[ the congregation is all joe has known, born and raised in the apartment above his parent's β now his β textile and print shop. it's hard but there are pockets of lightness, his friends, his beloved husband, his art. they want for a lot in the aerie, but yusuf doesn't want for the important things.
and sometimes, he is lucky enough to share. when a particularly bedraggled someone passes the shop while he's standing in the doorway sketching, joe calls out: ]
Come in, my husband made soup.
[ he gestures inside, smile indulgent. come eat the soup. if the someone is question is someone yusuf knows, the request is a little more forceful, "Get inside, NicolΓ² made soup." ]
[ in the kestrel safehouses, he goes by "joe". he is pretty determined to keep his double lives very seperate and flat out will not answer to his given name. joe is a kestrel, yusuf is not.
at the moment, he's settled over a table with his sketch book, drawing different variations of a bird in a cage, a bird breaking out of a cage, a bird near a cage, the symbolism is clear enough he figures, but he can't settle on which one he likes best. after a few more tries, joe scraps the whole endeavor and closes his sketchbook. he won't bring this one home, it stays in the safehouse.
he stands with a sigh and stretches. ]
Alright, who needs messages sent?
[ joe isn't the messenger but he knows a fair few. ]
yusuf al-kaysani | open
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