Of finding the right word to describe Nicoló's eyes.
When Yusuf had first looked into the Frank’s eyes, Yusuf had thought them as pale as the rest of his horrid being. Haunted, heavy-lidded and ringed by dark bruises; Yusuf had almost been sickened to look him in the eye. It had almost been like looking upon the visage of death; colourless and deadened, reflecting only war and pain inflicted on innocents by their owner, set in a face ragged and bloodied and burnt by the unrelenting sun.
And then fate had shown her hand, and he and Nicolò had been bound by events uncontrollable and unforeseeable. Life unending it seemed. A cruel joke to have mortal enemies locked together for a shared eternal fate. Yusuf had laughed until he had cried.
It had taken months for Yusuf to comfortably look Nicolò in the eye, and it was only then that he had been caught by how different Nicolò looked, how much healthier he seemed, how his eyes gleamed like precious jewels in his strange, lovely face. Still pale, but hardly lifeless. Like the ocean’s surface reflecting the moon’s serene light on a clear, calm night. Beautiful was not the right word. Indescribable did not seem correct either. Nicolò’s eyes just were, and Yusuf was fascinated.
Nicolò had caught him staring and had ducked his head, a flash of suspicion twitching across his face as he drew his hood up further. They were travelling companions at this point, if even that, and Yusuf had reminded himself that no matter how pretty the Frank’s eyes were, he was still a murderer.
Many months later, they were friends. At night they sat side by side by the fire, sharing heat and food and laughter, thigh pressed against thigh. Yusuf had turned and found Nicolò’s gaze and had once again found himself wondering at the unique colour of Nicolò’s bright eyes. All the textiles and gems and dyes Yusuf had sold as a merchant, and he had never encountered a shade quite like them.
“What colour do you call them?” Yusuf had asked.
Nicolò had frowned, and touched the corner of his left eye, eyelashes brushing against the tip of his finger as he blinked. “My eyes?”
“Yes.”
Nicolò had shrugged. “Grey.”
Yusuf had been the one to frown then. Grey did not seem correct, but he was wary of arguing. They had done enough arguing between them for five lifetimes, if not more. Yusuf had stopped counting his deaths long ago.
But it had continued to nag at him like a bug that buzzes and bites as they continued their travels. Everyday he observed Nicolò’s eyes and silently compared them to the colour of the sea, the sky, precious jewels and expensive dyes, pretty flowers and exotic bird feathers and fresh, clean river water that quenched thirst and watered crops, but it seemed every time Yusuf looked again the colour of Nicolò’s irises had changed. They were so changeable, like the ocean, stormy grey one moment and then a calm, pale teal the next. They thoroughly confounded Yusuf’s keen artist gaze and merchant’s instinct for evaluation. They were a mystery. Just like Nicolò’s heart.
And then, not a year later, they are lovers. Nicolo’s heart is not unknown to Yusuf now, but as they lie intertwined on their bedroll in the quiet before sunrise, Yusuf is still pondering the exact shade of Nicolo’s lovely gaze.
“I can hear you thinking, my love,” Nicolò murmurs, shifting to look over his shoulder at Yusuf. He is sweetly sleep flushed and heavy eyed, and Yusuf cannot help but brush a bearded kiss across the arch of an elegant cheekbone. Nicolò smiles his small, secret smile that Yusuf always feels blessed to see. “You are not usually so awake before noon.”
“I have been pondering the colour of your eyes,” Yusuf says.
Nicolò blinks and turns in Yusuf’s arms to face him. “Again?”
Yusuf smiles and brushes a dark brown lock of hair out of Nicolò’s face. “Yes,” he murmurs, “and I think I have finally come to a conclusion.”
Nicolò raises his brows slightly, inquisitive.
Yusuf lightly touches Nicolò’s cheek. “They are the colour of love,” he says. “Of finding common ground and understanding, of forgiveness and incomparable kindness and compassion. They are the colour of my dreams and my heart, my thoughts when I think of you. And that is every thought, for there is not a waking or slumbering moment in which you are far from my mind, in which I am not hopelessly, earnestly, boundlessly in love with you.” He touches the bridge of Nicolò’s strong nose, sweeping his fingers down the length of it. “They are the colour of love,” he repeats.
Nicolò’s expression is of wonder and awe as he looks into Yusuf’s face. “Yusuf,” he murmurs, voice choked, seemingly startled to tears by Yusuf’s passionate words. “I—”
Yusuf places a finger over Nicolò’s parted lips. “Shh,” he whispers, “you do not have to react.” He rolls over on top of Nicolò, settling between Nicolò’s warm, soft thighs and cupping Nicolò’s beautiful face between his palms. “Just feel my love for you.”
They make love as the sun slowly appears above the horizon, and as Yusuf looks down into Nicolò’s flushed face and bright eyes, iridescent and overflowing with emotion, Yusuf thinks that the glory of the sunrise cannot compare.
By @silvyri
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Thank you so much for another beautiful gift 🎁 from you, it's truly beautiful. 😭
