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One of the first things Yusuf notices about Nicolo is that whenever he has downtime, a free moment that doesn’t require his absolute focus, he hums, or sings, and he does it beautifully.
It’s early on in their history together that he notices this. It happens when they’re out somewhere in the chillier hills of Anatolia; about half a year out from Jerusalem and all the things they left behind there. Mortality. Sanity. A sense of what in the world they fought for.
(Though Yusuf likes to think he’s found something to fit that bill. Watching Nicolo whistle sweetly at a bird in the trees his cheeks flushed a prim pink, crinkles bunched up at the corners of his eyes, there’s no doubt in his mind for who owns the love and loyalty of his sword arm.)
Nicolo’s gutting some carp they’d fished out of the mountain river for dinner when Yusuf returns from his hunt for firewood. He almost drops all that he's collected, coming back to Nicolo who’s mouthing some soft hymn under his breath with fish intestines staining his hands.
He must have been staring for a while because Nicolo looks up, stops, to the dismay of Yusuf’s mesmerized eardrums, and raises a handsome brow in question.
“Yes, Yusuf?” he asks.
“You’re singing,” Yusuf says, bluntly.
“Oh,” he says and to Yusuf’s surprise a blush rises to Nicolo’s face, and while it’s certainly endearing in a way Yusuf does not know how to describe, it is strange to see. Nicolo is not a man easily embarrassed.
“Is it bad?” he asks, his voice strained.
“No, no!” Yusuf waves his hands back and forth in a conciliatory gesture. It was not bad. In fact, Yusuf would sell his soul he thinks to hear it again. He would do an unfathomable amount of things to hear it up close, inches from the softness of Nicolo’s harmonic mouth, and the notes dripping out of it like gentle rainwater.
Poet as he may be, Yusuf knows it is too soon to say these things to Nicolo. He clears his throat and settles for, “You are very good. It was nice to hear.”
Even with this simple praise, Nicolo’s cheeks redden further.
“Thank you,” Nicolo says, and hastily returns to his fish.
The next morning when they pack up their horses and head onwards to the great wide world and all the time they have now to explore it with Nicolo is humming a jolly tune. When Yusuf shoots an inquiring look his way he pinkens in the face, but raises his chin, and continues making soothing music to the sound of hoofbeats.
~
Time, it seems, mutes a man’s shame. Mutes many of the misgivings that you may have about yourself, and for Yusuf and Nicolo this is no exception.
Thrust into the wild of the world together it is almost immediately established between them, that there are no secrets, no embarrassments of theirs worth hiding. Any thought or question, any previously hidden away hobby is aired out. The pleasures of life are for theirs to take just as their broad shoulders bear the horrors.
Yusuf is an artist, his pleasure is in the crisp, clean scent of rusty paper. The scritch scratch of a chunk of charcoal as he sketches his muse in the candlelight, Nicolo spread decadently about the bed, smiling with the love shared in the space between them.
Nicolo is a muse of muses as far as Yusuf’s concerned, and from the day Nicolo is first drawn by his hand, Yusuf’s mind becomes a torrent of inspiration, art flows out of him untapped, raw, and pure.
He draws so often, his fingers develop callouses from the pens, though everywhere else his skin smoothes over and heals. He has so many sketchbooks, he cannot carry them all.
(Too many of them wind up in the hands of museums in the next few hundred years. Nicolo is spread all across the world in ink, in far too many salacious positions than Yusuf would like, but Andromache won’t let them steal the pages back.)
This is the pass time Yusuf has chosen for himself when they are not riding down the scum of the world and plucking innocents out of its cesspits. It’s an easy thing to do, draw; one can always have some pen and paper at the ready, but Nicolo's passions are trickier to maintain.
After all, it is not proper or practical for a swordsman to carry an instrument of any kind, as Andromache is very prompt to point out.
Now, if there’s one thing that the many different states of mankind have in common, despite their constant waxing and waning of war, it's that everywhere you go someone is making music.
Yusuf and Nicolo spend a good hundred years in the western Mediterranean before meeting Andromache and Quynh, exploring the far reaches of its waters for themselves. And it is there in this sea that Yusuf watches the love of his life, fall in love with music.
Nicolo was a priest, and Genoa is a large city of importance, so music was not strange to him. More than once Yusuf has heard Nicolo sing pieces of the great Catholic hymns and chants sung by the choirs in church.
Nicolo knows many songs, though they are chiefly religious in nature. His voice is his instrument, as one cannot go walking around with one of the monstrous-looking organs kept in the grandest of cathedrals.
But it is their travels that introduce Nicolo to the music of the world, and the many different forms it takes, in the throat, in a bowstring, in the whistle of a pipe flute.
(Yusuf would almost be jealous of the many instruments Nicolo comes to caress with gentle hands, but almost always when they’re put down Nicolo reaches those same hands out to every bare bit of skin on Yusuf he can touch, and a harp or lyre may be played for hours but they lose days in the melody of one another.)
And more than anything Nicolo plays for him. In the centuries after Yusuf first heard him sing with such clarity, such artistry, Nicolo has only gotten better. Particularly on the days where they sit side by side in bed, under the stars, and Nicolo plucks at the strings of the small hand harp in Greece. A wooden recorder in France. Belting out a steady drum rhythm in Cyprus. All to the tune of Yusuf, and the bewitched wonder on his face.
Muses can absolutely go both ways.
Nicolo can play almost anything, and as their lives go on, and they remain as ageless as ever, Nicolo comes to try as many different instruments as Yusuf has filled sketchbooks.
He never really takes to a particular one. That is until they return to Italy after two hundred years spent exploring Asia and attend an opera. Where in the orchestra men in ridiculously ornate wigs play warm chestnut colored fiddles called violins.
After the show, Nicolo drags Yusuf and Andromache down to the main floor and bribes one of the players into letting him hold one.
Nicolo brings it to his neck, and though it’s his first time playing an instrument of this caliber, Yusuf swears it’s like Nicolo’s thousandth.
He plays one long luxurious note, another, two more, three. He makes a short song of it.
Andromache makes a comment about the extravagance of the instrument. How delicate a violin seems, only one misstep away from shattering into a hundred sharpened glossy pieces.
It is by no means a weapon fit for a soldier, which is what they are.
But Nicolo, he’s ignoring her, chattering with the flustered looking musician about the range of the violin’s sound, in enthusiastic if outdated Italian.
Holding it he looks like some young god of music. Apollo with a shining bow and arrow, all golden and rapturous, the arrow’s tip pointed straight at Yusuf’s beating, bleeding heart.
~
And well, Yusuf has never been able to deny Nicolo anything.
~
It is the year 1737 and the Italian city of Cremona mourns a string-maker.
Antonio Stradivari, the master maker of strings, dies and leaves behind one thousand sixteen instruments of which his hands have carved and smoothed; nine hundred sixty are violins.
They are said to make sound the likes of no other instrument can hope to possess, and Yusuf is of the mind that this is more than an exaggeration, he’s attended the operas and dinner parties of the nobles who own said instruments. They sound the same as any other violin he’s ever heard. That is until Nicolo gets his hands on one.
It’s Andromache’s fault.
In Cremona, she goes by Antonia and walks the cobbled streets a noblewoman of prestige and wealth, who receives a dozen invitations and requests a day to her house. Yusuf would know, he manages such invitations.
He’s spent his days in public as her husband. A philosopher who has come to teach at the local university, indulging his wife in her desire for her homeland.
Andromache does not play a bad Italian, though Nicolo insists there is no real “Italian”, you are Milanese or Genoese or even Sicilian if you dared include them in. Still, she plays the part and walks the streets oohing and ahhing over the architecture, the fountains, the “oldness” of the city like she couldn’t be its grandmother twice over.
But what she is really interested in is the shady ongoings in Cremona’s new opera house, the Teatro di San Carlo constructed into magnificence only a month before Signore Stradivari’s death.
It is no surprise to any of them that there have been whispers of hidden money dealings, stolen money from the city funneled into the pockets of the Austrians, and their loyalists who ruled over the city with a bejeweled thirsty thumb.
The Habsburgs certainly didn’t need any more money or power.
Thus, their detour to his beloved’s homeland, far from Genoa as they may be.
Invitations to the new opera house were few and far between and were not as easily required with money as one may think. Andromache is one to flash a good amount of coin in a person’s direction to get what she needs. But in the wake of Stradivari's death, the Cremonese guard that damn house more than they do the treasury.
It is Nicolo who earns them tickets inside.
Nicolo who for the past month or so has woken himself at dawn leaving Yusuf cold and alone, pouting in bed, to play his violin by the light of dawn.
Yusuf would complain, and he does demand kisses in recompense when Nicolo is done, but his love looks ethereal when he plays. Swaying into the flow of the bow, his face haloed by the early rays of the sun. His playing just gets better and better. Some would think Nicolo supernatural, with the frequency of which he improves, but Yusuf knows he is simply that good. He was born with the tune of songbirds in his ears, guiding his every footstep, every press of his fingertips on the board of the fiddle.
Through the connections of some noblewoman Andromache knows, Nicolo is brought to the attention of the conductor for the operas at the teatro, who is understandably besotted when Nicolo plays for him, all soaring melodies and soft accompaniments.
It is the duty of the conductor’s standing as a musician to let such a talented violinist into his pit only off of one audition.
Nicolo’s pretty face works wonders too, is what Andromache says about it all.
Nicolo rolls his eyes, but hands over the tickets to the next show to her outstretched hands.
Still, Yusuf thinks she is not entirely wrong.
~
The teatro is in an uproar, which makes it easier for Yusuf and Andromache to conduct their business, but harder for Yusuf to see Nicolo, lost in a sea of petticoats and powdered painted faces.
A favorite from Venice was here tonight, Vivaldi, Yusuf thinks he is called, to exhibit one of his most recent groupings of violin concertos. It was abnormal. Everyone preferred operas or ballets. It was far too easy to fall asleep when it was just the orchestra playing for you, but this Vivaldi is supposed to be good enough that the teatro welcomes him with open arms.
Nicolo of course is to be the soloist for the piece. The usual conductor for the teatro was more than happy to vouch for him to Vivaldi, who would be conducting his pieces for the show.
“These are my dear friends and patrons, Signore ,” Nicolo says dressed in his finest and beckoning Yusuf and Andromache over to meet the man.
“ Signora Antonia and her husband Joseph. They have paid well for my studies here, I owe much to them.”
“A pleasure,” Vivaldi says with a bow for Yusuf and a quick kiss to Andromache’s outstretched hand. He’s old, for the time period, in his late fifties. He carries with him a coastal accent, no doubt from his long years in Venice. “I am indebted to you both then, for bringing such a talented pupil to my pieces. I am lucky to hear him play.”
“We all are,” Yusuf counters, trying and failing to hide his pride for Nicolo who has captured the eyes and ears of so many men with his music.
“It would be a shame to hide such talent away,” Andromache says, smirking.
Nicolo rolls his eyes and waves her off, it is always hard to get him to take a compliment.
“Indeed, you have found a rare jewel here,” Vivaldi says with a smile.
Suddenly his eyes light up and Vivaldi cranes his head upwards to look around Yusuf’s shoulders into the crowd. He gives out a pleased exclamation and beckons a man over in Italian.
The man in question is a bit plain in his features but dressed in fine silks, flamboyant and unbothered. He’s mousy, with a mop of wavy brown hair, he walks through the crowd with a sure foot and greets Vivaldi with wide arms, greeting the old man with a back-slapping embrace.
Vivaldi coughs with the force of it, he grips the man’s shoulders with a tight-lipped smile. “Paolo, I am happy you came. This is Signora Antonia and her husband Joseph. It is they who have brought Nicolo to my attention.”
“This,” Vivaldi says, clearing his throat. “Is Paolo Stradivari. He has come with a gift for you Nicolo.”
Paolo must have been one of the younger sons. Antonio Stradivari died a very old and very wealthy man. The heir to his estate, a man named Francesco, Yusuf has heard is in his sixties himself.
“Yes, Nicolo, you play as if God speaks through you is what I hear,” Paolo breathes out, and to Yusuf’s amazement grabs Nicolo’s hand and brings it up for a kiss. Andromache lets out a dry chuckle. Yusuf clenches his jaw. He’s bold, this Paolo.
“You are too kind,” Nicolo says, just this side of cool.
Paolo takes no notice of it. Instead, he whistles at someone, a servant perhaps, who comes forward bearing a violin case with the family name carved elegantly into the wood on top.
Paolo takes it in his arms, opens it, and presents it to Nicolo like an offering.
“One of my late father’s violins,” he says. “My father left me with six of them, God rest his soul. It would honor me, lovely Nicolo, would you play this one tonight.”
Nicolo is gaping a little, they all are. Yusuf’s eyes are wide as saucers, he’s sure. But their reactions are hard to hold back, with the beautiful violin laid out before them, and the brazenness of this man’s flirtations.
“I couldn’t—” Nicolo starts.
“Nonsense!” Paolo waves him off. He shoves the violin into Nicolo’s hands, almost dropping it in his haste. “It should be played by the best. And it would insult the work of Vivaldi here not to play it.”
He turns to Andromache and Yusuf grinning like some mischievous cat. “Don’t you agree?”
“Oh yes,” Yusuf drawls on, deadpan. “It would be a travesty. But why don’t you play for us Signore, you have been educated in the art of music no doubt.”
“I am no musician, I am a seller of cloth,” Paolo says. “I am not like my brothers who could play and carve until their fingers drop off.”
“Besides,” he turns back to Nicolo, his eyes dark with lust. “I have brought the violin for you to play.”
“That is not all he wants to play,” Andromache mutters behind her hand. And while it irks Yusuf that she’s said it, looking over at Paolo whose hands come together in delight when Nicolo brings the violin to his neck, Yusuf cannot deny that Nicolo is a master to behold. The love of his life plays the violin so well it makes you weep, and it’s just another thing Yusuf adds to the ever-growing list he keeps in his mind of Things Nicolo Does to Enthrall the Hearts of Men, One of Which is Simply Breathing.
“Alright,” Nicolo says, finished testing out the instrument. He tries to look nonchalant about it, but he’s eyeing the bow, the violin in his hands like it's something wonderful. He likes it, loves it probably, but will not say so out loud. Definitely not in front of Paolo. “I will play it, but only if it is alright with Signore Vivaldi.”
Vivaldi smiles, kind. “Of course. I would love to hear you play such a fine instrument.”
“Thank you,” Nicolo says to Paolo who seems to have acquired a permanent smirk upon his face. “For bringing it.”
“It is my pleasure, and even more so to hear you play,” Paolo says. “I will watch with bated breath for your performance. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He wanders off into the crowd, and Yusuf would swear the air is lighter. He takes up too much breathing room that one, with the stupid things he says.
“He is a character,” Andromache drawls.
Vivaldi chuckles. “He is the youngest son, he has had to make a place for himself outside of his father’s influence. That does not mean he isn’t useful.”
“You will play beautifully on that instrument,” Vivaldi says to Nicolo.
Nicolo flushes somewhat and gives his thanks.
“Well,” Yusuf says. “Of that, we all have no doubt.”
~
Andromache has secured them seats in one of the teatro's many boxes. Now, Yusuf will give the Cremonese credit, they have built their opera house to the extreme. It is the largest Yusuf has ever seen, covered completely with deep blue and glittering gold furnishings. Everywhere he looks there is another opulently draped curtain that could feed a peasant family ten times over. The ceiling is painted in the Catholic style reminiscent of Michelangelo (who was a piece of shit as far as Yusuf is concerned but that is a story for another time) complete with angelic clouds and rays of sunlight behind it all, shining on God.
It is a lot.
He tries to ignore it all and does his best to blend in with the two couples, friends of Antonia with whom he has interacted over the past few weeks, chattering on about nothing of importance before the concert begins.
Andromache is making nice as well, Yusuf knows that when the curtains are drawn open she will disappear into the bowels of the opera house in search of the crooked noblemen she was after. But the mission is not at the forefront of Yusuf’s mind, though it should be. All he can do is look back to the stage every ten seconds or so waiting for Nicolo.
He is not alone in that.
The Stradivari box is directly across from theirs, where Paolo sits laughing and chattering merrily with what must be his brothers. But every minute or so he looks to the stage with a kind of possessive longing.
He is not a dangerous man. Then again few people on Earth could truly get the best of Yusuf and two of them are in the opera house. One sits at his side, the other is down somewhere in the pit with a priceless violin.
But Yusuf does not like his greedy gleaming anyway. Yusuf is not jealous, why would he be? But a swirl of smoky trepidation curls in his stomach nonetheless. He thinks the things Paolo would like to do to Nicolo may be chiefly lustful, as there was never a man on Earth so desirable as Nicolo di Genova, but Yusuf also thinks that Paolo is not a man denied often. And will not react kindly when he is.
The crowd goes quiet when a tuning note rings out from the orchestra. Vivaldi has emerged, standing tall as the conductor.
Yusuf spares no more thoughts for Paolo and what may linger in his thought. Nicolo is walking to the front of the stage, and he intends to play them heavenly music.
~
When Nicolo starts the piece it is with a burst of fire.
The storms of summer pour from his strings and a downpour comes upon them all. Yusuf is entranced.
He sways like a willow tree with the Stradivari violin in his hand. He doesn’t even seem aware of his movements, his eyes are closed and his hand moves with a fluidity that harkens to natural talent, a born inclination to the sport.
Yusuf has a passing notion of pity and even astonishment for those who drawled on about the mundanity of the concert shows, how dull it was just to watch the orchestra play, an occasional soloist drawn up to the front of the stage and display their skills.
This is in no way boring. Yusuf is ten thousand leagues away from sleep. He barely even register’s Andromache’s slick departure from the theater-box to begin her search. Their mission, that’s why they were here, but Yusuf could not care less.
He leans forward far as he can, his mouth resting over his clasped hands, eyes trained on Nicolo below who has charmed Yusuf as a snake would, he’s charmed the whole hall.
Around him, the patrons of the Teatro di San Carlo are enraptured. No one moves or blinks, lest the miss one bow stroke, one pluck of the string Nicolo gives so generously. Yusuf has a wild thought, that Nicolo plays like a priest he once was, serving an ancient sea-kissed Genoa, long before he wielded a long sword into the dry heat of a stolen desert. He plays generously like he would give bread and shelter. He plays lovingly and with every drop of kindness in his soul like he would bless them all had he the chance, no matter their sins.
He plays without asking, and without an expectation of anything in return.
Vivaldi’s hands fly, frantically in the air, bird-like at the orchestra but Nicolo does not need his every count.
He plays onwards, without flaw, the violin an extension of his arm, an extension of his heart, and all the goodness that pours out of it.
~
Nicolo is a wonderful distraction.
He is flocked to at the concert’s end. There is a great big mob of people congregated at the front of the teatro, their chatter rising into a stupor where they babble at Nicolo. Of to the side, Vivaldi takes compliments to a smaller crowd with more grace.
Nicolo is very red and very flustered.
Nicolo is not a man easily affected by words, but Yusuf knows that Nicolo preens under praise when it is for something he loves. And Yusuf knows he loves this. The music, the violin in his hands, this violin in particular.
“Yusuf,” someone says.
Andromache comes to his side, sliding an arm into the crook of his bicep.
“Did you take care of it?” he asks her, eyes still on Nicolo.
“Oh yes,” she says. “There was not a soul to be found in the halls. No one stopped me, and their meeting was easy to infiltrate.” She nudges him a little. “He played beautifully.”
“I had no doubt. Let us rescue him?”
Andromache chuckles and urges him on. Together they shuffle through the thick throng of people until they reach Nicolo, crowded up against the bottom of the stage speaking to Paolo who leans against the wall with a wide grin upon his face.
“I do not loan my father’s prized instruments out to anyone, dear Nicolo. You are a muse, a triumph, I made no mistake giving it to you,” he says, every word dripping with desire. He eyes Nicolo like one does dessert.
Andromache raises a brow his way, a question, but Yusuf isn’t moving. He won’t. Six hundred years together on this Earth, this is not the first time Nicolo has been propositioned. He does not need to be a rescuer, not unless Nicolo needs it, the man can take care of himself, let alone this blabbering fool.
“You are too kind, Signore ,” Nicolo says. He looks down at the instrument and a corner of his lip turns up. “It is a very fine instrument, I would love to play it some more.”
“Ah, but you can!” Paolo moves to grab it. Only when he does he positions himself behind Nicolo as well. It’s comical looking almost, his head barely grazes the bottom of Nicolo’s chin, his coat swirls about him in a whirl of opalescent lavender-colored fabric while Nicolo stands there, a hundred times the temptation in his simple gray outfit.
Yusuf gives Nicolo a look.
Are you alright? You can handle him yes? This man is an idiot, I am sorry. He should apologize for his behavior but I will make it up to you myself. Later. With my tongue.
Nicolo’s lips twitch in a tease of a smile and Yusuf knows he is okay.
Still, Paolo soldiers on.
“Come to my estate tomorrow dear Nicolo, I would gladly have you play the instrument again. Let us make a day of it. I would show you the works of my father. I have five more instruments myself, and my brothers tenfold.”
He comes in even closer at Nicolo’s backside and Nicolo jumps a little in surprise.
“We have three workshops at the estate, and though my brothers work in at least two every day, one of them is always left quiet. I could take you there, just you and me—”
He is far too close now. His lips honing in on Nicolo’s ear and Yusuf has had enough really, Andromache doesn’t stop him, and he strides forward fists clenched and more than ready to knock this man to the floor when Nicolo moves.
It’s a flash, barely a second, and for a moment Yusuf isn’t even sure what Nicolo did until Paolo falls to the floor in a whining miserable heap, his hands cupped over what Yusuf assumes is his very bruised cock of which Nicolo has kneed.
“About time,” Andromache mumbles behind a glass of liquor she has somehow acquired.
“Are you alright my love?” Yusuf asks immediately at Nicolo’s side. He has his hands on Nicolo’s shoulders, turning him away from the pathetic whining mess of a man on the floor.
“I’m fine,” Nicolo says. He brushes his hand briefly over Yusuf’s cheek in assurance. “I had no problem handling him.”
“He is not even deserving of your backhand,” Yusuf says.
Nicolo hums. His brows knit together concerned. They seem to have drawn a bit of a crowd. A man has crouched down at Paolo’s side inquiring about his health.
Andromache curses under her breath, the crowd has drawn in close, limiting their exit points. So much for an undercover mission.
Yusuf has already imagined a way in which they force their way out of the crowd when Vivaldi who had been speaking to his own circle of men off to the side groans loudly, pained, and falls to the floor clutching at his chest.
There’s an even greater uproar and Paolo is forgotten, there is a mad rush to the composer instead. Nicolo looks pained, worry written plainly on his face as Andromache and Yusuf pull him away in the chaos, but when Yusuf looks back he catches a glimpse of Vivaldi.
Strewn across the floor, panting, one hand clenched tightly to his chest, he meets Yusuf’s gaze and to Yusuf’s amazement, winks, and plays the part even louder.
~
That night, Yusuf pulls himself from bed in the dark, careful not to wake Nicolo who is not only a very light sleeper but had been up late fretting over the composer, sneaks out of their rented apartment and into the streets where he acquires a horse to Vivaldi’s current lodgings.
Yusuf grins when the old man answers the door, fit as he can be for a man in his sixties, looking no worse for wear.
“Thank you,” he says immediately. “For what you did.”
“It is of no consequence,” Vivaldi says. “Nicolo is a star to behold, and that Paolo is a disgrace to his father’s name. I am dismayed that I introduced you.”
“You did not know,” Yusuf says. “And you gave Nicolo the violin to play if only for a night, he was very happy. I thank you a thousand times for that.”
“Actually.” Vivaldi turns and disappears into the apartment only to return with a violin case, far too familiar, with the Stradivari stamp on the front.
“Take it,” he says. “It is what Nicolo deserves.”
Yusuf gathers it up, awe-struck. It is not so often that he encounters a man this kind. They were few and far between in the world.
“Is this yours to give?” he questions.
“No,” Vivaldi says simply. “But that fool Paolo would sooner run the city streets naked than admit he had been swindled out of a Stradivari violin by an old man.”
Yusuf laughs, full-throated. Vivaldi too, a strange pair they make chortling in a dark doorway while the city sleeps.
“Be safe and be well,” Vivaldi says with a gentle pat to Yusuf’s shoulder. “Tell Nicolo, that in all my years I have never heard a man play so well and I do not think I will again.”
~
Yusuf is eating a peach, with his feet up on their kitchen table, when Nicolo wakes and walks into the room the next morning, sleep rumpled and grumbling.
“Please tell me you did not sleep out here Yusuf, what in God’s name were you doing—”
He stops and stares at the table. He's bare but for the bedsheet thrown over his shoulders, but he drops it in his shock. The Stradivari rests open in its case like it was a normal ornament of their dining table, next to a bowl of fruit and Yusuf’s boots.
“Do you like it, my love?” Yusuf asks, sucking a piece of a peach off his thumb.
“Yusuf,” Nicolo breaths. “How did you—” He shakes his head and walks to it tentatively. Runs a finger down the curved waist of the violin, tracing every grain of the polished brown wood. “I cannot keep this.”
Yusuf scoffs. “It was a gift from a friend. And you deserve it Nicolo, more than that pompous man with his shitty silk and wandering hands.”
Nicolo brings a hand up to Yusuf’s face, cups his cheek tenderly.
“You are mad Yusuf, no sane man would have given this up.”
“Mad?” Yusuf says. Nicolo is eyeing the instrument out of the corner of his eye, like he would a lion, sure that it will spring out of the grass to eat him up. Yusuf is somewhat insulted, if it is anyone’s job to ravish Nicolo that title belongs to him. He drags Nicolo into his lap in recompense.
“If I am a madman it is because of you. You drive me mad,” Yusuf says, dragging his sticky sugar-sweet fingers up the inside of Nicolo’s thigh where his skin lingers on sleep warm. Then he draws Nicolo down close, from the nape of his neck.
“You, in all your beauty and wonder.” He kisses the words into Nicolo’s mouth, swallowing his hitched breaths while Yusuf’s fingers play teasing strokes on the sensitive skin of Nicolo’s thigh, teasingly, toe-curlingly, close to Nicolo’s cock, already half-hard from the morning.
“That is what drives me to insanity. You would drive all men, all women to their knees just for a chance to touch you. Paolo would have divested his fortunes your way. But I have given you mine first.”
“Your fortune?” Nicolo questions, bringing both hands to Yusuf’s head and tugging on his curls, just like Yusuf likes, to hear him moan. “I would have your heart instead.”
Yusuf laughs and nips at Nicolo’s lips to tease him. There’s an impish smile on his lover’s face. “You tease me so hayati , all that is mine is yours.”
“And all that is mine,” Nicolo breathes back. Yusuf pulls him forward, even closer so that Nicolo’s arms are locked tight around his neck. They kiss and whisper to each other, setting up a slow grind of their cocks.
Yusuf leans down to latch his mouth onto the tempting curve of Nicolo’s neck to make a mark there, for the few minutes that it will last when Nicolo stops.
He’s staring at the violin again.
“Go on Nicolo,” he says, mouth pressed to Nicolo’s temple. “Vivaldi did not steal the violin just to have it wither away unplayed.”
Nicolo shoots him a shocked look, but there is a warmth there too for their friend.
“We cannot carry it with us everywhere,” he says.
“No,” Yusuf concedes. He hums thinking of their cozy cottage in Malta, just a couple minutes walk from the sea. “But I have no doubt we will find a safe place for it. Malta would be good. I would be a happy man to hear you play it there.”
“If I played it now?” Nicolo asks. He is still hard, and Yusuf is too. But it doesn’t matter, not when the day was still young, the years before them endless, and Nicolo eyeing the violin with an almost child-like wonder.
And there was nothing sweeter in the world than to hear Nicolo play.
“I would be a happier man still.” Yusuf swats him on the ass and Nicolo rises, bare and golden in the sunlight, to pick up the instrument.
Yusuf takes his peach again and leans back into the chair, savors the sweetness of it in his mouth, the lingering taste of Nicolo, and watches his love play, music pouring out of the windows, ringing into the street.