———————————————- Note: I very much doubt my Wiki and Googling will be enough to fortify the history and details. I apologize in advance for the grievous errors I know will be found here. Nevertheless, I hope this fills the prompt.
I am writing this every day on my lunch break. Shhhhhh. ;) ———————————————-
(Yusuf)
Cairo, 12th century
Damascus reaped better opportunities.
Yusuf exhaled, but kept his opinion to himself. The aftermath of the second Crusades threatened those areas, also rendering Aleppo a poor option. Their libraries, their vibrant way of life, the rich veins of trade withered under the shadow of another Crusades despite Damascus’s success. Something Nicolo was still determined to apologize for no matter how many times Yusuf told him not to. Cairo was a poor substitution for coin when everyone fled here. But at least the libraries were rich with knowledge; sadly not about their immortality. Not yet, at least.
“Do you need more paper?”
Nicolo stood by the doorway. There wasn’t much room with the scrolls and ink and stacks of vellum Yusuf laid out on the table that served as the place for meals and Yusuf’s current work: copying manuscripts and decorating the pages with gilded ink for a merchant set to sail to the eastern waters in a week.
Yusuf eyed the shrinking pile of vellum by a cup of mint tea Nicolo must have set down in the morning.
“Is it time already?” Yusuf said, trying to change the subject. He would not be paid until it’s complete, but the oil for the only lamp will only last two more nights. He was forced to start his work, sometimes missing his morning prayers to catch what light the little opening on the abandoned stone home afforded. This was once a home of a family felled by plague long before anyone can remember. Superstition kept the dwelling vacant. Fifty four years ago, Yusuf might have avoided this home as well. But that was before a pale-faced invader and him locked in an exhausting cycle of death and revival for months.
Nicolo nodded. “Morning has come and nearly past.”
“Ah,” Yusuf smiled wryly. “I let my breakfast gone cold.” He waved at his tea.
Nicolo was a quiet man, not given to much reaction more than a change in his eyes, but at this, he made a face.
“The docks pay very little,” Nicolo said by way of apology.
Yusuf scoffed. “Far more than what I do. Your coin last week was generous, far more than I expected. It bought the ink and paper I needed to offer my services.” It was a shame there wasn’t much left for food, but Nicolo insisted they didn’t need to buy much. The docks fed their workers. Recently, Nicolo took work at night too and was fed evening meals as well.
“I can get more paper...” Nicolo shifted in his feet. “And more ink?” He looked strangely uncertain, most likely tired from so many nights of work.
Yusuf ate dinner alone last week, waking in the middle of the night to find Nicolo curled up fetal, his back to him, on the opposite pallet. Yusuf wondered why it felt easier to fall back to sleep with his eyes on Nicolo’s broad back.
Yusuf frowned. “More night work?” At Nicolo’s small nod, he huffed.
“While I am glad for the coin, I find I do miss your company for evening meals.” Yusuf squinted at Nicolo.
“Don’t they feed you enough?” Yusuf thought Nicolo’s cheekbones seemed sharper lately.
“You’re remembering putting it in your mouth?” Yusuf joked.
Nicolo, as he struggled to learn Arabic, often forgets to eat the food he held in his hand, his ever inquisitive mind fixed on the pages and not on his stomach.
Something flashed across Nicolo’s features. His eyes, the color of stormy seas, seemed to dull as they slid away to consider the half empty breadbasket Yusuf set on the floor to make room. Next to it, a bowl tipped towards them with the last egg and wedge of hard cheese left.
“Nicolo?” Yusuf rose to his feet when Nicolo made a choking noise in his throat.
“I remember,” Nicolo mumbled. He seemed to shrink into the shabby cream tunic that hung looser around his shoulders these days. He smiled, a small quirk at the corners of his pink mouth, but it died quickly.
“If it pays well, maybe I go to market tomorrow,” Nicolo glanced over to the breadbasket and bowl. His jaw set.
“I will go to market tomorrow,” Nicolo said, his voice firmer.
Yusuf crossed over to the room. He set his hands on Nicolo’s shoulders.
“Nicolo,” Yusuf murmured. “You do so much.” He nodded, deciding. “I’ll go with you to help.”
Nicolo made an odd noise. Under Yusuf’s hands, a shiver went across Nicolo’s shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Yusuf’s brow furrowed. Nicolo took a step back, but when Yusuf tried to follow, Nicolo held up an unsteady hand.
“No, that’s all right,” Nicolo stammered. His Arabic was stumbling, something he hasn’t done in decades. His accent still lilted and echoed thick of his home land, but Nicolo hasn’t struggled with words in years since Yusuf helped him improve it.
“You should finish the...” Nicolo visibly sought for the right word. “The stele?”
“Manuscript,” Yusuf correctly, mildly, yet Nicolo flushed like he once did when he used to mix up ‘goat’ with ‘fruit.’ Secretly, Yusuf admitted it charmed him how Nicolo could flush, his pale skin brushed with color, begging to be touched.
But right now, it was not charming. It was worrying.
“I can take a day,” Yusuf went on. He scanned their small room for his cloak. Ah, it hung over the shallow brick hearth. The concave pocket was only large enough for one pot, not that they could afford meat these days to cook, but it also served as a place for warmth. Nicolo must have filled it with sticks this morning. Cairo was cooler than expected when the sun crept up the horizon. Yusuf didn’t feel chilled this morning.
Another sort of warmth filled Yusuf’s chest. He smiled broadly at Nicolo.
“My eyes tire from squinting. Some physical labor would be welcomed.”
Nicolo’s eyes were the bleached color of a winter sea as they drifted to the table behind Yusuf.
“I’ll get oil for the lamp too.” Nicolo promised and he retreated another step.
“No, that’s not what I mean—“
“You do beautiful work, Yusuf.”
Yusuf stopped short of the quiet words. He blinked.
“T-thank you.” Now it was Yusuf’s turn to stammer like a child. He ran ink smudged fingers through his curls, twitching as his hand snared open a tangle. Ah, a bath is in order. He eyed Nicolo’s hair. Nicolo usually pulled it back with a strap of leather from Yusuf’s old armor. But last week, he stopped and Yusuf was often distracted by how it hung against the cut of Nicolo’s jaw. He liked how smooth Nicolo’s cheeks were. He was surprised when Nicolo cleaned his short beard off with a few expert swipes of his dagger. Yusuf felt his loins stirred, remembering those long fingers and their skill with a blade.
“You like this sort of work,” Nicolo went on, oblivious to Yusuf’s daze. “If it weren’t for war, you would have been an artist. Your talent is better suited for it.”
Yusuf shrugged. His cheeks felt hot at the compliment. He tugged at his beard, disguising his attempt to check if his face was truly as hot as it felt.
“Or a merchant,” Yusuf reminded Nicolo. “My family were traders. I could have been a merchant.”
“I like you better as an artist,” Nicolo blurted. He cleared his throat. “All I know is the church and the rough work of my hands.” He smirked sadly. “Blood and death is my art.”
“I hate every time you say this,” Yusuf murmured. He longed to approach Nicolo, but his friend lingered by the doorway, looking like a spooked horse. And part of him, the part that often kept him awake at nights when Nicolo hasn’t returned yet, that one day Nicolo would bolt and leave Yusuf behind in the sands.
“You have been in such a shadowed mood all week, my friend,” Yusuf exhaled.
“Tired,” Nicolo offered. His shoulders sagged.
“Tired.” Yusuf shook his head. “No more night work after tonight?”
“No more,” Nicolo promised.
Yusuf narrowed his eyes. “You are lying to me, yes?”
“Perhaps.” Nicolo’s smile was lighter.
Yusuf cast pleading eyes towards the heavens and prayed Allah for strength.
“Begone,” Yusuf waved his hands at Nicolo. “After tonight, no more. We have time and opportunity to earn coin elsewhere. The need is not dire yet. I have no need for paper.”
“Now who is lying?” Nicolo shot back, a glimmer of humor brightened his eyes.
“Shoo!” Yusuf said, laughing, “Leave me to my beautiful work and failing eyesight! Do not fall off the docks and return looking like a drowned cat. I will welcome you back only with mocking!”
Nicolo dropped his chin, his hair falling forward, but failing to cover the smirk. He turned, casting a strange sad smile to Yusuf and followed the pathway out to the town and the docks.
Yusuf wasn’t sure why he lingered by the doorway, long after Nicolo’s shadow faded from sight. He shook his head, chiding himself for laziness while poor Nicolo stayed out until the moon hung high in the night for a small sachet of coin.
Eyes back towards the work on the table, Yusuf resigned himself to it. If they were to gain funds to travel east to find the two women in their dreams, they’ll need coin and plenty of it.
Yusuf sat down, resolve returning. As he brushed a hand over the softness of a new page—he must ask Nicolo where he purchased the quality sheets at such a low price—Yusuf sent up a thought and prayer for Nicolo. He hoped his friend has a good day at work.
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timeasmymeasure
Yusuf/Nicolo Forced Prostitution Fill : Needs of the Other 1/12
Date: 2020-09-30 07:50 pm (UTC)Note: I very much doubt my Wiki and Googling will be enough to fortify the history and details. I apologize in advance for the grievous errors I know will be found here. Nevertheless, I hope this fills the prompt.
I am writing this every day on my lunch break. Shhhhhh. ;)
———————————————-
(Yusuf)
Cairo, 12th century
Damascus reaped better opportunities.
Yusuf exhaled, but kept his opinion to himself. The aftermath of the second Crusades threatened those areas, also rendering Aleppo a poor option. Their libraries, their vibrant way of life, the rich veins of trade withered under the shadow of another Crusades despite Damascus’s success. Something Nicolo was still determined to apologize for no matter how many times Yusuf told him not to. Cairo was a poor substitution for coin when everyone fled here. But at least the libraries were rich with knowledge; sadly not about their immortality. Not yet, at least.
“Do you need more paper?”
Nicolo stood by the doorway. There wasn’t much room with the scrolls and ink and stacks of vellum Yusuf laid out on the table that served as the place for meals and Yusuf’s current work: copying manuscripts and decorating the pages with gilded ink for a merchant set to sail to the eastern waters in a week.
Yusuf eyed the shrinking pile of vellum by a cup of mint tea Nicolo must have set down in the morning.
“Is it time already?” Yusuf said, trying to change the subject. He would not be paid until it’s complete, but the oil for the only lamp will only last two more nights. He was forced to start his work, sometimes missing his morning prayers to catch what light the little opening on the abandoned stone home afforded. This was once a home of a family felled by plague long before anyone can remember. Superstition kept the dwelling vacant. Fifty four years ago, Yusuf might have avoided this home as well. But that was before a pale-faced invader and him locked in an exhausting cycle of death and revival for months.
Nicolo nodded. “Morning has come and nearly past.”
“Ah,” Yusuf smiled wryly. “I let my breakfast gone cold.” He waved at his tea.
Nicolo was a quiet man, not given to much reaction more than a change in his eyes, but at this, he made a face.
“The docks pay very little,” Nicolo said by way of apology.
Yusuf scoffed. “Far more than what I do. Your coin last week was generous, far more than I expected. It bought the ink and paper I needed to offer my services.” It was a shame there wasn’t much left for food, but Nicolo insisted they didn’t need to buy much. The docks fed their workers. Recently, Nicolo took work at night too and was fed evening meals as well.
“I can get more paper...” Nicolo shifted in his feet. “And more ink?” He looked strangely uncertain, most likely tired from so many nights of work.
Yusuf ate dinner alone last week, waking in the middle of the night to find Nicolo curled up fetal, his back to him, on the opposite pallet. Yusuf wondered why it felt easier to fall back to sleep with his eyes on Nicolo’s broad back.
Yusuf frowned. “More night work?” At Nicolo’s small nod, he huffed.
“While I am glad for the coin, I find I do miss your company for evening meals.” Yusuf squinted at Nicolo.
“Don’t they feed you enough?” Yusuf thought Nicolo’s cheekbones seemed sharper lately.
“You’re remembering putting it in your mouth?” Yusuf joked.
Nicolo, as he struggled to learn Arabic, often forgets to eat the food he held in his hand, his ever inquisitive mind fixed on the pages and not on his stomach.
Something flashed across Nicolo’s features. His eyes, the color of stormy seas, seemed to dull as they slid away to consider the half empty breadbasket Yusuf set on the floor to make room. Next to it, a bowl tipped towards them with the last egg and wedge of hard cheese left.
“Nicolo?” Yusuf rose to his feet when Nicolo made a choking noise in his throat.
“I remember,” Nicolo mumbled. He seemed to shrink into the shabby cream tunic that hung looser around his shoulders these days. He smiled, a small quirk at the corners of his pink mouth, but it died quickly.
“If it pays well, maybe I go to market tomorrow,” Nicolo glanced over to the breadbasket and bowl. His jaw set.
“I will go to market tomorrow,” Nicolo said, his voice firmer.
Yusuf crossed over to the room. He set his hands on Nicolo’s shoulders.
“Nicolo,” Yusuf murmured. “You do so much.” He nodded, deciding. “I’ll go with you to help.”
Nicolo made an odd noise. Under Yusuf’s hands, a shiver went across Nicolo’s shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Yusuf’s brow furrowed. Nicolo took a step back, but when Yusuf tried to follow, Nicolo held up an unsteady hand.
“No, that’s all right,” Nicolo stammered. His Arabic was stumbling, something he hasn’t done in decades. His accent still lilted and echoed thick of his home land, but Nicolo hasn’t struggled with words in years since Yusuf helped him improve it.
“You should finish the...” Nicolo visibly sought for the right word. “The stele?”
“Manuscript,” Yusuf correctly, mildly, yet Nicolo flushed like he once did when he used to mix up ‘goat’ with ‘fruit.’ Secretly, Yusuf admitted it charmed him how Nicolo could flush, his pale skin brushed with color, begging to be touched.
But right now, it was not charming. It was worrying.
“I can take a day,” Yusuf went on. He scanned their small room for his cloak. Ah, it hung over the shallow brick hearth. The concave pocket was only large enough for one pot, not that they could afford meat these days to cook, but it also served as a place for warmth. Nicolo must have filled it with sticks this morning. Cairo was cooler than expected when the sun crept up the horizon. Yusuf didn’t feel chilled this morning.
Another sort of warmth filled Yusuf’s chest. He smiled broadly at Nicolo.
“My eyes tire from squinting. Some physical labor would be welcomed.”
Nicolo’s eyes were the bleached color of a winter sea as they drifted to the table behind Yusuf.
“I’ll get oil for the lamp too.” Nicolo promised and he retreated another step.
“No, that’s not what I mean—“
“You do beautiful work, Yusuf.”
Yusuf stopped short of the quiet words. He blinked.
“T-thank you.” Now it was Yusuf’s turn to stammer like a child. He ran ink smudged fingers through his curls, twitching as his hand snared open a tangle. Ah, a bath is in order. He eyed Nicolo’s hair. Nicolo usually pulled it back with a strap of leather from Yusuf’s old armor. But last week, he stopped and Yusuf was often distracted by how it hung against the cut of Nicolo’s jaw. He liked how smooth Nicolo’s cheeks were. He was surprised when Nicolo cleaned his short beard off with a few expert swipes of his dagger. Yusuf felt his loins stirred, remembering those long fingers and their skill with a blade.
“You like this sort of work,” Nicolo went on, oblivious to Yusuf’s daze. “If it weren’t for war, you would have been an artist. Your talent is better suited for it.”
Yusuf shrugged. His cheeks felt hot at the compliment. He tugged at his beard, disguising his attempt to check if his face was truly as hot as it felt.
“Or a merchant,” Yusuf reminded Nicolo. “My family were traders. I could have been a merchant.”
“I like you better as an artist,” Nicolo blurted. He cleared his throat. “All I know is the church and the rough work of my hands.” He smirked sadly. “Blood and death is my art.”
“I hate every time you say this,” Yusuf murmured. He longed to approach Nicolo, but his friend lingered by the doorway, looking like a spooked horse. And part of him, the part that often kept him awake at nights when Nicolo hasn’t returned yet, that one day Nicolo would bolt and leave Yusuf behind in the sands.
“You have been in such a shadowed mood all week, my friend,” Yusuf exhaled.
“Tired,” Nicolo offered. His shoulders sagged.
“Tired.” Yusuf shook his head. “No more night work after tonight?”
“No more,” Nicolo promised.
Yusuf narrowed his eyes. “You are lying to me, yes?”
“Perhaps.” Nicolo’s smile was lighter.
Yusuf cast pleading eyes towards the heavens and prayed Allah for strength.
“Begone,” Yusuf waved his hands at Nicolo. “After tonight, no more. We have time and opportunity to earn coin elsewhere. The need is not dire yet. I have no need for paper.”
“Now who is lying?” Nicolo shot back, a glimmer of humor brightened his eyes.
“Shoo!” Yusuf said, laughing, “Leave me to my beautiful work and failing eyesight! Do not fall off the docks and return looking like a drowned cat. I will welcome you back only with mocking!”
Nicolo dropped his chin, his hair falling forward, but failing to cover the smirk. He turned, casting a strange sad smile to Yusuf and followed the pathway out to the town and the docks.
Yusuf wasn’t sure why he lingered by the doorway, long after Nicolo’s shadow faded from sight. He shook his head, chiding himself for laziness while poor Nicolo stayed out until the moon hung high in the night for a small sachet of coin.
Eyes back towards the work on the table, Yusuf resigned himself to it. If they were to gain funds to travel east to find the two women in their dreams, they’ll need coin and plenty of it.
Yusuf sat down, resolve returning. As he brushed a hand over the softness of a new page—he must ask Nicolo where he purchased the quality sheets at such a low price—Yusuf sent up a thought and prayer for Nicolo. He hoped his friend has a good day at work.