caught. The question was simple, and the answer should have been even more so. But for reasons he could not easily verbalize, he was caught off guard. 

He hesitated, and the pause felt like an eternity.

“Sì,” he finally said, the word soft but definitive. “Sì, è mio figlio.” (Yes, he is my son.)

Joe thanked her before finally paying and exiting the warmth of the shop. 

He turned toward the direction of their home, 

He didn't know why he froze at the innocent question. The word "son" was right there and should have been easy enough to say. It wasn't as if he hadn't anticipated eventually being asked such things in public. There was no doubt in his heart or mind that Ilyas was his child, but he and Nicky had been thrown into the deep end of this new chapter without preamble or warning. There had been no time to build the vocabulary necessary for their new lives. Claiming such titles aloud felt dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the perils they normally confronted. With this new identity came an added layer of vulnerability. Assuming it required an amount of courage that he was still assembling. 

The key turned in the lock just as the first warm rays of sun broke over the rooftops. Joe pushed the door open, the paper bag from the pasticceria rustling as he maneuvered himself and the drowsy weight in his arms inside.

Nicky was already there, leaning against the wall of the entryway. He was dressed in soft, worn sweats, his hair still damp from a quick shower. He took in the sight of them and sighed. There was no way to miss the shadows under Joe's eyes, or the boneless way Ilyas rested against him. They were an easy pair to read.

“The night was long.” Nicky stated softly in English. It wasn’t a question.

He stepped forward to relieve Joe. “Vieni qua, lupetto.” He murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. (Come here, little wolf.)

The nickname was a recent thing, born from Ilyas’s tendency to be restless during the night. Nicky held his hands open in invitation, and as always during the day, Ilyas went willingly, his small body transferring from one set of safe arms to the other. 

Nicky held him close, getting to work at freeing him from his winter clothes. “Sembri distrutto, piccolo. Dormirai tutta la mattina, eh?”  He fretted while peeling off the little boy’s jacket and hat. (You look exhausted, little one. You're going to sleep all morning, aren't you?)

Joe finally slipped off his own coat and shoes, the simple actions feeling monumental in his fatigue. Ilyas wasn't heavy in the slightest, but having both his arms empty helped the stiffness taking hold in his neck and shoulders. 

“We went to the sea.” He said, his throat feeling rough as they moved together to the kitchen.

Nicky’s face softened into a smile as he settled Ilyas onto the makeshift highchair. It was a stack of old, sturdy books bound with twine that brought him to the perfect height. It was a bit perilous and not the most practical, but they hadn't gotten around to buying something better suited.

He brushed a thumb over the boy’s cheek. “È vero?” He asked brightly. "And did you like the sea?" (Is it true?)

The question was directed at Ilyas, but Nicky's sea glass eyes lifted to Joe, waiting for the real answer.

“He didn’t know what to make of it at first.” Joe said, sinking into a chair at their table. “He just stared. Trying to understand it all.”

Nicky nodded, able to imagine the scene perfectly. There was some relief to hear that Ilyas' introduction to the sea went slightly better than his introduction to the sky. He tore one cornetto into soft, buttery pieces and set them where Ilyas could easily reach. He then retreated over to the stove. The familiar hiss and gurgle of the Moka pot filled the kitchen, a sound as essential as a heartbeat in their home. Soon, two steaming mugs of rich coffee were placed on the table.

They ate in a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the small, focused sounds Ilyas made as he ate his pastry. True to Nicky’s prediction, as soon as the last crumb was gone, the boy’s head began to nod, his eyelids drooping heavily.

Nicky was on his feet in an instant. “Stay, caro.” His hand was a brief, warm pressure on Joe's shoulder. “Drink your coffee. I will put him on the sofa.”

He lifted Ilyas, and the boy melted against him, his limbs surrendering completely to the promise of being carried off to nap. Joe watched them go, then turned back to his mug, his hands wrapped around its warmth.

When Nicky returned, the quiet of the apartment had deepened. Joe was still at the table, staring into the depths of his dark coffee.

"You look like shit."

The blunt, simple truth of the observation drew a husked-out laugh from Joe. He felt the weight of the words deep in his frame. 

"And I feel like it." He admitted. 

"I do not think it is wise to continue like this." Nicky pulled his chair back and sat. 

He was speaking for the well being of everyone. Joe could not continue to function for weeks on end with only a couple of hours of sleep per night. Ilyas was still having small and frequent seizures, and they noticed that the condition was worse on the days he was overtired. Nicky could not sit idly by and be of little use to either of them. Watching his family struggle was not something he could accept. 

"It is a phase." Joe reminded him, his chin resting in his hand. "One that will pass." 

"I worry that he is frightened of me." Nicky sighed, the confession a raw thing in the quiet of their home. "Something in his head has twisted what I did when he was unwell-"

"No." Joe interjected with a gentle sweep of his hand. "You are over-analyzing this, Nico. Look at him. He adores you. He trusts you."

"Yes, during the day." Nicky crossed his arms, a defensive posture so rare for him it spoke volumes. 

"You are not hearing me." Joe insisted, his dark eyes earnest and shining. "He is in a new world that he doesn't trust. He only knows that it is far better than what he had before. This frightens him, so he tests the foundation." He reached across the table and found Nicky's wrist, squeezing it firmly, his hand finally warm from holding his coffee. "When he says 'no' to you, when he pushes you away, that is him trying to see if the walls will crack. He wants to know if we will still come the next time, if his needs will still be met."

Nicky let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders slumping. He knew very well the psychology of it, the deep-seated trauma that would take years for Ilyas to unlearn. The boy’s fear was a rational one. Either their love would reveal itself as a lie, or the old horror would find a way to snatch him back. But Nicky could not deny the part of him that ached, the part of him that was simply a man, hurt from the rejection of his child. 

"I know this. But knowing does not make it easier to be the one he rejects." Nicky admitted, his voice thick. "It is a brutal thing to bear, Yusuf. And it does not please me to watch you wear yourself into the ground." He looked toward the living room, his expression torn.

They both paused to listen, wanting to be sure that Ilyas wasn't beginning to stir in the other room. 

"I agree that we can only give it time." Nick quietly continued. "But we must also find a way for all of us to rest. Let me take the next few nights." 

Joe looked unconvinced, but he was not willing to push the subject any further. He was admittedly exhausted. Even with that morning's coffee, he knew that he would seek out a short nap before noon. He yielded, shifting the subject with a gentle slide of his hand from Nicky’s wrist to his fingers.

“You know the woman at the pasticceria? Valeria?” He began, his voice low as he leaned forward in his seat. “When she saw Ilyas this morning, she asked if he was my son."

The words were left to hang. Joe wore a heavy expression, one that didn't suit his nature. His attention was still settled down on their hands, but he was as easy to read as ever. 

“And how did you respond?” Nicky asked, his tone devoid of any judgment or surprise, filled only with a quiet curiosity.

Joe finally looked up, meeting his husband's eyes. “I said yes."

Nicky held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, simple nod. It was a gesture of absolute certainty.

“He is your son.” He spoke as if it were one of the most simple truths in the world. “As he is mine.”

The sky is blue. The tide arrives with the morning. I have loved you for nine centuries.