soulmate au where soulmates share all acquired skills. (if one of them knows a language the other automatically knows it too or if one can play and instrument, the other can play it too)+ joenicky
Nicolò speaks Arabic before he speaks his own land’s language.
His first birthday comes and goes and he has still not said his first word, his mother frets at this. Her first child, Nicolò’s older brother, had spoken his words rather early on. But Nicolò has spoken his first word, just in a language unknown to his mother.
His mother encourages his babbling, hoping that it will bring him closer to using words. His father on the other hand, scowls at his babbles. Thankfully the sounds are not clear enough for the words to be recognized in a mostly secluded town of Genoa, but they still make his father uncomfortable. Nicolò learns young to keep his babbling for his mother.
In time, he learns his own language, and he uses the foreign words less and less. Until they are just a forgotten skill he does not even know he has, and will not use again until his death.
-
When Nicolò is twelve, he learns how to draw.
His sister is five and their father gifts her a simple art set for her birthday. She comes to Nicolò, the art set held tightly to her chest, she stares at him with wide pleading eyes as she holds the art set out towards him and carefully asks him to draw with her.
Nicolò could never say no to her, he takes the art set and carefully helps her set up on the floor of his room. He has never tried to draw before, but he finds himself creating something far beyond what he should be capable of. It is only when his sister loudly proclaims that she has finished her own drawing that he realizes what he has made. The drawing is of his mother’s garden, the colors blending together in a way Nicolò wasn’t even aware was possible. He stares at his own work in wonder for a moment, before his sister’s voice breaks him again from his trance.
She is holding up her own drawing, a proud smile across her face as she explains it’s a drawing of their family. The drawing itself is simple, childish stick figures, but as she points out that Nicolò’s and her own stick figures are holding hands, he decides it is the greatest piece of art he as ever seen. When she asks to see what he’s drawn, panic rises in his chest and he covers the drawing with his arms. She pouts when he doesn’t show her, and the pout only deepens when he tries to tell her that his drawing was no good. He only manages to pull her attention away from his own drawing when he suggests she show mamma her own drawing.
The next time his sister comes to him with her art set, he only pretends to try to draw, making a few simple lines on his own paper, and instead he watches the determination on his sister’s face as she draws. When she asks to see his work, he tells her he could not think of anything to draw. She frowns at him, but he is able to once again distract her by praising her own work.
This continues, and in time, his sister stops expecting him to draw. She still comes to him to draw, but they spend the time together as she draws creating stories to go alongside her drawings.
Nicolò does not try to draw again until his death, his first and only drawing of that lifetime remaining tucked beneath a loose floorboard beneath his bed in his childhood home.
-
When Nicolò dies, it is by the hand of a man whose skill with a sword echoed that of his own.
He is in the midst of the battlefield, surrounded by both friend and foe alike, when he meets the man who will kill him. It only takes a few moments into their clash to realize that their skill in a fight is equal to that of the other’s. They are practically dancing with their swords. They each manage to get in a few hits on the other, but none are fatal at first. They are both soaked in blood and sweat by the time they strike the killing blows.
Nicolò’s strike comes first, and by total chance, he manages to get his sword beneath his enemy’s armor, and upon realizing this, he thrusts forward, pushing the blade as deep as he can.
It’s a fatal hit, they both realize this, and there is a split second where Nicolò’s eyes meet his enemy’s. They are drawn so close together, Nicolò could not remember the last time he had been so close to another. And then his enemy’s sword slices into his throat, and Nicolò blinks in bewilderment.
They fall together, their swords still buried in each other’s flesh, and as they fall their eyes meet once last time before they both succumb to the darkness.
-
Nicolò dies, and through death, he meets his soulmate. (Though he will not learn that until much later on.)
They rise and fall together, again and again, continuing their dance of death. It is only when the other man manages to take Nicolò’s own sword and run him through with it that the dance finally comes to an end.
When Nicolò wakes, his sword is lying beside him in the dirt, covered in his own blood. He grasps the handle of it, preparing himself to continue the fight, and pushes himself up off the ground. The other man is just standing there, only a few feet from Nicolò, his own sword in hand, but instead of drawn up in front of him as though preparing to strike, it hangs by his side, loose in his grasp.
He tilts his head as he watches Nicolò get to his feet, and then when Nicolò is standing, he speaks.
“I think,” He speaks slowly, his eyes fixed on Nicolò’s, “I am tired of killing you.”
Nicolò is too stunned by the words- and the look in the man’s deep brown eyes that makes Nicolò feel something he can’t describe- to truly realize that he could understand the other man’s words perfectly.
The man then uses his free hand to gesture to the battlefield around them, and Nicolò manages to break his gaze off of the other man to take in the carnage that surrounds them. Bodies are strewn haphazardly around them, bloody and disfigured. Beyond himself and the other man, there was not another living creature in sight.
“There has been enough death, no?”
Nicolò turns his attention back on the other man, who is still watching him carefully. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Nicolò lets his own grasp on his sword loosen, and gives the other man a small nod of his head.
Nicolò, in part, expects the other man to leave, or for himself to leave, but when neither man moves, it feels somehow like that is what is supposed to happen.
“Why do we not die?” Nicolò asks, after it feels like they have been standing there in silence for longer than they had been killing each other.
“I wonder the same thing,” The man replies, “what would your church say?”
Nicolò blinks, stunned by the question, he stares at his own feet, “I... don’t know. A blessing perhaps, or-” he forces his eyes to meet the other man’s- “or perhaps a curse.”
Nicolò expects many different possible reactions from a man who does not follow the word of God, but he is in no part prepared when the man throws his head backwards in laughter. Nicolò gapes at him.
“Is everything in extremes for your people?” The man says, the laughter still evident in his voice, “Can there not be an option that is perhaps, somewhere in the middle?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” Nicolò repeats.
“Yes,” The other man nods at him, like this is the simplest of answers.
If they weren’t both coated in blood- both their own and the other’s- and surrounded by the bodies of their divided peoples, it would almost seem as though they were two old friends having a debate over a matter as simple as what crops to plant in the springtime.
Nicolò spares another glance at the battlefield around them, in the midst of this battlefield, there were no clear winners, no clear answer beyond that of the answer of death- but Nicolò was not even granted that answer, and neither was the man standing in front of him. The man who he has killed and has killed him more times than Nicolò could even be sure of. The man who is supposed to be everything that Nicolò isn’t. The man who is supposed to be his enemy. None of that seems clear anymore.
Perhaps the man is right, perhaps there is another option. Somewhere in the middle.
Nicolò slowly extends a hand, “I am Nicolò.”
The man eyes his outstretched hand for only a moment before clasping it with his own, “Yusuf.”
Let tomorrow sleep and peacefulness will turn to you
Free yourself and go with your razor sharp emotions
Even the twisted flow is the proof that you're alive
I invite the tearfully-indulging tomorrow
Because there is evil within me
Even the meaning of my existence turns into sin?
hey y’all!!! i got some anon hate last night, so i just wanted to address some things. firstly, if you don’t like me, you don’t have to follow me! there’s no place for transphobia or hatred on my blog, this is a safe space. secondly, do i tend to come off as flirtatious? yes. that’s honestly just how i am. i’m sorry if i haven’t responded to texts or dms, i do love chatting with people but i do have things going on in the background too and i’m not always gonna be up to talk all the time. i’m sorry if i’ve upset you in the past, but there’s no need to insult me. thank all of y’all for being so kind and understanding🧡🧡🧡
Friendly reminder that my piano teacher insisted that I learn Für Elise in its entirety for the sole purpose of having me flex on non-pianists in the future.
my writing's gotta get Grimier. i gotta get more gross with it. im fantastic at describing things as though they're waves or stars and giving them their due reverence but i gotta describe filth. the smell of a rust-hued city block strewn with trash. the taste of bile the morning after heavy drinking. my writing's felt directionless for a while but the answer, as it is with all art, seems to be to get filthier with it
