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He's all and he is more.	By : DarklingWillow Category: M through R > The Old Guard Views: 776 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Old Guard movie (or comics), and I do not make any profit from this writing.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5.

            For two days they had kept to the hills and ridden old trails that Yusuf knew about, trails that would keep them away from the frontlines, and away from any Arab or Crusader encampments. It was only on the second day that Yusuf realized that he was taking them North and West, unconsciously heading for home.
            The weight of Nicolò behind him on the horse became comforting, welcomed even, when they rode double. And when Yusuf decided to walk, and let Nicolò ride alone, the tall Genovese did not try to pull the horse away from Yusuf and ride away into the desert. He also often opted to walk, and let Yusuf ride the horse alone.
            They travelled mostly in silence, quietly brooding over their own thoughts, wondering why they could not die, why the other could not die, and why they were so drawn to each other. And why they had not dreamt of each other since Yusuf had rescued Nicolò from that mass grave.

            On their second night they had both awoken from a dream and had discovered that they had dreamt of two women. The same women. One a tall, pale skinned woman with the most piercing blue eyes, the other a golden skinned woman of the people of the Lands below the Winds.
            Yusuf had drawn them both as best they could piece together from their dreams and Nicolò had admired how skilled Yusuf was. For some reason this small comment had made them both blush like young girls. They had spent the rest of that night pretending to sleep, back to back.
            The very next day, Yusuf had managed to barter for another sleep roll from a caravan of traders who had crossed their paths, and this past night, they had slept on separate sleep rolls, shivering in the cold of the desert night.
            Yusuf still felt cold. It was like the night chill had taken up residence in his very core and refused to let him stop shivering.

            He would never admit it, but he had missed the warmth of Nicolò’s body next to him. The night had felt colder, and lonelier, despite Nicolò being less than an arm’s length away. He had wanted nothing more than to feel Nicolò’s chest moving under his arm, and his heart beating against Nicolò’s back as they slept. His sleep had been restless without Nicolò next to him.

            “I see movement,” Nicolò said, where he sat on top of their horse, and pointed into the distance.
            Yusuf lifted his hand to shade his eyes from the sun and looked where he pointed. There was a dust trail, but who was making it, Yusuf could not tell. It could be the enemy moving troops.
            Yusuf paused at that thought.
            Who exactly was the enemy now?
            For him, it was still the Franks. For Nicolò it was still whom he called the Saracens. But, for Nicolò, it was now also his own people. His own soldiers had turned on him, murdered him and left him in a hole with their enemy dead. And Yusuf could not imagine that his own people would take kindly to him guiding around a Frank. Those caravan traders had looked suspiciously at Nicolò, where he had waited with their horse, while Yusuf bartered with them. Had wanted to know why Nicolò did not show his face, and Yusuf had barefacedly lied and said that he was deformed, and therefore hid his face from strangers. That he was a half breed, and therefore his eyes looked so pale in the distance.

            “I cannot see who they are,” Yusuf said, and shaded his eyes again to look better.
            “Crusaders,” Nicolò stated firmly, and Yusuf turned to look up at him.
            “How can you tell?” he asked, and Nicolò’s face turned stony.
            “I saw the light reflect off their cross. It’s Crusaders. There is a port where they land, not far from here, I think,” Nicolò answered, and pointed further to the Northwest.

            He was right. Yusuf had forgotten about the small port town. The way they were headed would lead them South, around the town, away from the enemy stronghold, and then turn North again, headed for the peninsula and the strait. Yusuf remembered because it was the way he had come to the war. The way his regiment had taken to get to the main army. His way away from home, and his way back now. By this evening though, the town would be within sight of the mountains.

            Yusuf put his head down and tugged on the horse’s reins, following the trail on into the mountain pass, hiding them from the sight of the Franks. They walked in silence until dusk, then Yusuf tugged their horse off the trail and up a steep bank, and then down into a small valley between the mountains.
            He had remembered correctly. The small oasis with the waterfall was here.

            “We can make camp here, for tonight,” he said and pointed at the small grove of trees that grew along the bank of the small lake. “It is safe to make a fire, here. We cannot be seen from the plain.”

            Nicolò jumped off the horse and pulled their packs off it to hand to Yusuf, then tugged the horse along to a tree to tie it, and let it graze.
            Yusuf already had their tent up when Nicolò returned from tending to the animal, and together they went, in silence, and got water from the well to boil, to refill their waterskins.
            Once the water was boiled and set aside to cool, Yusuf looked at the small waterfall to the side of the small lake and smiled.

            “I am going to wash,” he said and pointed to the waterfall, then went into their tent to get the bags he had stolen from the village where they had met.
            “But you washed two days ago,” Nicolò said, astounded, and Yusuf stopped in his tracks.
            “Yes. And now I wash again. I’m filthy,” Yusuf answered, confused, and Nicolò blinked at him.
            “How often do you wash?” he asked, and Yusuf found himself too shocked to answer for a moment.
            “Whenever I can,” he answered, and shook his head. “No wonder my people call you smelly animals,” he added in Arabic.
            “I am not a smelly animal,” Nicolò said angry and stood up, his fists clenching. “You are filthy animals!”
            “Yet we are the ones who bathe whenever we have the chance,” Yusuf shouted angrily back, and threw the bags down by his feet.
            “We bathe too!” Nicolò yelled back at him, and strode towards him, fists rising in front of him.
            “Oh, really? Two times a year doesn’t count, you filthy heathen,” Yusuf retorted in Arabic, the last word cut off by Nicolò’s fist landing in his neck.

            Yusuf gasped, then coughed, as he stumbled back. That filthy heathen…
            Yusuf lifted his fists and just barely managed to deflect a punch aimed at his gut. He righted himself and shot back at below Nicolò’s sternum, meaning to immobilize him. But Nicolò turned to the side just as Yusuf’s punch landed and caught it on the ribs. Yusuf could feel ribs cracking under his knuckles, and the Frank gasped in pain.
            “You dirty barbarian,” Nicolò said and turned back to rain punches on Yusuf.
            Yusuf fought back just as hard, aiming blows at every opening that he found, taking every punch that Nicolò managed to land on him.

            He was angry. Why, he was not sure. He was just angry. Not because of the comments about dirty animals and smelly heathens, nor about the insults to his culture. It was Nicolò. This green-grey eyed, beautiful man made him so unreasonably angry. His feelings for this foreign man made him so unreasonably angry.
            Yusuf had never really felt much for anyone, outside of his family.
He had loved and revered his parents, he had loved his siblings, and he had learnt to love his wife, even if it was only as a dear beloved friend. He had also loved his children when they had come along. And he had even loved his wife’s parents, as any good son in law would do. Beyond that, he had never felt great love for anyone.
He had been attracted to people, of course. He had even felt a small affection for a person or two. But never that feeling of profound love, that he had always hoped to find. Someone that would make him feel safe and protected.
And now here he was, slowly realizing that this unwashed heathen bastard was making him feel exactly that. Safe, and protected.

Nicolò roared as he pushed on his attack, and they clashed together, chest to chest, and Yusuf wrapped his arms around the crazy man. They fell to the ground and Yusuf tried to kick him, to get him off. But Nicolò pinned him down and punched him a few times in the face before he wrapped his strong hands around Yusuf’s neck and squeezed.
Yusuf gasped for air, beat on the man’s arms to get him to loosen his grip, but Nicolò just screamed in his face, and continued to squeeze. His vision began to dim, and he could feel his lungs struggling to get any air. Finally, he blacked out.

Yusuf gasped and coughed, rolled onto his side to catch his breath.

“You are alive,” Nicolò said quietly, where he sat on the sand, just an arm’s length away. “I thought I had killed you.”
“You did not, I think,” Yusuf answered and sat up, rubbing his throat. “You are crazy.”
“You make me crazy,” Nicolò said with a sigh, then grabbed the bags that Yusuf had dropped and tossed them over to him. “Why do your people bathe so much?”
“Because the heat makes us sweat, and we get filthy,” Yusuf answered, and drew a few deep breaths before he stood up. “Now, I am going to wash. You can sit there, and be crazy, or you can come with me,” Yusuf said and turned towards the little waterfall.

Why in all of Paradise had he just invited this crazy barbarian to join him?
Yusuf shook his head and strode on. He was surprised when he realized that Nicolò was following him.

When he got to the small waterfall Yusuf stripped quickly and took out the soap he had found in one of the houses, and a cloth, and then stepped into the cold water. He was all the way under the waterfall when he looked back and saw that Nicolò was still standing on the bank, looking uncomfortable. Yusuf shrugged and turned back to duck his head under the water, letting it wash over his body, to clean away the dust of the desert mountains.

He was reaching for the soap when he heard the water move behind him, and turning, he came face to face with Nicolò. Yusuf instinctively pulled back as Nicolò lifted his hand and reached for his face.
“I am sorry I hit you,” Nicolò said, and touched Yusuf’s jaw to see if he had left a mark on Yusuf’s neck.
“I am sorry I hit you back,” Yusuf answered, and grinned a little. Then he looked down at Nicolò. “Why are you wearing your undertunic?” he asked, astounded.
“Because…,” Nicolò answered, and looked down at Yusuf’s naked body. “It’s modest,” he continued, and Yusuf could have sworn that the tall man blushed.
“You need to wash your skin,” Yusuf said with a laugh and reached out and grabbed the hem of Nicolò’s tunic. Nicolò stumbled back a step with a shout, but Yusuf grabbed him and turned them around, then shoved Nicolò under the streaming waterfall.

Nicolò gasped as the cool water flowed over his head, and Yusuf took the opportunity to grab the front of the tunic and rip it open. He felt a thrill run through him as Nicolò gasped again. Nicolò moved his head from under the water, and their eyes locked as Yusuf bent his knees a little and ripped the tunic open all the way down, and then stepped closer to ease the wet garment from Nicolò’s shoulders.

Yusuf’s heart was hammering in his throat, and he could feel the rhythmic beating slowly spreading down his body, heading for unholy territory.
What was he thinking? This was a Frank. An enemy. And he wore the cross of their holy men around his neck.
But Nicolò did not move. His eyes were trained on Yusuf’s eyes, as Yusuf tossed the ripped tunic to the rocks, and stepped even closer.
Yusuf shivered as he saw Nicolò part his lips a little, waiting, anticipating. Yusuf wanted nothing more than to taste those lips again.

Yusuf swallowed thickly and blinked his eyes, then turned away.
“I’ll wash you,” he said and reached for the soap.
Nicolò still did not move. He just stood there, with the water flowing over his naked, lean body, and waited. Yusuf tugged him out from under the water and with trembling hands he lifted the small piece of scented soap and began to lather Nicolò’s chest.

He was softly tanned, paler where his clothes had covered him, but his skin still a beautiful soft olive, his nipples rosy. And even though he was lean, muscles rippled under his skin, responded to Yusuf’s touch as he ran the soap over Nicolò’s body.
Yusuf could feel Nicolò’s breath quicken, deepen, his muscles tremble just a little under his touch. Yusuf did not dare to look up into those green-grey eyes. He did not dare to let Nicolò see the heat that was filling Yusuf’s eyes. The longing, the desire, that almost desperate yearning, that was filling him, making his hands tremble.
Yusuf dipped the soap into the water and continued to lather Nicolò’s body, his arms, his shoulders, and Nicolò turned willingly as Yusuf started to reach for his back.

Yusuf swallowed thickly again as he saw Nicolò’s rear. What a glorious piece of divine art. Round and tight, with two little dimples at the top where the muscles met his back. Yusuf licked his lips quickly, trying to take his eyes off that particular part of Nicolò’s anatomy, but instead he found his hand travelling slowly down that strong back, until it finally slid the soap over one round globe. And then between them.

Nicolò let out a startled yelp and spun around so fast he lost his balance. Yusuf steadied him with one hand, while Nicolò grabbed his other hand with both of his and pulled the soap from his grasp.
“I’ll do that,” Nicolò said, his voice breathless, high pitched almost.

Yusuf knew he was blushing. Knew that he had gone too far. He stepped back a little, hoping that Nicolò would not notice the state of him in the dim light of the fast fading twilight, and the water.
Nicolò kept his eye on him, while he washed his backside, then precariously balanced on one foot at a time to wash his legs. Once he was done, he looked up at the waterfall, then looked at Yusuf and waved his hand.
“I’ll wash your back,” he said, and stepped to the side, instead of washing the soap off himself.

Yusuf only nodded and stepped closer, well aware that not even the cold of the water had managed to cool him down enough to be modest.
He shivered under Nicolò’s touch. He did not object to Nicolò’s hands exploring his chest, and his abdomen, his arms, his shoulders, and when he turned his back to Nicolò he sighed with longing. He became even more aroused as Nicolò’s hands ran down his back, lathering him up. And then he felt Nicolò’s hands running over the globes of his ass. Between them.
And then the soap disappeared, and it was just the two of them, Nicolò’s hands running up his back and down again, stroking his cheeks. Yusuf moaned softly and stepped forwards, under the water, wanting to feel Nicolò’s hands wash the soap from his body. As he did so, he felt Nicolò step closer as well, press against him.
Nicolò was no less aroused. He pressed against Yusuf’s back, between his cheeks, hot and throbbing, his hands cramping around Yusuf’s shoulders. And then he just stood there.

Yusuf pressed back a little, wanting to feel more of Nicolò, but he seemed to misunderstand Yusuf’s movement, because he began to pull away. Yusuf spun around and reached for Nicolò, pulling him closer again, their chests pressing against each other, their erections throbbing together between them. Yusuf ran his fingers into Nicolò’s hair, pulled him closer, and pressed his lips against those enticing lips.

Nicolò moaned into the kiss, but he did not pull away. He pressed closer, his hips thrusting forwards to find friction, and Yusuf moaned in response. Their kiss deepened, but Yusuf did not know which of them had deepened it. Nicolò’s hands slid down Yusuf’s back to pull him closer, and Yusuf moved his hips to find friction against Nicolò’s abdomen.
The moan that he drew from Nicolò made him bold. Yusuf let go of Nicolò with one hand, slid his hand down Nicolò’s chest and between them.
Nicolò broke their kiss as Yusuf’s hand wrapped around his erection, tight and a little cold. But he did not pull away. Instead, he looked down, his lips parted as he panted softly, another moan escaping him. Yusuf felt emboldened by that moan and slowly he began to move his hand up and down along the throbbing cock, hoping, wanting to bring Nicolò to orgasm.

Nicolò leaned in again, kissed Yusuf again, a little clumsy, but with unmistakable heat. Yusuf chuckled softly, cupped Nicolò’s cheek with his free hand and guided him a little, made him follow his lead. Their kisses deepened again, and Nicolò began to shiver under his touch, his moans growing deeper, as Yusuf’s strokes became a little faster. After a while Nicolò let go of Yusuf’s shoulder with one hand, and let it sink down into the space between them, to wrap around Yusuf’s cock. His strokes were clumsy, hesitant, but Yusuf did not care. He just wanted to feel this glorious man around him, whichever way Nicolò felt comfortable. And this slow, clumsy, hesitant way seemed to be where he felt comfortable at the moment.

Their breaths became ragged, and their moans were swallowed up by lust filled kisses, and the water splashed softly around their hands as they slowly stroked each other to orgasm.
Nicolò was the first to cave. He broke their kiss to slam his forehead into Yusuf’s shoulder, and there he rested, pressed down so hard that Yusuf’s shoulder protested, his breath ragged, and his moans sweet music to Yusuf’s ears. And his whole body shivering with the rising pleasure. When his seed erupted from his cock Yusuf had to steady him with his arm, Nicolò’s knees visibly shaking in the water. His strokes became erratic, and he lost all rhythm. Once Yusuf had milked him dry, Yusuf reached between them and wrapped his hand around Nicolò’s hand, guided him for the few strokes until Yusuf himself caved to his orgasm.
Nicolò moaned just as much as Yusuf as Yusuf guided his hand, and Yusuf pulled him into his arms when he had nothing more to spill.

“Thank you,” he whispered in Arabic, and Nicolò mumbled something into his shoulder in his language, the one that sounded like Latin but was not quite. They stood like that in the dark for a long while before Nicolò lifted his head, and they washed off under the waterfall again. Yusuf found the soap when he stepped on it and fell face first into the water. They washed each other’s hair with the soap, in silence, and dried off with the thin drying sheets. Then they walked back to their camp, and got the fire started again, in silence.
Nicolò cooked their dinner, and then they sat by the dying fire, still in silence, until Yusuf stood up and kicked sand over the embers to put them out. They put away their things and crawled into the tent.
Yusuf lay down on his side on his sleep roll, his back to Nicolò. He could hear Nicolò behind him, bustling about with something. And then he felt it. Nicolò’s back tight up against his own, their sleep rolls right up against each other. Nicolò said nothing, but his hand reached over and touched Yusuf’s side, tugged a little at his blanket. Yusuf smiled in the dark of the tent, his heart feeling as light as air, as light as light itself. He turned over onto his other side, and moved closer to Nicolò, until his chest was flush against Nicolò’s back, and then he lay his arm over Nicolò’s side, and fell asleep.
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He's all and he is more.