( open post. )

[mutasilmae]

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫
𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤
𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬
𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞



𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞.

text. video. audio. action.

Comments

[broadswords]

[ He sends a picture from an old bookstore. There's a selection of the shelves, spines bent and almost eaten by cracks, but the picture focuses on a collection of Mahmoud Darwish. ]

You don't have this one, do you?

[mutasilmae]

[ The picture he finds heralded by the chirp of his phone earns a smile. Time changes many things beyond the creeping of the sun in the sky casting longer and longer shadows as the day goes on, it does not steal away the scent that immediately comes to him of leather tomes and dust blown off sun-bleached pages. ]

No, I don't. It wasn't there when I visited last.

[broadswords]

[ Nicky keeps the tome in a small bag — one he reserves for the books. No folding into his pocket, he soothes out the dog ears in the pages. It's good to know something is loved, and well-read, but in their long years many, many libraries have been burnt to the ground. What they can't remember themselves they have to keep by other means. ]

There is another: A Poem For Every Day of the Year.

[mutasilmae]

[ They have, perhaps, what some in these days would consider an unhealthy obsession with books. A shared appetite that is rivaled only by their continued hunger for each other. There are no marks they have by which to show evidence of their love so maybe that is why they look to hardcovers worn soft and yellowing curls of paper. A thought occurs to him and he chuckles, reaching up to scratch at his beard. ]

When have I ever refused a book? Though I think you are hoping for something: a trip back to England?

[broadswords]

Malta first, hayati.

[ To Malta, to the old house of stone, with its two gardens. Nicky's gardens, and all the memories that place holds. He loves the abandoned places they claim as their own: the farmhouses, forgotten factories, the places claimed by moss and vines that time has left marks on like it leaves marks on them. For all the darknesses they have appropriated, every closed door they have had each other, Nicky yearns for the house, for the home he's built in Yusuf to bloom around them, solid and unchanging. A place only for birds. ]

[ There is a pause, and then another, distinctly irked text, ]

There are no cookbooks.

[mutasilmae]

So set in your ways, habibi.

[ It wouldn't matter if he changed his mind once they stepped foot in Malta and suddenly wanted to go to England then, he wouldn't argue. Well, he might tease a little but what is life or love without banter? The point still stands that he would turn and follow him there or to the ends of the earth a thousand times over and then a thousand more. The walls of the places they set their belongings hold things that are dear to them but it's the cavern of his chest that holds what is most precious: his love for Nicolo. ]

None at all? Clearly this means that you should write your own spanning from one side of the globe to the other.

[broadswords]

I can be persuaded.

[ Always, always, by the one man who reached out to him with an open hand, who gave him his heart and his love freely. Yusuf's kindness burns in him, it simmers and settles in Nicky's skin every time they touch or kiss, it lingers in every moment he realises he is the object of Yusuf's keen study. ]

[ That said, he's not sure he wants to write a cookbook. Nicky is jealous with his kitchen and his culinary knowledge, preferring to pass it the old-fashioned way. But no one does apprenticeships anymore, and cooking has become its own kind of — ah, reality tv. It's too high profile. So he simply sulks about it and piggybacks off the main family account for the chef shows. ]

I was hoping to find something I did not know about. There will be other times.

[broozes]

[ Her fingers are stiff. Dinner's being passed down the tables, conversation a low hum. There are newcomers to the village today, and she has scrutinised every single one of them. But the suspicion is wearing off — no one has walked into their new home with the intent to harm them. But still.... they are so few. All her hope poured into these golden beings instead of a golden throne — it has to be enough. She's better at serving the people than she ever was at serving Odin. ]

[ The kitchen closes late, and she joins the staff for their meal, eating after the last person has filtered out of the room. The lamps burn bright, nary a shadow in this place. She appreciates that, as she appreciates all these little touches of a home. That when people come through the door, the walls can hum with peace. ]

[ Warm mead, and a simple, but hot meal. Not a pleasure Brunnhilde is used to having, but one that day by day is gaining value. She looks over at the volunteer across from her, sizing him up. When he looks up at her, she smirks. ]

What, want to arm wrestle?

[ Joking. Mostly. ]

[mutasilmae]

[ It's been a long time that such small, menial tasks were appreciated. The world has changed in many good ways but there's a fierce speed to it that is dizzying. This place with the newcomers from beyond Earth is slow like times gone by.

A peace that punctuates each breath. The warmth of hearth and home to be found in more than just physical trappings. Nicky will like it as much as he does, Joe thinks. Perhaps more.

It's an old habit that one of them travels before the other. Before sending word back. There's a small house near a cliff not far from here with some old ties. Old things. He was grateful for a place to stay in return for a little work before moving on. Fork still held in hand, he chuckles at her question. ]

I would hate to spoil dinner with another mess to clean.

[ Not that it says who he thinks might win. He thinks from the rumors that he would be outmatched quite easily. It does not mean he's dissuaded from a challenge. ]

[broozes]

[ There is a different energy to this one. She doesn't know what it is — but Brunnhilde can recognise kindred spirits. She just didn't have much cause to give a shit, or try to ingratiate herself. Who needed kin, on Sakaar? She'd been fine on her own. ]

[ On Earth? Her people need all the help they can get. All the people who can understand them. It's... nice, that there's more of them than she expected. ]

Perhaps after dinner then.

[ It wasn't a test. But he passed it. Brunnhilde smiles, a little more readily now. ]

I'm Valkyrie.

[mutasilmae]

[ It would not be the first time that he has heard that were she to voice it. How many older ones peering at him beyond weathered faces, wrinkled and spotted in ways that his will never be? Older ones fussing that he has eyes beyond his years, not knowing how many he has in fact seen. It is easier to endure the fussing and enjoy the company.

Besides, he has experience with fussing. His love does it often. He chuckles at the possible after dinner festivities. ]

Perhaps, yes. Or perhaps just a story, unless beating you is the price for one.

[ He collects stories like he does books. Poems. Like he steals glances at Nicky with overwhelming fondness and love even after so many centuries. They have a duty to remember things, don't they? If they experience so much, then it is worth remembering. Worth cherishing. ]

Most call me Joe.

[broozes]

[ A man who needs no challenge to rouse him. This is contrary to what she expects of humans, who don't live nearly as long as to find that within them. She hasn't yet found it within herself, and she has had thousands and thousands of years. She smiles at him. ]

It may be.

[ Not an insistence. A playful wrestle, later, perhaps, but she can talk all the same. ]

Joe.

[ She echoes it, a little uncertain, like it feels much too small, but it's as good a name as any other. ]

What would you call yourself?

[mutasilmae]

[ When one is born in a time where war is every heartbeat and breath and love is entwined in both against all odds? What does one have need of challenges in any other way? Just because he is a trained in killing so much as breathing does not mean he enjoys taking lives. He and the others do as they must in order to help where they can. They don't take pleasure in it.

Though Merrick and his group may have been an exception. ]

I could be persuaded.

[ To arm wrestle for the story. He loves poetry and books, a spoken tale is just as true as any of those. He carries many stories like it that he has heard over time. ]

Well-traveled.

[riverinegypt]

[Nile sends him a picture of a lonely food container in the fridge.]

These are the last leftovers from yesterday's lunch. From 1 to 10 how mad will Nicky be if I eat them?

[mutasilmae]

[ It's adorable how she moves around them while learning the ins and outs of their odd little family. ]

Tell him that I ate it. He will act put upon but then he will make too much again.

[riverinegypt]

[Nile snorts as she reads the message.]

Does that mean I should blame you every time he's mad at me?

[mutasilmae]

I would use this newfound power sparingly or he'll catch on.

[riverinegypt]

I can be sneaky, don't worry. Specially if it means I get to eat the leftovers. I wouldn't get you in trouble for anything big.

Did Nicky always like to cook?

[mutasilmae]

Of that I have no doubt. Even if you do enjoy making noise.

[ But don't they all? They are fond of their entrances. Their signals. Especially Andy. ]

As long as I have known him, yes. [ It's a simple task, He thinks it must have reminded him of his life before the war. Of time spent in service.] But he enjoys fussing above all else, so it's his excuse.

world war ii, welcome to french resistance

[templari]

The needle scratches gently on the record as Nicolo lowers it on the track and lets it catch speed while the first notes ring through metallic and smoky at the same time. It still manages to completely amaze him that sound can be captured like this. Édith Piaf sings about love as he takes a seat in a chair by the window and looks out to the fields stretching outside the little idyllic french cottage. Sun is still well above the horizon, painting gold on the wheat growing tall and proud. Soon they'll have to kill the lights in case the sky will be darkened by the silhouette of aeroplanes.

The weeks waiting for Booker in the abandoned French village have been long and quiet. They've fed and shielded a few families running from Lyon, equipping them with bread and clothes, but keeping their eye on the real action that's supposed to start with a few resistance agents making their way to the cottage. Right now, all they have is the late summer's heat and amble reserve of books that wait for reading.

Nicolo opens his own over his lap once again and gives his lover a glance. "Listen to this: There's no quiet place here on earth for our love, not in the village and not anywhere else, so I picture a grave, deep and narrow, in which we embrace as if clamped together, I bury my face against you, you yours against me, and no one will ever see us.," he reads quietly, then looks up, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Morbid, isn't it?"

[mutasilmae]

The bulk of their lives has centered around some form of conflict or another. Whether it be their own, borne on fields they left behind many years ago or ones they wade into of their own volition. To find the soft spaces and moments amidst brutality is a talent they've cultivated together.

They do what they think is right, fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. Give the world the opportunity to be better. They changed, both of them, they are proof that hate does not always win. They'll take the moment to read and enjoy the amber rays filtering through the window and setting alight specks of dust.

In the dark house later they won't have their books, but Joe can still whisper words over pale swatches of skin. He's memorized many for just such an occasion.

He lets his fingers trail down from the corner of the page he'd been ready to turn, gaze warm as it rests on his love. "It is a dark romanticism, no?"

[templari]

"Is that what they call it?"

Nicky's fingers trace the eared corners of the pages beneath his hands as he leans his head back against the cushions of his chair, pale eyes calm as they rest upon the man whose become the centre of his world. They might sit apart from each other like this, but that doesn't mean their hearts aren't entwined with each other.

Yusuf - Joe for the ease of it - has a fine, sharp line of a jaw, barely visible under that thick beard and midnight eyes that always leave Nicolo a little breathless. He knows the shape of that jaw, the dark dark brown of his eyes that aren't actually black but look like it. Books are a fine distraction but nothing compared to the man sitting on his fine ass right across from him.

Putting away the book, lowering it gently onto a small table beside his chair, Nicky stands up. His hair is shorter than it's been for centuries, trimmed neatly from the sides, a longer wave of chestnut at the top. He wears a pair of grey trousers, plain white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a snug waistcoat that hides his suspenders. He's a little closer to the ground, wearing nothing on his feet, not even a pair of socks.

He pauses beside the sofa Joe is sitting on and offers him a hand. "Seems like we'll be alone tonight as well."

[mutasilmae]

"Something like that, I think."

The book has less of his attention than it did earlier in the day, admittedly. There was a tense moment earlier when things had grown still outside and he had taken to wandering to make certain all was well. The tension hasn't completely left since.

Since Nicky has engaged him, even less of his focus rests on the old, yellowing pages, and he catches himself tracing the familiar shape of the other man with his eyes. His mouth, his jaw, his throat--- He looks quite fine dressed as he is, and the short hair is still an adjustment but it suits him. He thinks he'll be getting up to find something else to keep himself busy and Joe will bother him gently.

Only to be surprised when he pauses next to him and reaches out. His eyes dance with mirth as he takes note of the page and sets it aside to take the other man's hand to stand. "It seems so, habibi."

[templari]

Nicky doesn't respond to any of it with words, but instead pulls Joe to his feet and then into his arms, one circling his waist, the other holding Joe's hand as he starts to move them slowly in a swaying rhythm to the record playing on the background.

The tune is melancholic but rhythmic enough that it's not hard to find the beat that one can dance to.

They've seen enough war to know that it's not going to be forever, but yet again it feels like the whole world is in flames, humans eager to cut their lives short for causes they know nothing about. Now the reasons are more abstract that they were back in the day when just hating every muslim was enough for the troops. Nicky's learned to live with his personal guilt, he's learned to put it aside and think of it objectively. Wars are never fought over one man's madness. They're built through decades of misconceptions and deep seated discontentment.

He presses his cheek to Joe's furry one, rubbing his clean shaven jaw against Joe's beard as they slowly turn in a circle.

"Might as well enjoy it, then," he says quietly. "Isn't that right, albi?"

[mutasilmae]

It is easy to become lost in this. Even though the rhythm takes time to be found, they find it together, as in everything else. They are all each other had for so long until Andy and Quynh found them.

At this moment, chest to chest to swaying music, it's easy to remember those days. To pretend the world was not so hopeless seeming. He knows that these things, the reasons people find to hate, hits Nicky harder than he will admit. There was much enmity between them at first and it took a long time to find a shared commonality. The brush of his cheek against the beard on his jaw makes Joe smile, rubbing the small of Nicky's back from where it rests there.

He shifts a little, only so that he might possibly spin Nicky around and then back to him, smiling as he does.

"I enjoy almost every moment with you." Yes, he said most. Feeling a little cheeky this evening. A way to banish the residual tension.