Give an Inch chapter 9
Jan. 19th, 2021 11:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
salazar_quinnHe feels somewhat dreadful about it, because for him to complain, when he can still leave the house – leave the bed – would be the height of selfishness, and naturally Nicolò is bearing up at least as stoically as one could have any right to expect. Likely more, since Yusuf’s ideas of such things are likely skewed after so many years of Nicolò’s example.
But no matter what he does with himself, he is still dissatisfied. He has his translation work, of course, but he can do that anywhere. If he sits in the comfort of their main room, at the table which is really the most comfortable place for it, he is so cursedly aware of Nicolò languishing away behind the nearest door that he cannot get anything done. If he sits out in the walled garden, even if the wind does not attempt to blow away his work or the rain to ruin it, he feels guilty enough for partaking in a simple pleasure denied to his companion that it colours the tone of his efforts. He’s thought of sitting in their bedroom – he does have a sturdy tray that would just about serve – but between wondering if Nicolò would not perhaps prefer the private so that he can actually sulk a little and guiltily acknowledging that it’s likely he would shirk his work from feeling obliged to keep the other man entertained, he’s so far avoided making trial of it. It has become a relief, the last day or so, that all the shopping and cooking has fallen to his lot; those at least must be done in the market or the kitchen, and that removes the bothersome issue of his conscience, at least.
He misses Nicolò, which is ridiculous. He sees him several times a day, and they’re rarely more than a few yards away from each other, regardless. When they are together, while there’s been plenty of ordinary conversation, they’ve also done plenty of very pleasant exploration of the new physical territory now available to them. There should be nothing to miss. And yet…
And yet he’s been sitting here feeling sorry for himself long enough that his ink has gone dry.
In the middle of a sentence, no less. Yusuf applies fresh ink, double-checks his translation, and finishes it, then diligently completes the rest of the paragraph, moving one or two things to the end to provide appropriate context without sounding entirely awkward in Persian.
Then he stops. He stares at the blank paper below the latest paragraph for several seconds, before dropping his pen and throwing up his hands rather half-heartedly.
“Well, this is no good.” He’ll eat an apricot, Yusuf decides. Maybe that will set him right.
Perhaps it does and perhaps it doesn’t, but getting up and walking to the kitchen is doing something, at least, which gives the impression of productivity if nothing else.
He leans against the counter to eat the apricot, pondering. This is, perhaps, an extension of how generally unsettled he’s been the last several days – since Nicolò’s accident, in fact, although he doesn’t think it’s actually about Nicolò’s accident. That would certainly be an overreaction.
No, he’s felt scattered since that day, but not about the accident. Not about anything, really, as far as he can pin down. (In truth, his thoughts do lose some organization any time he thinks about what happened immediately afterward, but Yusuf is generally confident that can be ascribed to other factors entirely. If most of those factors are related in some way to the feeling of Nicolò’s mouth around his cock, rather than the concurrent emotional turbulence, that only shows more clearly that he’s past that entirely.)
Now, of course, his thoughts are scattering in precisely that manner.
Yusuf disposes of the apricot pit and contemplates the bowl of fruit, pretending to decide on whether or not to have another one. The charade is for absolutely no one’s benefit but his own; there is no one in the room but him, and if there were, they certainly would not be able to see inside his head and thereby necessitate a smokescreen of indifferent thoughts about apricots – and yet it gives him a sense of security.
Nonexistent mind-readers suitably deceived, he’s free to gaze blandly at the apricots and let his mind chase itself down multiple lines; the warmth of Nicolò’s skin under his lips, the murmur of Nicolò’s voice against his ear, I was thinking of something, the rigid trembling of his hips as he resists thrusting into Yusuf’s mouth, the softness of his tongue and the tone of his cries and the scent of his skin…
Yusuf takes another apricot, even though he had decided not to.
Nicolò’s chest and his neck and the inner seam of his thigh all smell like him, but they aren’t, quite, the same. The scent of his chest is Yusuf’s favourite, perhaps because thinking of burying his face in Nicolò’s neck makes his heart pound with something besides lust, and he doesn’t care to think on that. Nonetheless, it’s thoughts of the just slightly too-strong musk that fills his nose when he kneels between Nicolò’s thighs that occupies his mind most often.
It’s strange, because both times Yusuf has actually taken Nicolò into his mouth, he hasn’t been sure, in the moment, that he actually enjoys it. He’s been willing enough, certainly, especially given the noises Nicolò makes, how much more quickly it brings him off than anything else usually does, but it’s rather a lot to manage. Yusuf doesn’t particularly enjoy the taste, and he’s nearly choked two or three times from misjudging his depth; so far when he’s doing it, it’s only been the way that Nicolò moans that keeps him from wishing he was just using his hands.
And yet, when he’s not doing it, it feels as if he can think of little else. He’s salivating now, and it has very little to do with the untouched apricot he’s still holding. He’s bruised it a little, pressing too hard.
It tastes no different, for all that, and even after he’s cleaned his hands and made every attempt to reapply himself diligently to his work, that taste lingers in his mouth, distracting him.
Finally he taps the pen consideringly against the edge of the table and growls under his breath. There is no reason for him to be so distracted. It’s not as if he’s new to this strange and gratifying thing that he and Nicolò have been doing – it’s been more than a year, and he’s never had his thoughts consumed by restless lust like some eager youth until now.
(The thought tickles at the back of his mind that perhaps there is something else about their coupling on the day of the accident, perhaps the focus on desire is partially a distraction, but he pushes that away with something very like panic.)
Yusuf taps idly at the table a little longer before snatching the pen away from himself before he damages it. He could glance into the bedroom, see if Nicolò is awake, see if he might be in the mood to explain whatever it was he was teasing Yusuf with the other day. But he doesn’t really want to – if the answer is no, is there a way to accept that gracefully without seeming like he was trying to exploit the unfortunate situation? If the answer is yes… well, he wants that, but then what? He’s lived too long and knows himself too well to believe that even a truly fantastic climax will snap him out of this mood, and if he’s just going to feel restless and vaguely sordid afterwards, he might as well just take himself in hand.
It’s a sign of how generally dissatisfied he is that he seriously considers it, but then of course there is the problem of privacy. The only truly private room in the house is, of course, occupied.
Yusuf strikes out his last two sentences with unnecessary rancour and glares at the source text as if a better translation will materialize in apology if he only frightens it enough. He limps his way painstakingly through the same words a second time, and moves on to the rest of the paragraph, forcing himself through a clause at time and knowing the whole while he will almost certainly have to come back and revisit the word order, at the very least.
Then he rises with bad grace, shoving a hand through his hair. He sighs, fetches a cup of water from the kitchen, sips it briefly and then pushes it away. “Fine,” he mutters, though it’s more an expression of profound dissatisfaction than anything else.
There’s a small storeroom at the back of the house, largely unused since they carry so little with them. It has no window and thus no light, and there’s nothing to sit or lie on, but it does have a door he can shut behind him.
Yusuf pauses outside of the door to the bedroom, not quite willing to actually eavesdrop, but still feeling, for reasons he doesn’t examine, as if he should make some effort to find out if Nicolò is awake. There’s nothing audible through the wood, which could mean Nicolò is asleep, or could just mean he’s awake, but not pacing or doing anything else that might make noise. Certainly he’s not as wont as Yusuf to talk to himself, although if anything could drive him to it, it might be this.
It is, naturally, dark in the storeroom, but Yusuf finds he was incorrect about the lack of anything to lie down on; their packs and bedrolls are stored here, and even in the dark it’s easy enough to lay one out and stretch himself out.
For a moment, he thinks maybe he’ll just go to sleep for an hour. It’s been a very long time since he slept alone, and months since he and Nicolò even slept separately. It’s not that he misses it, exactly, but there’s an appeal to the idea in the moment. For some reason, his thoughts turn to that first night on the floor of their shabby room, after Nicolò lost so much of their money. There’s no reason for it; it’s the exact opposite of what he’s thinking of.
It’s not as if they touch less, these days, but he thinks maybe he misses lying close beside someone at night. It wasn’t common, before, but it was possible. Now, of course, it’s not. Wouldn’t want to confuse anything, Yusuf thinks with inexplicable irritation.
It’s ridiculous to feel bereft about the fact that, now they’ve had each other’s pricks in their mouths, they’re a little more scrupulous about sleeping at least a foot apart.
Yusuf shoves a little further down the bedroll to make himself more comfortable, sighing. Even inside his own head he’s disagreeable, which of course just makes him more irritable. Why he can’t find some equanimity… Maybe they’ve been travelling for too long. Maybe he’s forgotten how to stay in one place. It might explain the itchy restlessness under his skin.
He fumbles open his clothing, not feeling enthusiastic so much as vaguely compelled – this is less about enjoyment and more about quieting his agitation and what he can only describe as oddly aggressive boredom. It’s not so much well, why not as it is well, what else is there?
Still, if he doesn’t pay too much attention, the darkness of the room makes it easy to think he could be back under the sky – or tucked into a cave, or huddled in an abandoned outbuilding – with Nicolò across the fire and no pressing requirements or restraints except to get up the next day and keep moving.
And that’s something to think of, as well, those nights of half-muffled noises from someone not quite visible, the knowledge that they can hear every catch of your breath running over your skin like lightning, the darkness sharpening sensations to an unprecedented sharpness…
Objectively, Yusuf is very glad he knows what it is to have had Nicolò’s mouth on him, Nicolò’s hand on his cock, Nicolò’s skin under his fingers – he wouldn’t trade it. But just now, the uncomplicated, half-acknowledged lust of the beginning seems far more attractive. He can hear his own breath hitch as he palms himself slowly, and his mind supplies in sharp recollection a matching gasp in reply.
For his own gratification, he imagines what Nicolò had looked like then, if he’d been able to see. It’s not an especially coherent picture; it shifts too much, and the light source changes on a whim of inspiration, but it’s more than enough to tip him over the edge from begrudging interest into outright desire.
Yusuf shuts his eyes – not that it makes much difference, except that the difference isn’t so much in what he sees – and remembers a slightly more recent occasion. He transposes it, so that Nicolò is lying on his bedroll with firelight flickering across his face, instead of on their bed in Baghdad. Yusuf watches him, groaning, as he runs a hand down his stomach, past his untouched cock, moaning low as his fingers brush against the base. His hand slides between his legs, at an angle Yusuf can’t quite see, and his wrist flexes as he rubs circles around his entrance.
Yusuf pants a little, tightening a hand around his shaft and thrusting into it almost desperately. It’s not impossible for this to have happened – he’s seen Nicolò do it at least once; he must enjoy it, there’s every possibility that he did this once, twice, before they started watching each other, touching himself like that while listening to Yusuf grunt and gasp across from him – maybe even, as the fantasy in Yusuf’s head is doing now, arching his back and sliding a finger into himself while he moans.
A ragged gasp tears itself free from Yusuf’s throat – just the thought of it makes him feel hot and needy, as if it would take very little to tip him over the edge, even so soon. It had never occurred to him, until he’d actually seen it, that this particular act might be something a man would do by himself, for pleasure. It had seemed so inextricably attached to performing the act with another man. I am not going to let you fuck me, Nicolò’s voice says calmly in his head, and it suddenly seems sordid to be thinking about this, too close to something specifically proscribed.
That thought makes him almost angry – what does it matter what he thinks about, privately? – and the anger makes guilt roil in his stomach. What is he even doing?
Yusuf lets go, panting and frustrated. He lies there in the dark, aching and disproportionately distressed, aborted lust still curling hot but unappealing in his stomach. What is wrong with him?
It’s not as if malaise has been a stranger, over the decades. Boredom, loss, the reminder of endless years stretching into the future – all manner of things can trigger a day or a week where nothing is quite right, where restive idleness is the only accessible sensation. But it was never like this.
Leaving things as they are will only make matters worse, he knows, so Yusuf rolls onto his side and brings himself off to thoughts of vulgar, generic bawdiness. It’s not especially pleasurable, and he only forces himself to get up and set himself to rights immediately because the alternative, staring into the darkness with the hollowness of his thoughts echoing around his skull, is frightening in a way he hasn’t felt in forty years.
~
Nicolò sees through his attempts to be cheerful easily enough, which makes Yusuf feel worse, since he hardly has reason to complain in comparison.
“It’s nothing,” he says, unaccountably feeling as if he’s lying. “I’ve been in a strange mood today, that’s all.” He nods at the plate in Nicolò’s hands. “Do you think it’s over-spiced? I may have been a little heavy-handed with the cumin–”
“It’s fine, Yusuf,” Nicolò interrupts him, placatingly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“What’s to talk about?” Yusuf smiles in a way he usually has more confidence in. It’s meant to be charming, but it feels hollow. “It’s only a little...” He can’t find the word he wants in Sabir, so he shrugs. “I’ll be perfectly all right tomorrow.”
“Mm.”
“I was thinking,” he adds as an afterthought, “that I’m never sure how much company you would want. I hate to leave you alone all day with nothing to do, but if I stick my head through the door too often I start to think that I’m harassing you.”
“I wouldn’t object to company, but I can’t say I enjoy being peered at any more than I would if I were really on my sickbed.” Nicolò sighs slightly. “I should have learned to knit.”
That startles a laugh from Yusuf and he feels his chest loosen slightly. He hadn’t known he was holding it stiffly.
“You can laugh.” Nicolò eyes him with mock severity. “It’s too late to learn now, and it would be something to do.”
“What do you mean, it’s too late? We have decades ahead of us for you to learn to knit.”
“I notice you don’t mention yourself,” Nicolò says drily. “I only mean it would have been useful to have learned before I had to hide in this room for weeks. I can hardly ask for lessons now; my instructor would surely have questions about my lucidity and range of motion.”
Yusuf winces sympathetically in answer. After a moment, he suggests, “It’s been nearly a week. I’m sure that, by tomorrow, you will be sufficiently recovered to be carried out to the garden to sit for a few hours.”
Nicolò groans. “You don’t really intend to carry me.”
“An arm around the shoulders should be enough, just to be safe. And you’ll have to stay still wherever I put you. But it would be something else to look at,” Yusuf offers, smiling.
Nicolò snorts mildly. “I believe I would accept an assignment shaving cats if it gave me something to do. You have no need whatsoever to convince me.” He sets his empty dish aside and raises his brows just slightly.
Yusuf feels caught out. It’s been several hours; certainly he is capable of mustering the appropriate response, but he can’t really say that he wants to. He still feels strange and off-balance about that episode in the afternoon, and his own thoughts as well, for that matter; the adjustment necessary to find anything erotic just seems like… work.
There’s no reason he can’t just say so – in fewer words, without the allusion to his earlier activities; one or the other of them has cried off – rarely – for whatever reason in the past and it’s never caused any difficulty. But saying out loud that he doesn’t want to, while knowing that he passed up the opportunity earlier in favour of bringing himself off unenjoyably to thoughts he’s ashamed of is… unappealing.
“Finished?” he says, instead, rising to collect Nicolò’s plate.
“Yes,” the other man answers slowly, eyeing him.
He’s not acting himself, Yusuf knows, but there seems to be little enough he can do about it. He adopts a cheerful mien. “I’ll wash up, then.”
He curses himself for a fool as he scrubs the dishes, even though he suspects coward might be a better term. But what has he even to be cowardly about? Is he frightened of, what, saying ‘no thank you’?
Maybe when he wakes up in the morning, refreshed, he’ll be set to rights.
He holds this hope right up until he’s actually lying in bed. Nicolò had studied him intently when he returned, but rather than make his offer more explicit, he’d headed off Yusuf’s planned excuses with a quiet, “You must be tired,” and made no objection to putting out the light. Now, though, Yusuf is highly aware of his breathing on the other side of the bed. It occurs to him, too late, that perhaps Nicolò does not want to go to sleep yet, that perhaps, after being constrained to this room and largely this bed for several days, he would prefer to sit up and talk, or make a trial of mending that basket with the hole in it, or anything but lie there silently in the dark.
It also occurs to him, far past too late, that he should have arranged for separate rooms for them somehow. Not that sharing quarters had ever been a problem before, but if he had, surely all of this would be better.
Perhaps only marginally better, but nonetheless better.
Shifting about to try and settle himself would be discourteous, he thinks, particularly given the likely odds of its failure. Instead he lies still, no matter how his body itches to lie on its back, or how uncomfortable his right arm is, and tries to guess from Nicolò’s movements if the other man is asleep yet or not.
He has little success; Nicolò is patient, more than accomplished at stillness. He could have been asleep for minutes now, or he could still be completely awake. Yusuf waits another several minutes – he hopes it is at least fifteen, but it might be five, or thirty – before shifting on his side, moving a little closer. Surely Nicolò is asleep now, and short of any other solution, perhaps the evenness of his breathing or the reassurance of being able to almost feel the heat of his body will help settle Yusuf.
It’s not enough that he can sleep, but he shuts his eyes anyway, determinedly refuses to think of anything other than darkness and soft mattresses, and finally, at some point, he must fall asleep.
~
Yusuf is vaguely aware before he is truly awake – vaguely aware of warmth, and comfort, and the pleasant sensation of sinking back against sleep, but he is also vaguely aware that something is pushing him slowly towards wakefulness, and it disgruntles him. He shifts, and his nose drags against fabric and then skin, and that’s strange enough that it begins to wake him up properly.
“Comfortable?” Nicolò asks, voice husky with sleep. Yusuf can feel the vibration of his words in his chest. He can feel it buzz against own chest as well, so firmly are they pressed together. Too slowly, he realizes he’s practically embracing the other man.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling his arm away. “Sorry. Uh.” Even the tendrils of panic trying to penetrate the remaining warm sleepiness are not enough to force him awake with enough effect that he can be articulate. He feels as if he got perhaps three hours of sleep.
“No matter,” Nicolò says. Yusuf pauses just a moment to appreciate the shiver his sleep-roughened voice sends up his spine.
He doesn’t pull back, although the sharp chill creeping up his spine suggests strongly that he should. He’s not awake enough to process things quickly and his mind seems to think that the most important thing to be aware of is that Nicolò is warm.
Yusuf is aware, vaguely, that he’s hard where they’re pressed together, but the animal living in the back of his brain wants him to ignore that, press his face into the back of Nicolò’s neck, and go back to sleep.
Instead he squirms back awkwardly, still clumsy with sleep and intensely aware of the warmth that seeps into his skin everywhere he brushes against Nicolò. The other man makes a small noise when Yusuf’s wriggling rubs his cock against Nicolò’s ass; Yusuf himself, absent his usual control, groans rather louder.
“Sorry,” he mutters, trying to roll away without whacking Nicolò with his limbs and only succeeding in falling back into the same position. “Didn’t mean to, sorry…”
“It’s all right.” Nicolò pulls away a little, much more smoothly, so that he can prop himself up on one arm and glance over his shoulder at Yusuf. ”It’s not entirely an unpleasant way to wake up.”
The twin forces of grogginess and fading panic mean that Yusuf takes several long moment to process the tiny smile lurking on Nicolò’s lips, and realize that he’s teasing.
He lets his head thump down onto the pillow with exasperation. It does not quite achieve the intended affect while still lying on his side, but Yusuf sighs dramatically anyway. “It is surely cruel,” he says pointedly, and almost articulately, “to take advantage of a man who has just awoken. And one who should surely be sleeping! Unforgiveable.” He attempts a glare, despite his face being half pushed into the pillow.
Nicolò smiles, a little less teasingly than Yusuf had anticipated. There’s something soft at the corners of it that makes his heart twitch.
“So,” Nicolò continues, arching an eyebrow and shifting a little to look over his shoulder more easily. Why he doesn’t simply turn over Yusuf is unsure. “This is not an attempt to communicate a shift in your attitude from last night?”
“I cannot be held responsible for anything I do while I am asleep,” Yusuf says automatically, his heart pounding irrationally, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Nicolò huffs a soft laugh, pushing his already disarranged hair off his forehead. “Hmm.”
Now that he’s a little more awake, Yusuf is capable of properly rolling over onto his back rather than merely imitating a particularly randy serpent, and so he does. “You may take it however you like.”
“Hmm,” Nicolò says again, thoughtful this time. “I had wondered if you – but no.”
“But no?” Yusuf raises his head to level an ineffective glare at the other man. Nicolò’s tone isn’t particularly teasing, but whatever his intent the result is the same. “But no?”
His friend laughs a little, surprised and self-deprecating. “I didn’t mean to–”
“I suspect you of trying to keep me in ignorance,” Yusuf accuses, petulantly. “I agreed to let you be the expert. You don’t need to torment me.”
“You’re right,” Nicolò says.
“You still haven’t told me what you were thinking of the other day, and– Oh. What?”
“You’re right. I apologize.” Nicolò rolls to face him. Yusuf imagines his neck was getting sore. “Were you upset about this last night–?”
“No,” Yusuf says, feeling immediately guilty for exaggerating his pique. It’s less that he’s truly vexed and more that he doesn’t want to look too closely at anything else he might be feeling. “I was just in a mood.” Nicolò hums sympathetically, which only makes Yusuf feel guiltier. After a moment he offers, “I am sorry. I didn’t sleep well, and you know how much I like sleeping.”
That startles a snort from the other man. “By all means do not let me keep you from returning to it.”
Yusuf considers that. “A real friend would give me options.”
Nicolò only smiles quietly in response, and an entirely unlustful yearning flares up like Greek fire in Yusuf’s chest. He’s so busy desperately smothering it that he almost misses the other man’s response.
“I would never wish to be a false one, and therefore – I can offer you a return to your dearly-valued slumber, a most sincere apology,” Nicolò’s eyes flare darkly and deliberately in a way that makes it point clear how he intends to demonstrate that sincerity, “or an explanation, as you choose.”
Out of a desire to be deliberately provoking, Yusuf says, blasé, “An explanation.”
Nicolò tips his head back and laughs, somehow unsurprised, and Yusuf can’t help stealing the moment away for himself, hoarding it inside his chest like a dragon. The notion strikes him suddenly that if he can put enough moments like this inside, maybe there will no longer be room for the sudden bursts of feeling that will not stop discomposing him.
“I didn’t mean to tease you,” Nicolò explains, with overwrought solemnity. “It is only, as it happens, that I realized that the suggestion I was about to make might be incoherent to you, and perhaps it would be better to demonstrate.”
Despite himself, Yusuf’s mouth goes dry. “Ah,” he manages to say, knowing that he’s being manipulated and it’s working, “a trap.”
Nicolò’s lips twitch only slightly, but the tension in his face is a clear testament to how tightly he’s restraining his amusement.
Yusuf sighs gustily. “Spring it, then,” he says, waving a hand in acquiescence. It plays rather oddly because he’s still lying on his back, but no matter.
Nicolò’s eyes meander slowly down the length of him, bare chest and obscured lower body alike. The dishevelled light sheet is not quite enough to hide the fact that Yusuf is still heartily aroused, and when Nicolò lets his gaze flick hotly back up to Yusuf’s face before he continues lazily scanning the outline of Yusuf’s legs, it’s nearly too much.
Too much for what, he doesn’t examine. It’s enough that Nicolò’s eyes are unusual at the best of times, that darkened and yet afire as they are with lust and intention, he could easily be an impossible fantasy, a tale told only to titillate.
“Roll over,” he tells Yusuf quietly, and when Yusuf makes to obey, counters, “No, no, the other way.”
This leaves him facing away from Nicolò, and for a moment Yusuf is strangely unsure. The feeling is similar to nothing he can name besides the childish fear of being made sport of when one’s back is turned. Ludicrous, surely; Nicolò would never, and Yusuf has survived far worse things than being laughed at.
Nicolò strips the blankets, fallen more or less about their waists, out of the way. Yusuf can see the edge of him while he does it, just from the corner of his eye; it soothes him a little. Then he lies down, pressing close in mimicry of the way Yusuf found himself waking.
“What I was put in mind of this morning,” he murmurs against the back of Yusuf’s neck, breath hot across the skin so that Yusuf shivers and holds himself rigid to avoid jerking far too sharply in reaction, “is the same as what I was thinking of the other day. You remember…”
“Yes, of course,” Yusuf chokes out, trying for an even tone. He fails badly. They’ve never touched this much all at once: sleeping together before this, there was always clothing; afterwards he’s been careful to put space between them when they’re not fucking – even during their desperate attempts to kill, and then to overpower, the other, there had always been clothing as a barrier, however ragged it had become. He can feel Nicolò’s cock against his ass, half-erect and steadily hardening. Nicolò’s bare chest against Yusuf’s bare back, his knee pressing into the back of Yusuf’s, his warm hand smoothing steadily down the skin of Yusuf’s side – it’s so much; Yusuf feels surrounded by heat. He can’t see Nicolò’s face and that shouldn’t change the way this feels, not when they spent the first months of this without ever looking at each other, but they weren’t touching then and it does and Yusuf is so dizzy with want he can’t keep track of his own thoughts, doesn’t even know what it is he wants but in the space of a few seconds it has become nearly imperative to rock back against the firm press of Nicolò’s cock, to snatch his hand from Yusuf’s side and redirect it towards his erection, to pull Nicolò’s face even closer to him and feel his lips move on the back of Yusuf’s neck, and he doesn’t –
He doesn’t, because the only thing he wants more than that is to settle back against the solid warmth of Nicolò’s body and just stay there. This is a dangerous thought, but it is difficult for Yusuf to remember why, when his mind is drowning in a lake of fire.
And he doesn’t, because Nicolò has an intention for this, and the last thing Yusuf wants is to redirect his attention from that, to delay the culmination of it in any way.
“Well,” Nicolò murmurs against the base of his neck, “you’ll see why it came to mind in a moment, although I’ve – ah – had to make a few adjustments–” His hips roll pleasantly against Yusuf’s ass, leaving him startled when Nicolò’s voice changes abruptly. “Oh, holy Christ’s fucking cunt.”
“What,” Yusuf manages to pant. “What is it?”
Nicolò drops his forehead against Yusuf’s hairline and growls into his skin. “There’s no oil. I’m such – here, let me see–”
His hand slides smoothly from Yusuf’s side down across the line of his groin, sending trembling through Yusuf’s entire body with just that before Nicolò even reaches for his cock.
Large, warm fingers close around him and it’s not, it shouldn’t be, different from other times they’ve touched each other, but something about the angle, so similar to the one he’d use to stroke himself off, about the warm press of the other man’s body behind him, makes Yusuf’s breath sob in his throat as Nicolò rubs a thumb over the head of his cock until his hand is wet around Yusuf’s shaft. Wildly he thinks that he’s never done anything physical with anyone without being more or less face-to-face, perhaps that is why, but this cannot be the thing Nicolò was thinking of, why would they need oil for this–
When Nicolò pulls his hand away abruptly, Yusuf has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. He makes a choked noise anyway, and Nicolò hums against the back of his neck in apology.
“Sorry, I – just a moment…” His hips tip back, leaving only his upper chest in contact with Yusuf’s back, and Yusuf doubly bereft. He refrains from whining in complaint, even though it’s not fair to expect him to just lie here, and is in the process of fumbling a hand down his body to take care of it himself when Nicolò’s breath changes.
Yusuf knows that sound, of course, has known it for longer than he’s even been aware of knowing it, that abrupt, half-grunting breath which means Nicolò’s just wrapped a hand around his cock capable of firing his blood with arousal even when he’s not already hard and leaking at the tip. Slowly, he works through the knowledge available to him, seemingly unable to draw conclusions any faster. Nicolò is touching himself, therefore he must be doing it with the same hand that only a moment ago was on Yusuf’s cock. Yusuf shivers at that, even as his mind presents him with the conclusion that, more accurately, Nicolò is slicking himself with proof of Yusuf’s arousal.
He gasps aloud at that, too shocked by the wave of desire overtaking him to even moan. Nicolò grunts luxuriously against the nape of his neck.
“Are you,” he mumbles. “Don’t get impatient, I promise…”
“Nothing,” Yusuf manages to gasp out, “not doing anything, are you really–” His words dissolve into a slow moan without any conscious awareness on his part; he only really realizes when Nicolò curses and bites gently at his neck.
“You make me impatient,” he pants, breath damp on Yusuf’s skin. “Here, that should be enough, here…”
Nicolò’s fingers brush softly at the backs of Yusuf’s thighs, nudging them gently apart. Yusuf accommodates this, not sure precisely what’s happening and not sure he cares. He’s never really thought of getting fucked as something he would want before now, and it doesn’t quite make sense for that to be what Nicolò wants, but either way Yusuf will let him.
Nicolò’s fingers rub between the flesh of Yusuf’s thighs, slick and hot and wondrous, and then Nicolò’s cock is pressing in where his fingers were a moment ago, slipping between Yusuf’s thighs like – like –
He doesn’t know, but it’s growing increasingly hard to think. The heat in the air around him almost seems to have weight, pressing down in a way that isn’t even objectionable, almost comforting except for the heavy pent-up rage of feeling inside it.
Yusuf holds still, gasping, fingers clutching at the fabric beneath him, as Nicolò’s cock slides between his thighs, slick with his own arousal as well as with Yusuf’s. Loud buzzing starts in his ears at the thought, but it’s not so loud that he can’t hear Nicolò’s drawn-out groan in his ear.
“I didn’t,” Yusuf says, voice somehow clearer than his thoughts, but with no idea what he’s trying to say, why he’s speaking at all. “I wouldn’t have – I – oh, yes–!” His voice trails off into a long moan as Nicolò wraps warm fingers back around his cock.
“All right?” Nicolò murmurs, half smug and half serious, his breath caressing Yusuf’s cheek.
“Unh…” It takes a moment longer than it should for Yusuf to realize that this is a question he needs to answer. “I’m – yes, yes, good, I’m…” He manages to keep from dropping his head back, despite how badly he wants to, knowing the angle is wrong. It would do no good to knock their heads together, but he wishes very badly he could just collapse entirely against Nicolò, let his head loll on the other man’s shoulder as he’s consumed by pleasure.
This is clearly enough reassurance for Nicolò; he takes a firm grip on Yusuf’s cock and matches the pace of his strokes to the rhythm with which he’s fucking himself between Yusuf’s thighs, and the world becomes hazy very quickly.
There’s more Yusuf should be doing, he’s sure, than lying here clutching at the bedclothes and gasping and sighing his pleasure without making any efforts to return it, but he’s not sure he can. The heat building and building and building inside him is slow and molten instead of raging, melting him from the inside out. The air of the room is warm against his body, in his lungs, and his skin tingles faintly everywhere it is exposed. Nicolò is pressed so tightly to his back that sweat is beginning to influence the way they slide against each other, and as much as Yusuf wants the bliss that he can see coming from even this far away, another part of him would rather stay like this forever. It’s the same part of him which wants to redirect Nicolò’s hand from his cock, longing instead for the gentle brush of his fingers against Yusuf’s chest – almost he would be content, he thinks, for Nicolò to take his own pleasure only; to lie there, held close to him, and feel this.
It doesn’t seem that Nicolò minds that he’s being rather useless, because his voice is warm in Yusuf’s ears and his breath hitches delightfully as he murmurs, “Perfect, you feel wonderful, fuck, fuck, that’s good…”
Yusuf groans, in a general response to everything that’s happening. Nicolò’s hand is sure and skillful on his cock, and he’s approaching his climax a little faster than seems entirely fair, since Nicolò is the one who’s… who’s doing whatever it is he’s doing, Yusuf doesn’t know any words for it, even in Arabic. But he’s just lying here being stroked off, if expertly, and Nicolò is the one who’s fucking him, almost.
The truth is that he’s never thought overmuch about that act, and never about receiving it, not seriously, not as anything other than a hypothetical with the thrill of taboo about it, arousing in theory only. But if it would be like this – if it would mean Nicolò’s arm warm around him, his solid heat against Yusuf’s back, skin touching everywhere possible, voice low and sensual as his breath brushes Yusuf’s ear…
If it would be like this, it might be worth it.
“Uhh,” he can hear himself moan, without any intention of doing so. “Ahhh, I… nnnh.”
Nicolò thrusts a little harder, a little faster, between Yusuf’s thighs, which of course means that his hand speeds up to match as he grunts, as he hisses vaguely incoherent encouragement against the sensitive skin just behind Yusuf’s ear and that’s it, it’s so much it’s too much it’s perfect and it’s everything and it rushes over him all at once, skin singing and almost too tight, a sound like rushing water in his ears and his eyes open as wide as they can go but all unseeing –
Yusuf collapses in on himself as his climax fades, gasping for air like he’s forgotten to breathe. Maybe he did. Nicolò’s hand keeps working him until he whimpers a little, too sensitive, and then the other man relinquishes his hold and braces himself to thrust a little more wildly between Yusuf’s thighs, until he’s spending between them, his seed spilling onto the sheet beneath them, onto Yusuf’s legs and even his spent cock – that makes him twitch all over.
Nicolò, who seems to have somehow retained some control over his body, eases back until their bodies are separate – Yusuf is saved from a humiliating whine at the loss of contact only because his body has turned to porridge and he cannot make noise – and then rolls onto his back with a satisfied groan.
They lie quietly for a while. Yusuf’s skin is still tingling faintly all over, and while he knows he should get up and clean himself (and maybe say ‘thank you’, or would that be strange? It would be strange) he really just wants to sink into the pleasant heaviness of his body and go back to sleep.
“All right, still?” Nicolò asks. He doesn’t sound particularly concerned, but it makes sense that he’s asking anyway; it’s Nicolò. Yusuf feels as if a kitten has curled up where his heart should be and started purring.
Ordinarily this would concern him, but he’s too comfortable to ruin his contentment by thinking, so he mumbles, “More than,” and shuts his eyes.
“You did seem as if you were trying to say something, earlier.”
“Mhuh? Oh…” Yusuf lifts his head, turning slightly and frowning his way back to half-consciousness. “Hmm, yes. Just that I wouldn’t have known what you meant if you tried to explain, I think. I never heard of that.” He lets his head fall back to the pillows. “It’s nice…”
“Yusuf.” There’s a moment of silence before Nicolò says, more insistently, “Yusuf.”
“Mm.”
“Yusuf, you are not going to sleep.”
“Umm, can’t help it, you’re too good at it.”
“Yusuf, you promised me out of this room.”
Yusuf shifts a little, just to luxuriate in how comfortable he is. “Later,” he suggests. Nicolò pinches him.
“Ouch!” He sits up sharply, more upset that his lovely, dozy haze is gone than actually in pain, but nonetheless irate.
“You’ll heal,” Nicolò says with absolutely no sympathy. “And you’ll thank me when you wake up from your nap without feeling unpleasant and sticky. Go wash.”
Yusuf makes an extremely rude hand gesture at him; Nicolò, who is not from the Maghreb and has therefore never found it particularly offensive, ignores him, so Yusuf rises with bad grace, cleans himself and dresses, and even goes so far as to prepare them both a meal, although it is mainly sliced fruit and he sighs excessively while presenting it.
By the time he hooks an arm around Nicolò’s shoulders for form’s sake and escorts him to a seat outside, his bad temper is mostly for show. He finds a place in the sun for himself, and if he spends a little while surreptitiously soaking in the quiet joy on Nicolò’s face before he shuts his eyes, it does not prevent his sleep being far more restful than during the night.
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Date: 2021-01-24 09:39 am (UTC)Also, this year has been universally Hellish on mental health. Plus, 5 AM shifts? *shudder* You have all my sympathy.
I really liked Yusuf's frustration: you described it really well, his inner turmoil makes perfect sense and feels incredibly real. I honestly expected it would end in an argument, though I'm glad it didn't.
I am also in awe at Yusuf's ability to avoid introspection. Or avoid looking closely at the whys and hows he feels like that - Quynh and Andromache must be facepalming so hard, they'd have permanent hand-shaped bruises on their faces if it wasn't for the healing factor.
I'm really amazed by how seamlessly you write their movements - in general, not just in the bedroom activities. I hope it makes sense?
Loved Joe's ambivalence about giving blow jobs, it felt very believable.
Also, I loved his struggles with the translation (sorry, Yusuf) and the "occasionally talking out loud to himself" - that one is such a great detail, I'm glad to see it again!
> But just now, the uncomplicated, half-acknowledged lust of the beginning seems far more attractive.
Loved this part. And Yusuf missing being close together at night!
I love how you wrote Yusuf here, stuck in his own head. It was great! And it is a strange situation to be in, where they had had more sex but less intimacy.
Nicolò actually had a very good idea re: learning to knit. I don't doubt he will, eventually, just in case.
I love that Nicolò can (mostly) see right through Yusuf.
> “I cannot be held responsible for anything I do while I am asleep,” Yusuf says automatically, his heart pounding irrationally, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Ooh, this sentence here. Poor Yusuf!
> They’ve never touched this much all at once:
Aand the entire paragraph after this. Again, poor Yusuf (though I'm also enjoying his plight)
> He doesn’t, because the only thing he wants more than that is to settle back against the solid warmth of Nicolò’s body and just stay there
Awww. That was cute.
Loved Nicolò-the-expert forgetting about the oil. It's one of those little details that make it feel so realistic!
I loved the sex part - no surprise here, the descriptions were, again, wonderful and so was getting lost in how Yusuf's feeling - though I'm also wondering how long intercrural sex will keep them satisfied and not make them think of something else...
> Yusuf makes an extremely rude hand gesture at him; Nicolò, who is not from the Maghreb and has therefore never found it particularly offensive, ignores him,
I laughed so hard at this part!
Absolutely no one can fault Nicolò for feeling cabin-feverish.
> He finds a place in the sun for himself, and if he spends a little while surreptitiously soaking in the quiet joy on Nicolò’s face before he shuts his eyes, it does not prevent his sleep being far more restful than during the night.
This last line was utterly adorable!
I'm so lucky you chose to fill my prompt!
no subject
Date: 2021-03-28 07:11 am (UTC)While I am Way Too Aro(TM) to have ever been in a position like Joe's, I definitely did project some of my Frustration Habits on him here, so really I'm happy it came off as realistic.
I am, uh, saving the Argument Plot Device for later. *shifty eyes*
It's popular fanon and a common fan art concept that Nicky knits, so I thought I'd approach it from a different angle. :P
Urgh, I wish I had more to say because your comments are absolutely lovely and I wibbled so hard when you said 'perfection'; I caught myself thinking about it at work sometimes! <3 Honestly, I believe with all sincerity and for a whole host of reasons that I am the one who got lucky when I decided to fill your prompt.
no subject
Date: 2021-03-28 12:56 pm (UTC)We're writers, putting ourselves in other people's shoes is what we do - and again, you are doing it wonderfully! I mean, alternating Nicolò's and Yusuf's POVs? Awesome! I don't think I've ever managed to be this consistent.
*grin* Well, I'd be surprised if they never argued! Can't wait to see where it leads them!
Knowing that you like my comments and they help is already a lot - it's a very good feeling!
You are so sweet and kind - and such an awesome writer! In every aspect, plot, characterization, character voices, emotional tone, smut... I am definitely the lucky one.
Thank you for all the time and care you put in this story.