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Title: The Road
Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood
Pairing: Ezio/ Leonardo
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: ACB spoilers
Summary: Ezio discovers that there are consequences to his actions, and the road to redemption is never easy.
This story continues on from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kissmytypos’s fic, “Good Intentions”, which can be read here.
A/N: My sincere thanks tokissmytypos for permission to write the sequel. Thank you to those of you still following my story!
Chapter Eight.
1
“Ah, sorry, I’ve...gotten carried away.”
The quick, mumbled apology was all the warning Leonardo had before the assassin broke their embrace and stalked forward silently. Leonardo had bitten back a startled cry at the loss, though he supposed Ezio’s return to stoicism was understandable.
After all, the artist reflected solemnly, it is rather unlike him to display such a range of emotion all at once.
He sighed as Ezio turned and nodded toward him, expecting him to follow. When he moved to match Ezio’s easy, unlabored strides, the assassin strode several large steps ahead, distance enough to leave Leonardo with his thoughts.
In Venezia, Leonardo had kept his ear to the ground for news of the assassin, even seeking out local heralds or rumor mills, anything to substantiate the assassin’s continued existence or death. Meanwhile, the thieves had encouraged him to find and speak to Ezio himself, but the man had an uncanny ability to disappear when he did not want to be found. Despite all of that, Ezio’s actions prior to departing for Roma had given Leonardo reason to hope. Then Cesare Borgia had gone to Monteriggioni, with his siege machines and destructive nature that only ever wrought more death and suffering. Ezio’s subsequent efforts in building the assassin’s guild and undermining Borgia control evaporated any hopes Leonardo had of proper reconciliation.
Life happened. Priorities changed. And damn it, Leonardo knew, but that never made things easier to accept.
Just now, however, the assassin’s daring rescue had roused a shock of adrenaline in him. As it coursed hotly through his blood, Leonardo wondered if it was the sense of gratitude that left him breathless, or how fluid and dashing Ezio had looked while dispatching the guards.
That Ezio could turn into another person, a killer, for his sake was both flattering and a touch frightening.
Leonardo frowned, suddenly aware of the elbow cradled indistinctly to the assassin’s side. An injured shoulder, then. The similar way in which Ezio concealed his aches, pains, and motives, as if verbalization forced acknowledgment, had not escaped his attention. It was how the artist had caught the trace of a lie when Ezio said he did not care for him that way. From all the time he had had to think, what people had told him, and the things his closest friend had tried to hide, Leonardo had come to a simple conclusion: that Ezio did care for him, perhaps even loved him in his own way, but—
His face flushed as he quashed those thoughts. Friends, Ezio had promised, until the end, and Leonardo had no intention of breaking the promise that kept the fragile peace between them.
“Leonardo.”
The artist looked up in time to avoid colliding with Ezio, noting that they had stopped at his marked bench in the north of the Campagna district. Partially obscured by a large tree, it overlooked Roma’s picturesque countryside, all sprawling green pastures and plateaued cliffs. The chalk-scrawled hand on the bench itself had become a secret code between them, and though there was no longer need for the subterfuge, Leonardo’s practice of marking their rendezvous points stayed.
“You have not said a word all this time,” Ezio observed, as they settled on the bench. His eyes wandered to the thin cut at Leonardo’s throat. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes.” Leonardo tugged what remained of his collar upward, hiding the injury, and offered a distracted smile. “I was just thinking of one of my paintings. A small portrait of a woman,” he said absently, but not without a touch of fondness. He edged closer to Ezio. Though the assassin eyed him warily, he said nothing about their proximity.
As if Leonardo could think of anything, anyone else in his presence. Ezio had rekindled his hopes in Monteriggioni and during their reunion in Roma, but despite going out of his way to destroy the war machines and offering to free Leonardo, Ezio had since maintained a careful distance: he touched no more than necessary, returning only hugs that Leonardo initiated. The artist had resigned himself to the fact that he would never have Ezio, and contented himself with minor touches and glances. Curiously enough, Ezio had not shrunk away from them as he thought he would. And that hug just now…
“You were just attacked and already your mind has wandered to a painting?” Ezio’s palm rose to his forehead, a gesture of exasperation. “Your head is in the clouds as always, my friend. At least be a little more aware of your surroundings.”
Amused by his concern, Leonardo suppressed the urge to inform Ezio it was precisely this ‘head in the clouds’ that had fashioned most of his arsenal. “My oldest friend is here to watch over me now,” he answered deftly, a slow smile surfacing. “Perhaps I can afford to have my head in the clouds for a little longer, in your presence.”
Ezio seemed satisfied enough with the response, but his brow twitched as if he were still mulling over Leonardo’s previous statement. “Perhaps,” he began, “but do not let a beautiful girl distract you from my constructing my designs.”
It took all of Leonardo’s willpower to keep his smile in place, and as his pulse leapt, he wondered if he had sensed jealousy emanating from the assassin. No—it had to have been wishful thinking on his part, and Leonardo dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. Nevertheless, emboldened by the relief that he no longer toiled for the Borgia and the vestiges of adrenaline from earlier, he patted Ezio on the back. “Have no worries,” he chuckled. “Women provide little distraction.”
The man beside him was distraction enough.
“Wait…I don’t get it.” Ezio pulled away, his mouth slightly parted before it closed again, as though he deliberated a response that would not come. From his reaction, Leonardo was struck with the distinct, familiar feeling that Ezio had wanted to say something different, but chose to hide his true thoughts instead.
Leonardo withdrew his hand awkwardly, focusing his attentions on a canvassed stand nearby to hide his shamed flush. When he felt it sufficiently hidden, he shot a discreet glance back at Ezio, but the assassin was already rising to his feet.
“I must go, Leonardo.” His expression was nearly unreadable, but the artist recognized enough of Ezio’s facial nuances—the slight knit between his brows, minute depression at the corner of his mouth—to know he was troubled.
Leonardo managed a weak smile and folded his hands in his lap. “I will be in the area for a little while longer if you change your mind,” he said, as if Ezio had only turned down his inventions, and not the inventor himself.
His lip curled as he watched Ezio vanish into the streets, blending naturally into the bustling crowds of the district. At least no one could blame him for not trying. Leonardo turned back to the vista of Roma’s cliffs and countryside with eyes narrowed, annoyed at his momentary lapse of judgment. What could have possessed him to say that? Of course Ezio would be bothered by it, by that and any reminder of what they had once shared. Ezio, who wanted to pretend that night during Carnivale had meant nothing, had never happened, and who had the audacity to look unashamed when he had been found out.
Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind him, the words barely above a whisper. “You cannot want me still.” Puzzlement and wonder colored the speaker’s tone, as heat from his breath drifted across the nape of Leonardo’s neck. “After all this time?”
Startled, but not surprised—assassins made a living out of stealth and discretion, after all—Leonardo turned to face him, with a raised a brow. “Who is to say what I want or do not want?” he replied, the ghost of a mirthful smile on his lips. At Ezio’s stunned expression, Leonardo chuckled. “You need not fear, Ezio. I spoke that only in jest.”
Something in Ezio’s face seemed to crumble at that, and he settled back on the bench, catching Leonardo’s wrist as the artist rose from his seat. “I wish you would stay.”
Leonardo had been searching for a way to quickly excuse himself, but at Ezio’s imploring tone, he stopped. “I…I suppose I could. There is some time before I need to meet a patron for a commission.” Only recently free of the Borgia’s grasp, he had not had time to take on new patrons, but there was no need to seem too available. He made a show of seeking out a nearby water clock.
“I did not mean for the moment. I meant for always.”
The artist swallowed forcibly, his throat inexplicably constricted. Surely Ezio could not mean…He drew in a soft breath, convinced that he was reading too much into this, hoping for more than was possible, and had only misinterpreted the assassin’s words.
“I cannot lose you as well, Leonardo,” Ezio continued quietly, tugging him back to the bench. His tone remained heavy, as if the pain from other losses bore down on him.
“Yes, you said that before,” Leonardo replied, surprised by Ezio’s honesty. The poorly veiled anguish in the assassin’s voice made him wonder how many countless others Ezio had lost. He knew of the father, brothers, and uncle lost to the Borgia’s schemes, but what of comrades and apprentices, cut down before their time?
At the insistent grip on his wrist, Leonardo relented, taking a seat on the chiseled stone. His fingers stole across the cool bench, finding warmth as they rested lightly on Ezio’s hand. “You will not lose me,” he assured the assassin. If being Ezio’s friend would allow him to stay by his side, then friend he would be, until the end, echoing Ezio’s sentiment all those years ago.
Ezio stared mutely at the hand covering his, as if distressed by this first intimate touch from Leonardo in a long while. Certain that he had now overstepped their unspoken boundary, Leonardo cursed silently and drew his hand back, when suddenly, he found it trapped under the assassin’s, pinned to the bench as Ezio’s mouth met his, softly, clumsily. For a bewildered moment that seemed an eternity, the artist remained motionless, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Then, immensely grateful for the fact that their bench was semi-secluded, away from the prying eyes of passerby and remnant Borgia soldiers, Leonardo leaned desperately into the kiss, having wanted this, wanted Ezio, for so long—
“Wait.” He gripped the assassin by the shoulders and pushed him back, hesitant. “Ezio, wait.”
“What…what is it?” Ezio’s tongue darted out nervously to wet his lips.
Leonardo could only stare at him, slack-jawed, at this development. Words failed him, despite his frantic search for a response. He could only think of how much simpler it would be to let the burden remain on Ezio to explain. Sure enough, at his silence, Ezio spoke again, groping blindly in hopes of lighting upon the reason behind Leonardo’s reluctance.
“For all that has happened between us…I am sorry.” There was no need to elaborate; it was evident what event in their history he referred to.
Caught off guard by the apology, Leonardo studied the citizens ambulating about in the expanse of fields below, before risking a cautious glance at Ezio. Part of him wanted to reassure his friend that he had forgiven him, forgotten it long ago, but the pain that still haunted him would render that a lie.
The apology was a start at least, a segue into catharsis for the pain he had carried for so long. He waited to see what else Ezio had to say first.
“There were others,” continued Ezio slowly, carefully. “But you…”
At the word ‘others’, a new awareness dawned on Leonardo. “No,” he breathed, hoarse and disbelieving. “Do not do this to me. Not now, after all these years.” He knew it had been too good to be true, too convenient. Yes, he had wanted Ezio, but for the assassin’s attentions to come only now meant—
“Leonardo. You do not understand, I—”
“Oh, I understand,” Leonardo insisted brittlely, unable to keep the tinge of resentment from his voice. “Perhaps you are between lovers, or simply lonely, with none to clasp to your side. But I will not be a…a stand-in for your women.” He took a thin, shaky breath. “The string of broken hearts you have left across Italia will not include mine, Ezio.” Not for a second time, at any rate. It struck a sorrowful chord within him that the assassin was willing to cheapen their relationship like this, treating him no differently than the scores of women that had clustered to his side.
Meanwhile, the furrow between Ezio’s eyebrows had deepened, obvious anger at Leonardo’s presumption. Ezio reached toward him slowly but when Leonardo flinched away, the assassin grabbed his wrists, crowding him to the edge of the bench. “Look at me,” he demanded. “It is not like that.”
Leonardo refused to comply, staring instead at a fissure in the cobbled road. “No more, Ezio. Not another word, before what there is between us becomes irreparable.” He sighed, aware of how weary the gesture made him sound, and shook his head. “I have seen, Ezio, if not heard, of your conquests. But I have waited. Perhaps for you to look at me again as you once did. And not just as a passing fancy, but as someone who…” He trailed off and stared hard at the wrists that remained in Ezio’s grip, unsure of whether he hated the tremor in his voice or his hands more.
“I think,” said Ezio after a moment, “that you have been observing me for longer than even I have known.”
Leonardo could only smile wryly, ashamed that his admission had revealed more than he wished. “You think?”
Ezio drew in a slow, measured breath. “There were others,” he began again, his hold on Leonardo tightening like an eagle’s claws closing dangerously around its quarry. “But…no longer.”
“No longer?” Leonardo echoed stiffly, contemplative. He had heard mention of the tragic fate that befell Ezio’s first love from Firenze, a falling out between Ezio and the female thief of Venezia, and of the Lady Sforza leaving to her own lands. Still, a leaden lump of jealousy formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought of them.
Ezio nodded, his voice catching in his throat as half-lidded eyes rose to meet Leonardo’s earnestly. “There is only you.” He swallowed audibly, relaxing his grip on the artist’s wrists. “If you will still have me.”
“I…” Leonardo dropped his gaze toward the assassin’s flared collar. “I don’t know, Ezio.” He could not be sure that the glimmer of light offered to him outweighed the risk of being taken for a fool, time and time again.
“Please, Leonardo,” Ezio said, his breath hitching slightly. He had released the artist’s hands and drawn back, waiting cautiously as one would with a skittish animal. “You are all I have wanted. All these years.”
Leonardo blinked. A hazy assortment of memories was floating back to him, fitting together like fragments of an old dream, long forgotten: the repressed confessions and awkward near-touches that had kept him guessing, hoping; the crushing hugs at times most desperate that conveyed feelings the assassin had not voiced until today.
I cannot lose you.
I need you.
As if Ezio had been constantly struggling to hold back, until now. Suddenly, Leonardo felt himself an even bigger fool for missing these signs when they had been there all along; missed, or even willfully forgotten them, to shield himself from further harm. Who is the desperate one now? he wondered, with a small measure of spite. He had begged Ezio in Venezia, pleaded with him, and still his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
There was a long silence as they stared at each other, either of them able to make the connection if they just dared to take the plunge.
Ezio made it first, reaching out to place his hand lightly on Leonardo’s arm. “Please.”
For a moment, Leonardo considered denying the absolution Ezio so earnestly sought, for all the lost opportunities and the potential of the years between them wasted. But he found he could never deny the assassin—not when those brown eyes implored him so. Leonardo swallowed, forcing down the knot of emotion that had swelled to his throat, and closed his eyes.
He would take this chance.
“All right.” A faint hope that he would not regret his decision. “All right, Ezio.”
Speechless for a moment, Ezio recovered with his quick, characteristic grin. In a voice soothing and low, he said, “Then, if we are to do this right…”
Leonardo winced. Those words again. Did Ezio not know how much they had stung the first time, when he had offered his thoughtless promise to remain friends? Or was he simply unwilling to see—
“…Let us take this conversation somewhere more appropriate,” Ezio finished, robes falling effortlessly into place as he rose from the bench. Leonardo followed suit, stretching the inactivity from his joints, recalling how they had ‘taken their conversation elsewhere’ that first instance after Ezio’s bold alleyway kiss. His musings that the ardor of their youth had been replaced by a slower burn of desire were interrupted, however, at the warm, callused fingers closing around his wrist.
“Not to another brothel, I hope,” Leonardo quipped, as Ezio led him away from their shaded viewpoint. Surely he deserved better than to be taken in some bordello adorned with illusions of decadence, while surrounded by the cloying smell of cheap perfume and filthy desire. If that was what Ezio intended at all.
Ezio had the decency to look embarrassed before giving him an encouraging smile. “No, I have somewhere different in mind.” He paused. “Things will be different this time, Leonardo. You will see.”
2
It was hardly a mystery where Ezio planned to lead him, given the quiet confidence he exuded.
For the most part, Leonardo was content to let himself be guided along by Ezio’s subtle touches and pushes, the occasional hand at the small of his back. Roma’s abundant populace and broad daylight afforded little opportunity for the assassin to take his hand, but as they neared the hideout, Ezio’s fingers threaded boldly through Leonardo’s once more.
By the time they reached Isola Tiberina, the sky had darkened, slipping quietly toward dusk without Leonardo’s notice. The entrance to the hideout was inconspicuous enough, requiring several confusing turns and Ezio’s gentle navigational assistance, but when they entered the building itself, his jaw dropped at the grandeur overlaying the grey masonry. Green and red checkered tapestries adorned the simple stonework, while crimson banners ornamented with golden trim and the assassins’ crest hung from the ceiling. Several corners of the hideout housed bookcases laden with numerous texts, and from where he stood, Leonardo could spot a gallery of his contemporaries’ paintings.
“Impressive,” he managed to breathe, though as soon as the word left him, Leonardo knew he had meant beautiful. He was not given the time to dwell on this, however, as Ezio tugged him toward a smaller chamber to the left. It was warmed by the heat of a crackling hearth, and despite the striking display of armor in the room, another exhibit demanded his attention.
“Ezio, what is all this?” he asked, astonished. Miniature replicas of the war machines he had created for the Borgia rested on gilded pedestals, and he looked toward Ezio for explanation.
He was met with a proud grin. “A tribute to your genius,” Ezio said, making a grand sweeping motion at them. “In light of the fact that we could not keep the actual models.”
Flattered at how Ezio had erected small monuments of his creations despite the destruction they might have caused, Leonardo beamed. “At least in this form, they can do no harm.”
“Indeed.” Ezio threw a dark look toward the flying machine model before returning Leonardo’s smile. “But enough of the machines for now. Come, Leonardo,” he said, steering him toward another corner of the hideout. “There are some recruits I want you to meet.”
A group of novices conversed near a desk stacked with ledgers, and Ezio introduced him to several of the ones who did not know who he was already. Leonardo could only nod and smile in response to their respectful bows and murmurs of “Maestro”, feeling a little out of place amid the white-cloaked assassins. Still, he appreciated Ezio’s efforts to welcome him into his home, his life, and the people who were part of it. When Ezio eventually fell to discussing mission specifics with his recruits, Leonardo found himself wandering toward the bookshelves, eager to examine the various texts in the hideout. As he neared a shelf in the main hall, he caught the tail end of a hushed conversation between a recruit and Machiavelli, a man he knew to be Ezio’s ally.
“—that our mercenaries were found murdered in the Campagna district. It was the work of the Mentore…Shall I arrange for another group?”
Machiavelli turned from the bookcase to receive the report, a look of genuine surprise and sorrow on his face before he met the artist’s stare over the recruit’s shoulder. Eyes widening at the contact, Leonardo dropped his gaze instantly, but it was too late. “That will not be necessary,” Machiavelli replied, dismissing the recruit with a minute wave of his hand.
Despite the futility of it, Leonardo made an attempt to sneak away before the assassin leader could call him back.
“Leonardo.”
The artist bristled at the voice. It was composed and aloof, with none of Ezio’s warm affection.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today? A chance to study the Apple, I suppose?” Machiavelli had stepped briskly toward Leonardo, arms held loosely behind his back. “Or has Ezio commissioned you for a painting to add to our gallery?”
“Ezio invited me here to…” Leonardo faltered, the pretenses he had prepared in defense shriveling beneath the assassin’s intense gaze. “To—”
“He is here for me, Niccolò,” Ezio cut in, suddenly at Leonardo’s side. “With me,” he frowned, correcting himself, as he took Leonardo by the hand and herded him away from any other snide remarks Machiavelli might have had. If the other assassin noticed the slip or the intimate action, he said nothing.
Leading him up a stairway, Ezio gave Leonardo’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Do not let him intimidate you. He means well.”
“Really. I could not tell,” Leonardo replied dryly. He had known there was something suspicious about the showy and unwarranted assault from remnants of the Borgia’s guards. The furtiveness of the conversation he overheard only proved Ezio’s unawareness of the attack’s orchestrated nature, and he was sure Ezio was not one to expend the lives of innocents for the sake of staging a rescue. While not exactly a man of God, Leonardo said a silent prayer for the souls of those the assassin had killed in his defense.
At his lukewarm reception of the idea that Machiavelli could speak in their favor, Ezio laughed. “Niccolò was the one who stated a truth about you that I had trouble accepting.”
“What was it?” Leonardo asked, with a small sense of dread. The subtly manipulative assassin was one to be wary of, but now, he decided, he would focus on Ezio.
“That I…” Ezio’s face colored slightly and he turned away with a sheepish grin. “That…is a story for another time.”
How curious. The assassin’s bashful expression had certainly sparked Leonardo’s interest, though he determined he could better coax the truth from Ezio another time.
Ezio cleared his throat, changing the subject quickly, and Leonardo heard something about him moving his studio and supplies into Isola Tiberina. How the plan was to put aside some rooms for him to work, so he could have the space he needed while being well protected. The artist could only nod; this was all happening so quickly, and he was still amazed at Ezio’s demands to make his presence permanent. It was clear that Ezio worried for his safety, considering the recent—however cunningly devised—attempt on his life, and it made sense to move his studio into a place that was well guarded by assassins. Leonardo supposed he could figure out the logistics of explaining the move to his own apprentices later, or meet them elsewhere.
The last thing he wanted was to compromise the location of Ezio and his comrades.
“Well?” Ezio had stopped within a narrow hallway, where small maroon banners decorated the walls, punctuated by ornately carved candelabra that emitted the upper level’s soft, glowing ambience. “Would that be agreeable to you? Staying here, that is.”
“What—oh, yes. That sounds wonderful.” Leonardo covered his stumble quickly with a smile, flustered and unused to Ezio asking what he wanted.
“Then,” Ezio nodded, his voice pitched low and Leonardo could swear inviting, “let me show you to our room.”
‘Our’ room? The possessive had been said so casually that Leonardo nearly missed it, but his heart beat faster for it, just the same. When Ezio opened the door to a small chamber, Leonardo caught sight of a simple bed with a night table, several chairs atop a worn, red area rug against the wall, and a bay window, the center of which was a pane of faded stained glass, overlooking the river and the Ponte Emilio that spanned it.
Leonardo was surprised the room was not more ornate, considering Ezio’s tastes and previous quarters at the Villa Auditore. Despite the spartan furnishings, however, he felt a small bud of warmth blossom in his chest, that the assassin trusted him enough to bring him into his domain, a place that was wholly Ezio.
At Leonardo’s dazed expression, Ezio smiled. “You would rather I had taken you to the Rosa in Fiore?”
The artist laughed, sensing the undertone of worry in Ezio’s amusement. “No, this is fine.”
Ezio’s grin broadened. “Come, then. Sit with me,” he said, patting a vacant space on the bed. He began removing the more restricting parts of his armor as Leonardo took a seat, setting them on a nearby chair. Unsure of Ezio’s intent, Leonardo hesitantly mirrored the motion by tugging at his own clothes.
“No.” The assassin placed his hand on Leonardo’s, stopping him. “That was not my objective. There will be time for that later.” Ezio paused. “If that is what you wish.”
Heat rushed to Leonardo’s cheeks instantly, and he hoped his embarrassed flush was not evident. “How should we proceed, then?” he asked, feeling foolish.
Ezio seemed to have been caught off guard, his reply uncertain. “However you wish to, my friend.” The last word tumbled out naturally, as if from habit, and though Ezio realized the mistake almost instantly, the damage had been done. Leonardo stiffened, willing to forgive, but while it was true he had been Ezio’s friend for so long, he had to be sure before this went any further. A single clumsy kiss and an increase in overfriendly touches were not enough.
If Ezio wanted him in his life, wanted him, he had better give some further indication.
“Well,” began Leonardo mildly, “if that is all we are, I’m afraid I have another engagement—”
Ezio stood quickly, grabbing Leonardo’s hand as the artist rose from his seat. “Wait, I…my recruits would appreciate your joining us for dinner tonight.” His arm crept across Leonardo’s back, fingers curling around his shoulder in reluctance to free him.
“Your recruits would, would they?” Leonardo replied, trying to hide a grin. He had seen how the novices adored their Mentore. Certainly this was not Ezio’s true goal, but it would still be a good opportunity to put a face to all the novices he had constructed weapons for; each one, like Ezio, he had equipped with the instruments to protect lives or take them.
A moment of quiet passed between them. “Not as much as I would appreciate it,” Ezio admitted.
“Ah.” Leonardo closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean gingerly into the assassin’s embrace. “Then I would be honored to dine with you and the others. And regale them with a story or two about their Mentore.”
“Hmm. You could, but some stories are better left untold,” Ezio replied. His expression had turned entirely too predatory, Leonardo decided, eyes fluttering open when the hold on his arm descended deliberately to his waist.
“Oh?” mused Leonardo slyly, as strong fingers wrapped around his hip. “And which ones might those be?” He eyed Ezio’s other hand navigating its way up his thigh, carefully, gauging his response. Leonardo’s consent took the form of a light squeeze of the hand, the smile he offered Ezio warm and accepting.
“These ones,” Ezio said, taking the hint and brazenly bringing his mouth to Leonardo’s.
The kiss came without pretense, without the trappings and disguises of Carnivale, and Leonardo pushed into it, all longing and desperation, not caring where Ezio had been or why he had taken so long, only surged forward to meet Ezio’s mouth with equal need, thinking only of how sweet the assassin’s lips tasted against his.
(tbc - Chapter Nine.)
Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood
Pairing: Ezio/ Leonardo
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: ACB spoilers
Summary: Ezio discovers that there are consequences to his actions, and the road to redemption is never easy.
This story continues on from
kissmytypos’s fic, “Good Intentions”, which can be read here.A/N: My sincere thanks to
kissmytypos for permission to write the sequel. Thank you to those of you still following my story!“Ah, sorry, I’ve...gotten carried away.”
The quick, mumbled apology was all the warning Leonardo had before the assassin broke their embrace and stalked forward silently. Leonardo had bitten back a startled cry at the loss, though he supposed Ezio’s return to stoicism was understandable.
After all, the artist reflected solemnly, it is rather unlike him to display such a range of emotion all at once.
He sighed as Ezio turned and nodded toward him, expecting him to follow. When he moved to match Ezio’s easy, unlabored strides, the assassin strode several large steps ahead, distance enough to leave Leonardo with his thoughts.
In Venezia, Leonardo had kept his ear to the ground for news of the assassin, even seeking out local heralds or rumor mills, anything to substantiate the assassin’s continued existence or death. Meanwhile, the thieves had encouraged him to find and speak to Ezio himself, but the man had an uncanny ability to disappear when he did not want to be found. Despite all of that, Ezio’s actions prior to departing for Roma had given Leonardo reason to hope. Then Cesare Borgia had gone to Monteriggioni, with his siege machines and destructive nature that only ever wrought more death and suffering. Ezio’s subsequent efforts in building the assassin’s guild and undermining Borgia control evaporated any hopes Leonardo had of proper reconciliation.
Life happened. Priorities changed. And damn it, Leonardo knew, but that never made things easier to accept.
Just now, however, the assassin’s daring rescue had roused a shock of adrenaline in him. As it coursed hotly through his blood, Leonardo wondered if it was the sense of gratitude that left him breathless, or how fluid and dashing Ezio had looked while dispatching the guards.
That Ezio could turn into another person, a killer, for his sake was both flattering and a touch frightening.
Leonardo frowned, suddenly aware of the elbow cradled indistinctly to the assassin’s side. An injured shoulder, then. The similar way in which Ezio concealed his aches, pains, and motives, as if verbalization forced acknowledgment, had not escaped his attention. It was how the artist had caught the trace of a lie when Ezio said he did not care for him that way. From all the time he had had to think, what people had told him, and the things his closest friend had tried to hide, Leonardo had come to a simple conclusion: that Ezio did care for him, perhaps even loved him in his own way, but—
His face flushed as he quashed those thoughts. Friends, Ezio had promised, until the end, and Leonardo had no intention of breaking the promise that kept the fragile peace between them.
“Leonardo.”
The artist looked up in time to avoid colliding with Ezio, noting that they had stopped at his marked bench in the north of the Campagna district. Partially obscured by a large tree, it overlooked Roma’s picturesque countryside, all sprawling green pastures and plateaued cliffs. The chalk-scrawled hand on the bench itself had become a secret code between them, and though there was no longer need for the subterfuge, Leonardo’s practice of marking their rendezvous points stayed.
“You have not said a word all this time,” Ezio observed, as they settled on the bench. His eyes wandered to the thin cut at Leonardo’s throat. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes.” Leonardo tugged what remained of his collar upward, hiding the injury, and offered a distracted smile. “I was just thinking of one of my paintings. A small portrait of a woman,” he said absently, but not without a touch of fondness. He edged closer to Ezio. Though the assassin eyed him warily, he said nothing about their proximity.
As if Leonardo could think of anything, anyone else in his presence. Ezio had rekindled his hopes in Monteriggioni and during their reunion in Roma, but despite going out of his way to destroy the war machines and offering to free Leonardo, Ezio had since maintained a careful distance: he touched no more than necessary, returning only hugs that Leonardo initiated. The artist had resigned himself to the fact that he would never have Ezio, and contented himself with minor touches and glances. Curiously enough, Ezio had not shrunk away from them as he thought he would. And that hug just now…
“You were just attacked and already your mind has wandered to a painting?” Ezio’s palm rose to his forehead, a gesture of exasperation. “Your head is in the clouds as always, my friend. At least be a little more aware of your surroundings.”
Amused by his concern, Leonardo suppressed the urge to inform Ezio it was precisely this ‘head in the clouds’ that had fashioned most of his arsenal. “My oldest friend is here to watch over me now,” he answered deftly, a slow smile surfacing. “Perhaps I can afford to have my head in the clouds for a little longer, in your presence.”
Ezio seemed satisfied enough with the response, but his brow twitched as if he were still mulling over Leonardo’s previous statement. “Perhaps,” he began, “but do not let a beautiful girl distract you from my constructing my designs.”
It took all of Leonardo’s willpower to keep his smile in place, and as his pulse leapt, he wondered if he had sensed jealousy emanating from the assassin. No—it had to have been wishful thinking on his part, and Leonardo dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. Nevertheless, emboldened by the relief that he no longer toiled for the Borgia and the vestiges of adrenaline from earlier, he patted Ezio on the back. “Have no worries,” he chuckled. “Women provide little distraction.”
The man beside him was distraction enough.
“Wait…I don’t get it.” Ezio pulled away, his mouth slightly parted before it closed again, as though he deliberated a response that would not come. From his reaction, Leonardo was struck with the distinct, familiar feeling that Ezio had wanted to say something different, but chose to hide his true thoughts instead.
Leonardo withdrew his hand awkwardly, focusing his attentions on a canvassed stand nearby to hide his shamed flush. When he felt it sufficiently hidden, he shot a discreet glance back at Ezio, but the assassin was already rising to his feet.
“I must go, Leonardo.” His expression was nearly unreadable, but the artist recognized enough of Ezio’s facial nuances—the slight knit between his brows, minute depression at the corner of his mouth—to know he was troubled.
Leonardo managed a weak smile and folded his hands in his lap. “I will be in the area for a little while longer if you change your mind,” he said, as if Ezio had only turned down his inventions, and not the inventor himself.
His lip curled as he watched Ezio vanish into the streets, blending naturally into the bustling crowds of the district. At least no one could blame him for not trying. Leonardo turned back to the vista of Roma’s cliffs and countryside with eyes narrowed, annoyed at his momentary lapse of judgment. What could have possessed him to say that? Of course Ezio would be bothered by it, by that and any reminder of what they had once shared. Ezio, who wanted to pretend that night during Carnivale had meant nothing, had never happened, and who had the audacity to look unashamed when he had been found out.
Suddenly, a voice spoke from behind him, the words barely above a whisper. “You cannot want me still.” Puzzlement and wonder colored the speaker’s tone, as heat from his breath drifted across the nape of Leonardo’s neck. “After all this time?”
Startled, but not surprised—assassins made a living out of stealth and discretion, after all—Leonardo turned to face him, with a raised a brow. “Who is to say what I want or do not want?” he replied, the ghost of a mirthful smile on his lips. At Ezio’s stunned expression, Leonardo chuckled. “You need not fear, Ezio. I spoke that only in jest.”
Something in Ezio’s face seemed to crumble at that, and he settled back on the bench, catching Leonardo’s wrist as the artist rose from his seat. “I wish you would stay.”
Leonardo had been searching for a way to quickly excuse himself, but at Ezio’s imploring tone, he stopped. “I…I suppose I could. There is some time before I need to meet a patron for a commission.” Only recently free of the Borgia’s grasp, he had not had time to take on new patrons, but there was no need to seem too available. He made a show of seeking out a nearby water clock.
“I did not mean for the moment. I meant for always.”
The artist swallowed forcibly, his throat inexplicably constricted. Surely Ezio could not mean…He drew in a soft breath, convinced that he was reading too much into this, hoping for more than was possible, and had only misinterpreted the assassin’s words.
“I cannot lose you as well, Leonardo,” Ezio continued quietly, tugging him back to the bench. His tone remained heavy, as if the pain from other losses bore down on him.
“Yes, you said that before,” Leonardo replied, surprised by Ezio’s honesty. The poorly veiled anguish in the assassin’s voice made him wonder how many countless others Ezio had lost. He knew of the father, brothers, and uncle lost to the Borgia’s schemes, but what of comrades and apprentices, cut down before their time?
At the insistent grip on his wrist, Leonardo relented, taking a seat on the chiseled stone. His fingers stole across the cool bench, finding warmth as they rested lightly on Ezio’s hand. “You will not lose me,” he assured the assassin. If being Ezio’s friend would allow him to stay by his side, then friend he would be, until the end, echoing Ezio’s sentiment all those years ago.
Ezio stared mutely at the hand covering his, as if distressed by this first intimate touch from Leonardo in a long while. Certain that he had now overstepped their unspoken boundary, Leonardo cursed silently and drew his hand back, when suddenly, he found it trapped under the assassin’s, pinned to the bench as Ezio’s mouth met his, softly, clumsily. For a bewildered moment that seemed an eternity, the artist remained motionless, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Then, immensely grateful for the fact that their bench was semi-secluded, away from the prying eyes of passerby and remnant Borgia soldiers, Leonardo leaned desperately into the kiss, having wanted this, wanted Ezio, for so long—
“Wait.” He gripped the assassin by the shoulders and pushed him back, hesitant. “Ezio, wait.”
“What…what is it?” Ezio’s tongue darted out nervously to wet his lips.
Leonardo could only stare at him, slack-jawed, at this development. Words failed him, despite his frantic search for a response. He could only think of how much simpler it would be to let the burden remain on Ezio to explain. Sure enough, at his silence, Ezio spoke again, groping blindly in hopes of lighting upon the reason behind Leonardo’s reluctance.
“For all that has happened between us…I am sorry.” There was no need to elaborate; it was evident what event in their history he referred to.
Caught off guard by the apology, Leonardo studied the citizens ambulating about in the expanse of fields below, before risking a cautious glance at Ezio. Part of him wanted to reassure his friend that he had forgiven him, forgotten it long ago, but the pain that still haunted him would render that a lie.
The apology was a start at least, a segue into catharsis for the pain he had carried for so long. He waited to see what else Ezio had to say first.
“There were others,” continued Ezio slowly, carefully. “But you…”
At the word ‘others’, a new awareness dawned on Leonardo. “No,” he breathed, hoarse and disbelieving. “Do not do this to me. Not now, after all these years.” He knew it had been too good to be true, too convenient. Yes, he had wanted Ezio, but for the assassin’s attentions to come only now meant—
“Leonardo. You do not understand, I—”
“Oh, I understand,” Leonardo insisted brittlely, unable to keep the tinge of resentment from his voice. “Perhaps you are between lovers, or simply lonely, with none to clasp to your side. But I will not be a…a stand-in for your women.” He took a thin, shaky breath. “The string of broken hearts you have left across Italia will not include mine, Ezio.” Not for a second time, at any rate. It struck a sorrowful chord within him that the assassin was willing to cheapen their relationship like this, treating him no differently than the scores of women that had clustered to his side.
Meanwhile, the furrow between Ezio’s eyebrows had deepened, obvious anger at Leonardo’s presumption. Ezio reached toward him slowly but when Leonardo flinched away, the assassin grabbed his wrists, crowding him to the edge of the bench. “Look at me,” he demanded. “It is not like that.”
Leonardo refused to comply, staring instead at a fissure in the cobbled road. “No more, Ezio. Not another word, before what there is between us becomes irreparable.” He sighed, aware of how weary the gesture made him sound, and shook his head. “I have seen, Ezio, if not heard, of your conquests. But I have waited. Perhaps for you to look at me again as you once did. And not just as a passing fancy, but as someone who…” He trailed off and stared hard at the wrists that remained in Ezio’s grip, unsure of whether he hated the tremor in his voice or his hands more.
“I think,” said Ezio after a moment, “that you have been observing me for longer than even I have known.”
Leonardo could only smile wryly, ashamed that his admission had revealed more than he wished. “You think?”
Ezio drew in a slow, measured breath. “There were others,” he began again, his hold on Leonardo tightening like an eagle’s claws closing dangerously around its quarry. “But…no longer.”
“No longer?” Leonardo echoed stiffly, contemplative. He had heard mention of the tragic fate that befell Ezio’s first love from Firenze, a falling out between Ezio and the female thief of Venezia, and of the Lady Sforza leaving to her own lands. Still, a leaden lump of jealousy formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought of them.
Ezio nodded, his voice catching in his throat as half-lidded eyes rose to meet Leonardo’s earnestly. “There is only you.” He swallowed audibly, relaxing his grip on the artist’s wrists. “If you will still have me.”
“I…” Leonardo dropped his gaze toward the assassin’s flared collar. “I don’t know, Ezio.” He could not be sure that the glimmer of light offered to him outweighed the risk of being taken for a fool, time and time again.
“Please, Leonardo,” Ezio said, his breath hitching slightly. He had released the artist’s hands and drawn back, waiting cautiously as one would with a skittish animal. “You are all I have wanted. All these years.”
Leonardo blinked. A hazy assortment of memories was floating back to him, fitting together like fragments of an old dream, long forgotten: the repressed confessions and awkward near-touches that had kept him guessing, hoping; the crushing hugs at times most desperate that conveyed feelings the assassin had not voiced until today.
I cannot lose you.
I need you.
As if Ezio had been constantly struggling to hold back, until now. Suddenly, Leonardo felt himself an even bigger fool for missing these signs when they had been there all along; missed, or even willfully forgotten them, to shield himself from further harm. Who is the desperate one now? he wondered, with a small measure of spite. He had begged Ezio in Venezia, pleaded with him, and still his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
There was a long silence as they stared at each other, either of them able to make the connection if they just dared to take the plunge.
Ezio made it first, reaching out to place his hand lightly on Leonardo’s arm. “Please.”
For a moment, Leonardo considered denying the absolution Ezio so earnestly sought, for all the lost opportunities and the potential of the years between them wasted. But he found he could never deny the assassin—not when those brown eyes implored him so. Leonardo swallowed, forcing down the knot of emotion that had swelled to his throat, and closed his eyes.
He would take this chance.
“All right.” A faint hope that he would not regret his decision. “All right, Ezio.”
Speechless for a moment, Ezio recovered with his quick, characteristic grin. In a voice soothing and low, he said, “Then, if we are to do this right…”
Leonardo winced. Those words again. Did Ezio not know how much they had stung the first time, when he had offered his thoughtless promise to remain friends? Or was he simply unwilling to see—
“…Let us take this conversation somewhere more appropriate,” Ezio finished, robes falling effortlessly into place as he rose from the bench. Leonardo followed suit, stretching the inactivity from his joints, recalling how they had ‘taken their conversation elsewhere’ that first instance after Ezio’s bold alleyway kiss. His musings that the ardor of their youth had been replaced by a slower burn of desire were interrupted, however, at the warm, callused fingers closing around his wrist.
“Not to another brothel, I hope,” Leonardo quipped, as Ezio led him away from their shaded viewpoint. Surely he deserved better than to be taken in some bordello adorned with illusions of decadence, while surrounded by the cloying smell of cheap perfume and filthy desire. If that was what Ezio intended at all.
Ezio had the decency to look embarrassed before giving him an encouraging smile. “No, I have somewhere different in mind.” He paused. “Things will be different this time, Leonardo. You will see.”
It was hardly a mystery where Ezio planned to lead him, given the quiet confidence he exuded.
For the most part, Leonardo was content to let himself be guided along by Ezio’s subtle touches and pushes, the occasional hand at the small of his back. Roma’s abundant populace and broad daylight afforded little opportunity for the assassin to take his hand, but as they neared the hideout, Ezio’s fingers threaded boldly through Leonardo’s once more.
By the time they reached Isola Tiberina, the sky had darkened, slipping quietly toward dusk without Leonardo’s notice. The entrance to the hideout was inconspicuous enough, requiring several confusing turns and Ezio’s gentle navigational assistance, but when they entered the building itself, his jaw dropped at the grandeur overlaying the grey masonry. Green and red checkered tapestries adorned the simple stonework, while crimson banners ornamented with golden trim and the assassins’ crest hung from the ceiling. Several corners of the hideout housed bookcases laden with numerous texts, and from where he stood, Leonardo could spot a gallery of his contemporaries’ paintings.
“Impressive,” he managed to breathe, though as soon as the word left him, Leonardo knew he had meant beautiful. He was not given the time to dwell on this, however, as Ezio tugged him toward a smaller chamber to the left. It was warmed by the heat of a crackling hearth, and despite the striking display of armor in the room, another exhibit demanded his attention.
“Ezio, what is all this?” he asked, astonished. Miniature replicas of the war machines he had created for the Borgia rested on gilded pedestals, and he looked toward Ezio for explanation.
He was met with a proud grin. “A tribute to your genius,” Ezio said, making a grand sweeping motion at them. “In light of the fact that we could not keep the actual models.”
Flattered at how Ezio had erected small monuments of his creations despite the destruction they might have caused, Leonardo beamed. “At least in this form, they can do no harm.”
“Indeed.” Ezio threw a dark look toward the flying machine model before returning Leonardo’s smile. “But enough of the machines for now. Come, Leonardo,” he said, steering him toward another corner of the hideout. “There are some recruits I want you to meet.”
A group of novices conversed near a desk stacked with ledgers, and Ezio introduced him to several of the ones who did not know who he was already. Leonardo could only nod and smile in response to their respectful bows and murmurs of “Maestro”, feeling a little out of place amid the white-cloaked assassins. Still, he appreciated Ezio’s efforts to welcome him into his home, his life, and the people who were part of it. When Ezio eventually fell to discussing mission specifics with his recruits, Leonardo found himself wandering toward the bookshelves, eager to examine the various texts in the hideout. As he neared a shelf in the main hall, he caught the tail end of a hushed conversation between a recruit and Machiavelli, a man he knew to be Ezio’s ally.
“—that our mercenaries were found murdered in the Campagna district. It was the work of the Mentore…Shall I arrange for another group?”
Machiavelli turned from the bookcase to receive the report, a look of genuine surprise and sorrow on his face before he met the artist’s stare over the recruit’s shoulder. Eyes widening at the contact, Leonardo dropped his gaze instantly, but it was too late. “That will not be necessary,” Machiavelli replied, dismissing the recruit with a minute wave of his hand.
Despite the futility of it, Leonardo made an attempt to sneak away before the assassin leader could call him back.
“Leonardo.”
The artist bristled at the voice. It was composed and aloof, with none of Ezio’s warm affection.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today? A chance to study the Apple, I suppose?” Machiavelli had stepped briskly toward Leonardo, arms held loosely behind his back. “Or has Ezio commissioned you for a painting to add to our gallery?”
“Ezio invited me here to…” Leonardo faltered, the pretenses he had prepared in defense shriveling beneath the assassin’s intense gaze. “To—”
“He is here for me, Niccolò,” Ezio cut in, suddenly at Leonardo’s side. “With me,” he frowned, correcting himself, as he took Leonardo by the hand and herded him away from any other snide remarks Machiavelli might have had. If the other assassin noticed the slip or the intimate action, he said nothing.
Leading him up a stairway, Ezio gave Leonardo’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Do not let him intimidate you. He means well.”
“Really. I could not tell,” Leonardo replied dryly. He had known there was something suspicious about the showy and unwarranted assault from remnants of the Borgia’s guards. The furtiveness of the conversation he overheard only proved Ezio’s unawareness of the attack’s orchestrated nature, and he was sure Ezio was not one to expend the lives of innocents for the sake of staging a rescue. While not exactly a man of God, Leonardo said a silent prayer for the souls of those the assassin had killed in his defense.
At his lukewarm reception of the idea that Machiavelli could speak in their favor, Ezio laughed. “Niccolò was the one who stated a truth about you that I had trouble accepting.”
“What was it?” Leonardo asked, with a small sense of dread. The subtly manipulative assassin was one to be wary of, but now, he decided, he would focus on Ezio.
“That I…” Ezio’s face colored slightly and he turned away with a sheepish grin. “That…is a story for another time.”
How curious. The assassin’s bashful expression had certainly sparked Leonardo’s interest, though he determined he could better coax the truth from Ezio another time.
Ezio cleared his throat, changing the subject quickly, and Leonardo heard something about him moving his studio and supplies into Isola Tiberina. How the plan was to put aside some rooms for him to work, so he could have the space he needed while being well protected. The artist could only nod; this was all happening so quickly, and he was still amazed at Ezio’s demands to make his presence permanent. It was clear that Ezio worried for his safety, considering the recent—however cunningly devised—attempt on his life, and it made sense to move his studio into a place that was well guarded by assassins. Leonardo supposed he could figure out the logistics of explaining the move to his own apprentices later, or meet them elsewhere.
The last thing he wanted was to compromise the location of Ezio and his comrades.
“Well?” Ezio had stopped within a narrow hallway, where small maroon banners decorated the walls, punctuated by ornately carved candelabra that emitted the upper level’s soft, glowing ambience. “Would that be agreeable to you? Staying here, that is.”
“What—oh, yes. That sounds wonderful.” Leonardo covered his stumble quickly with a smile, flustered and unused to Ezio asking what he wanted.
“Then,” Ezio nodded, his voice pitched low and Leonardo could swear inviting, “let me show you to our room.”
‘Our’ room? The possessive had been said so casually that Leonardo nearly missed it, but his heart beat faster for it, just the same. When Ezio opened the door to a small chamber, Leonardo caught sight of a simple bed with a night table, several chairs atop a worn, red area rug against the wall, and a bay window, the center of which was a pane of faded stained glass, overlooking the river and the Ponte Emilio that spanned it.
Leonardo was surprised the room was not more ornate, considering Ezio’s tastes and previous quarters at the Villa Auditore. Despite the spartan furnishings, however, he felt a small bud of warmth blossom in his chest, that the assassin trusted him enough to bring him into his domain, a place that was wholly Ezio.
At Leonardo’s dazed expression, Ezio smiled. “You would rather I had taken you to the Rosa in Fiore?”
The artist laughed, sensing the undertone of worry in Ezio’s amusement. “No, this is fine.”
Ezio’s grin broadened. “Come, then. Sit with me,” he said, patting a vacant space on the bed. He began removing the more restricting parts of his armor as Leonardo took a seat, setting them on a nearby chair. Unsure of Ezio’s intent, Leonardo hesitantly mirrored the motion by tugging at his own clothes.
“No.” The assassin placed his hand on Leonardo’s, stopping him. “That was not my objective. There will be time for that later.” Ezio paused. “If that is what you wish.”
Heat rushed to Leonardo’s cheeks instantly, and he hoped his embarrassed flush was not evident. “How should we proceed, then?” he asked, feeling foolish.
Ezio seemed to have been caught off guard, his reply uncertain. “However you wish to, my friend.” The last word tumbled out naturally, as if from habit, and though Ezio realized the mistake almost instantly, the damage had been done. Leonardo stiffened, willing to forgive, but while it was true he had been Ezio’s friend for so long, he had to be sure before this went any further. A single clumsy kiss and an increase in overfriendly touches were not enough.
If Ezio wanted him in his life, wanted him, he had better give some further indication.
“Well,” began Leonardo mildly, “if that is all we are, I’m afraid I have another engagement—”
Ezio stood quickly, grabbing Leonardo’s hand as the artist rose from his seat. “Wait, I…my recruits would appreciate your joining us for dinner tonight.” His arm crept across Leonardo’s back, fingers curling around his shoulder in reluctance to free him.
“Your recruits would, would they?” Leonardo replied, trying to hide a grin. He had seen how the novices adored their Mentore. Certainly this was not Ezio’s true goal, but it would still be a good opportunity to put a face to all the novices he had constructed weapons for; each one, like Ezio, he had equipped with the instruments to protect lives or take them.
A moment of quiet passed between them. “Not as much as I would appreciate it,” Ezio admitted.
“Ah.” Leonardo closed his eyes, allowing himself to lean gingerly into the assassin’s embrace. “Then I would be honored to dine with you and the others. And regale them with a story or two about their Mentore.”
“Hmm. You could, but some stories are better left untold,” Ezio replied. His expression had turned entirely too predatory, Leonardo decided, eyes fluttering open when the hold on his arm descended deliberately to his waist.
“Oh?” mused Leonardo slyly, as strong fingers wrapped around his hip. “And which ones might those be?” He eyed Ezio’s other hand navigating its way up his thigh, carefully, gauging his response. Leonardo’s consent took the form of a light squeeze of the hand, the smile he offered Ezio warm and accepting.
“These ones,” Ezio said, taking the hint and brazenly bringing his mouth to Leonardo’s.
The kiss came without pretense, without the trappings and disguises of Carnivale, and Leonardo pushed into it, all longing and desperation, not caring where Ezio had been or why he had taken so long, only surged forward to meet Ezio’s mouth with equal need, thinking only of how sweet the assassin’s lips tasted against his.
(tbc - Chapter Nine.)
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Date: 2012-05-11 12:41 pm (UTC)From:Thankyou, awesome as always ^_^
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Date: 2012-05-11 03:09 pm (UTC)From:Finally!
Date: 2012-05-14 10:29 pm (UTC)From:Re: Finally!
Date: 2012-05-14 11:20 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-17 10:45 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 02:24 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 01:42 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2012-05-18 02:26 pm (UTC)From:I've read this 4 times now...
Date: 2012-05-29 07:33 am (UTC)From:Thank you for your genius and brilliance and having mercy on us and poor dear Leo. There better be some sexytiems soon xD
As the previous ones, beautiful chapter!
Re: I've read this 4 times now...
Date: 2012-05-29 06:51 pm (UTC)From:Thank you for taking the time to review!