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He struggled to remember the first time he noticed it.
Perhaps it was their introduction. A time when they only knew each other for a fleeting moment, unaware of the chaos the world was about to throw their way. The picture was clear in his mind: a young, witty Madonna Maria and her charmingly reluctant son, shoulders sufficiently sagged, waiting patiently on his doorstep to escort him to their home. What little they spoke was enough to learn that he was to be a banker, working under his father, and it struck him then, how youth seemed to carry itself in him, like it was all he was made of.
When that same boy turned up on his doorstep asking for assistance just days after his family's betrayal, he could do nothing but comply.
He went about his normal business, trying his best to stay away from that particular side of the conversation—one that he was loathe to mention, because while he did not see it himself, he had heard enough—and focused instead on the new and intriguing pages that were laid on his desk.
Then, the knock on the door. A guard. At the time, the look behind his guest's eyes made sense—anxiety, shock, anger, and perhaps a bit of fear. But there was something else, something he couldn't recognize behind the swirl of emotions he'd been bombarded with. Not that he was paying much attention at the time. In the end, he'd chalked it up to nothing but the circumstances.
Now, though, wisened by the time that had passed, he came to regret the dismissive nature of it all.
In the early days, visits from Ezio were few and far between, and most of their (very short-lived) time spent together was strictly business, with the added title of friends allowing for the easy banter and lack of professionalism to go wholly unquestioned.
During the times of his absence, he tried not to let his distress get the better of him. The thought that this strange man, unique and frightening—and his friend, and he could not forget that, could not forget the humanity buried deep beneath those white robes, no matter the lingering stench of blood—could disappear off the face of the earth with little more than a passing word was worse to Leonardo than watching him bleed out himself.
But he always came back. Even after years, when Leonardo was so dead-set on believing him gone, and had even moved to the point of accepting it, that he wouldn't return. He always came back. Damn him for it.
Still, Leonardo continued to worry in spite of his steps against it, and realized late one night, years after their first encounter, with Ezio asleep in a chair once more ("I will not burden you further," he'd said, a refused to move no matter how loud Leonardo objected), that the fondness he held had crept past his defenses and buried its roots so far into his heart that he could no longer keep up the illusion of friendship in his mind.
Nothing changed, really. He never dared to say anything, not when Ezio was already fighting the world, and not when Leonardo was too busy trying to find enough work to stay afloat. So he settled for their budding companionship instead, opening up to each other and slotting into their respective places in each other's lives. It was all he could ever ask for.
Life went on. Before he knew it, he had settled into his new life in Venezia.
Here, they were different. Not that they were different people, per se, but different in that they had grown into themselves. Older, self-assured, and in both of their cases (though in wildly opposite contexts), having procured a vast amount of skill.
At some point between their beginning and now, Leonardo had taken notice. In quiet moments, or in loud ones—out in public, more than anything. The tell-tale shift of his gaze, the squint of his eyes, the furrow of his brow. How he seemed to disappear, lost in the depths of his own mind, yet still unnaturally present, as if seeing was all he was meant to do, before returning as if he'd never sunk in the first place.
Naturally, Leonardo was curious. Who was he, if not?
He watched as the man in question leaned against his desk. "What are you working on?"
On a night like tonight, it was not odd to find Ezio poking and prodding at his work in hope of something to do. He had an energy to him, the kind that left him pacing, or studying the doors and their locking mechanisms. Leonardo found it endearing, for the most part.
He would indulge Ezio for now. "Schematics."
Ezio huffed. "I can see that. For what?"
He was making his best attempt at keeping his eyes fixed on the page in front of him, because looking at Ezio, in a room lit by nothing but candlelight, always lingered on the edge of too much. He was failing miserably, and paying for it.
"A fighting vehicle."
"A fighting vehicle." He echoed, surprise evident. "You're creating weapons now?"
"Not creating," Leonardo countered. It was a project he was careful to conceal to those that knew him, but Ezio, so well versed in things like this, could have valuable insight. "It is not meant to be built."
Ezio's frown tugged at the corners of his his mouth. Not pouting, because Ezio rarely pouted, but maybe it's distant, confused cousin. "Then why design it?"
Leonardo threw a smile at him, at his lack of understanding. "Why design anything?" He asked in return. He began thumbing through a few of the papers scattered across his desk, deliberating whether to sort them now, or deal with the mess later. The page in front of him would remain out either way, and if he wanted to, he could lay a few more out for Ezio's enjoyment. His fascination was always poorly hidden. "For pleasure, or for coin."
"And this," he gestured vaguely to the drawings on his desk. "This is for pleasure."
"Unfortunately."
Ezio hummed. His figure rested in the corner of Leonardo's vision, and from what he could see, he was watching the world outside the window. Leonardo was content to let him be.
There were details in his work that left him unsatisfied, and he set out to refine them, even if none of it was meant to be seen by anyone past the company he held now.
A breeze filtered in, covering the room like a cool blanket, and it relieved the heat of the Venetian summer. The sun had left them hours before, and the stars shone without clouds to cover them. Muffled voices floated by as citizens walked through the streets.
It was soothing, having him here, even in the silence between them. Ezio was never pressed for conversation, always content to stew in his own mind when speech lulled, and in turn, let Leonardo stew in his own. They had a balance. Sometimes, silence without him tore Leonardo apart.
Sketching took his mind off things. The design was rudimentary at this stage, but it would come together with time. He just had to make sure he didn't ruin it before then. He would not let his eagerness get the better of him, like it so often wished to.
When he looked up to Ezio for advice—on a part that was giving him a remarkable amount of grief, really, because how hard could determining visibility be?—he faltered.
Ezio's gaze was still out the window, and there. There was that look again. The one that was somewhere far from here.
He barely moved when Leonardo slid the paper away and stood, like he hadn't noticed at all.
"Is there something you require of me?" He asked.
Those eyes shifted, the same daze-like quality now hovering over him.
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Ezio shut them, only for a instant, and when he opened them, they were back to their usual state. His mind, though, was still buried.
"If you're willing," he replied, aloof.
"Anything, amico mio."
He waited. Whatever he asked, Leonardo would answer. Anything to bring him back to now.
Finally, he drew in a breath, pursed his lips together. "I need to stay here for a few days," he admitted, because it was just that—an admission. Of shame, of guilt, of something. "If you are willing."
"Of course I am willing," it was out of him before he had a say in the matter, which was a problem he would have to address, eventually. He could not have his own tongue betraying him. "You are always welcome here."
This appeased him, for now. A tenseness he hadn't noticed before drained out of him, and he sagged against the desk, head dropping, blocking his face from view.
"Thank you."
All of the sudden, Leonardo is overcome with just how tired he looked, in his dirty clothes and scuffed armor, arms crossed over his chest. It hurt, to see the man before him like this.
"Take my bed," he urged, because it was all he could offer, no matter what he desired to give.
Ezio peered up at him, tilting his head back up and revealing himself once more. "No."
"You will not sleep in that maledetto chair again, Ezio. I will not allow it."
"And I will not take more from you than I already am," Ezio argued.
Leonardo, now more than ever, was left perplexed by Ezio's consistent apprehension towards anything that may be considered taking, especially when he most certainly wasn't. But it was not something he could contest with, because if there was anything he learned through his years spent with him, it's that fighting the issue head on would only encourage it further.
"You have slept in my bed before. How is this any different?" Which was technically true, though it had only happened twice, and under dire circumstances.
Ezio recognized this, the inconsistencies between then and now—and perhaps, the similarities. Frustration sparked in his eyes. Leonardo was glad it was anything other than that unnerving blankness.
"You know how," he uncrossed his arms, braced one against the edge of the desk, gripping it with an intensity that gave Leonardo pause. He'd forgotten, for a moment, that while Ezio was tired, he was also restless. He would not forget again, after that. "I will not be another weight on your shoulders."
"Dio santo," he groaned, and he doesn't try to hide the exasperation in it. "You-"
There was a crash up above, on the roof, and the sound of metal, a sword, being drawn.
Ezio was gone before Leonardo had time to realize what was happening.
The only things left behind were the dying words in Leonardo's throat, the only proof that Ezio was there at all, and Leonardo tried not to hate that, how not even a trace of warmth remained where he stood, how he could disappear in the blink of an eye. It made sense, logically. He was an assassin. Disappearing was his job. Still, his resentment was palpable.
There was a scuffle, the sound of steps along with heavier, denser sounds, until there was a thump, loud and surely heard by someone else, if not in the street than on another rooftop. Nothing came after.
Leonardo took a breath to calm his nerves.
While he couldn't follow the man out—his strength and dexterity were well, but not well enough, and certainly not as well as Ezio's—he did have the thought to stow away anything that might come across as suspicious, which surmounted to his latest sketch and those like it, as well as two codex pages, still half undeciphered, which were left downstairs.
He kept a few spots for storage on occasions like these, and moved quick to shuffle papers into slots and under other, less damning evidence.
When he was finished, he returned to the window, careful not to stand too close, in case Ezio returned.
He waited.
It was agonizing, but he couldn't leave. If something were to happen, if Ezio were to come back, or if a guard were to show up, he would need to be there. There was no question.
It felt like hours, the way the minutes passed, the seconds ticking by with every few beats of his heart—few, because the rhythm of it was wild and racing, too fast for seconds to define—and he stood, surveying the streets below.
Most of the noise from earlier had begun to die down. However, the roads of Venezia were far from empty. Groups of three or four moved together, clusters of men and women flowing with the others simply because they are heading the same way. Occasionally, friends would be walking side by side, most by pairs, though rarely, he could spot up to six people talking and laughing and enjoying what was, plainly, turning out to be a night filled with chaos.
Still, nothing was heard above, so he settled himself with watching them come and go, hoping to abate the burning at his fingertips that made him grit his teeth, that urged him to move. An instinct, one he would ignore.
Ezio could handle himself. There was no need to worry.
In one of the larger groups, something glinted in the moonlight.
Squinting, he leaned out the window, just barely, to get a closer look. There, in the midst of a crowd, was Ezio, white hood drawn over his head, alive and seemingly unharmed, struggling forward with a- With a guard, passed out (or dead, more likely), arm slung over his shoulder, feet dragging behind him.
Merda, this man would be the death of him.
He was downstairs and at the door in record time, holding it open as Ezio tugged their newest friend inside.
Ezio, hardly out of breath, said, "I hope you still have a use for these."
Leonardo shut the door, nodding at a room farther in. "In the back."
They managed to situate the guard with the others—only two, at the moment, and Ezio, with his ever brilliant wit, made a fleeting joke about supplying Leonardo with as many as he liked, which he gratefully declined—in a way that kept him out of the immediate line of sight upon entering.
Sweaty, tired, and with fresh blood smeared on one of his hands, Leonardo let out a breath he'd been holding since Ezio had left. "What happened?"
Lowering his hood, he shook his head. "I'm not sure," he answered. Just now was Leonardo observing the state of his hidden blade, which was tinted a familiar shade of red at the end, but was the only thing, he noted, that was colored as such. "Mi dispiace. I had no intention of spilling blood in your home."
He held back the urge to sigh, or to laugh, or to make any move whatsoever. "Technically, nothing was spilled in here."
This did not ease Ezio’s worries, but it must not have bothered him as much as it appeared, because he was quick to change the subject. “He must have heard us.”
“How? The window?”
Ezio hummed, bringing his hand to his chin, only to pause, look at his stained hands, and think better of it. “There could be no other way,” he said. “But why was he there in the first place?”
A good question. One that Leonardo was hesitant to approach.
“An alternative route down, perhaps?”
“No,” he shook his head, pressing his lips together. His scar, thin and pale, makes itself known in Leonardo’s mind. “No. They stay in the same place at the same time, no matter the day.” After this, he began to pace. “The only reason they would deviate is if they had reason to.” Despite his frazzled state, he still moved as if he was nothing more than a ghost.
“So, he heard us. You said it yourself.”
“But he shouldn’t have been close enough to hear us in the first place.”
“Why not?” Leonardo tilted his head, puzzled. Their job was to keep an eye out, yes? It was entirely possible, by that logic, for one to happen to overhear them. But Ezio was convinced otherwise.
“How often do they come here? How often are they on your roof?”
He can’t help but huff. “Well, I haven’t exactly been keeping a close eye,” he said.
Ezio scowled, sudden and viscous, at the ground, and then at the mechanism on his wrist, seeming to come to a decision. Without another word, he went upstairs.
“Ezio?” He called, trailing behind him.
At the top, he could see the way his friend’s fingers lingered on the latch—hard, calloused tips accompanied by trimmed nails, which, despite the level of care in their grooming, were still chipped and rough in places—and the way he stared into the dark.
“Ezio.”
But he was gone, lost to his mind. If it weren’t for the dip in his brow, the deep-set concentration he held, Leonardo might’ve said he looked stranded.
He’s had enough of it. That look.
Gently, as not to startle, he placed a hand on his arm, over the soft material of his shirt, letting his fingers curl around the muscle underneath. It wasn’t a grab. He didn’t reach for control. It was a point of contact, something for Ezio to latch onto, a rope for him to grasp if he needed a way up.
Leonardo wanted to hold him. This was the only way he knew how.
“Ezio,” he tried again.
His eyes closed, and he held them there, leaned into Leonardo’s hold ever so slightly.
When he opened them again, he was back to himself.
Leonardo watched as he latched the window shut with quick hands. Still, he was content to let the man leave a mark in his home, even if it was only a closed window.
Ezio turned towards him, which leaned him even further into his hand, and Leonardo was fighting the tingling in his finger that told him to continue his path upwards, to take his face in hand and make Ezio look at him.
And then, with no warning, the touch is gone, Ezio stepping back, putting distance between them once more.
Leonardo did not follow. He tried to look past the feeling of loss, but it was more persistent than before, for a reason he could not deduce.
“I am leaving.”
He thought to speak, but paused. Then, he thought to speak again. In the end, after a string of cutting himself off, he could only voice his confusion. “What?”
Ezio doesn’t elaborate, instead patting himself down, reaching into his pockets and feeling for something unknown. After what looked like a series of checks, he moved to Leonardo’s desk, where a small pile of throwing knives had been discarded, and put them into their proper place. Leonardo did not see them there before.
This distracted him, for a moment, how seamlessly Ezio had inserted himself. All the more pain when he leaves.
”Why?” He knew his voice was level, almost calm, but to himself, it sounded like a plea.
“The guards are looking for me.”
”And?” Leonardo interjected. “That has never stopped you from staying before.”
Ezio scowled again. “This is different.”
Leonardo said with the patience of a teacher, “Then explain.”
With a sigh, Ezio shook his head, averting his gaze once more, and oh, Leonardo was getting sick of the lines etching into themselves his skin, the stress of it all carving its way into his features. If he could take it away, just for a night, he would.
“The guards,” he began. “They follow their schedule. They do not wander. Even if they do, they do not wander too far. But tonight, one did.” He bit the inside of his lip, considering his next words. “There are people I trust to get me information like this, guard rotations and such. They are eyes in the city. They watch everything, hear everything.
”But I was recently made aware of the dangers of such alliances. Those who find themselves swayed by others.”
He looked at Leonardo, then, with longing in his eyes, a hope that Leonardo would understand what he was saying.
“They see everything, Leonardo. If they were to give the right information to the wrong people…”
”You worry about betrayal?” He asked with a frown. “About your safety?”
“Not my safety.” Ezio corrected.
“Then who do you worry for?”
Leonardo waited for an answer, but was met with nothing but silence.
There was someone, then. Someone he did not wish to tell Leonardo about. It would happen eventually, he always figured, but he did not think it would be now.
He could hardly stand to meet his eyes. The ache in his chest was as ferocious as a wild animal. “I see.”
Awfully, Ezio’s eyes soften.
“But,” he started, taking a step closer, because he was selfish, and the thought of Ezio being anywhere but here, with someone else, made him act irrationally. “Hasn’t this always been a threat?”
“What?”
“There is always someone who may betray you. Is this any different?”
He frowned, then sucked in a breath, sounding more like a hiss than anything else. “Yes. And no.”
Leonardo stared, puzzled.
“Cazzo,” he swore. He shifted on his feet, almost a sway, but Leonardo recognized it to be him at the precipice of pacing for the third time tonight. “I cannot explain it to you.”
“You can’t,” Leonardo said. “Or you don’t want to?”
Ezio looked away shamefully.
Leonardo is once again struck with the hang of his shoulders, the darkness under his eyes. Something had happened, at some point, something to set him on edge—more than his usual on edge, more than keeping his blades close, more than knowing how to listen for the sound of breathing. He was running himself into the ground, going on like this.
“Ezio,” he said softly. His friend lifted his head. “You can tell me. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Startlingly, he chuckled. “I do not fear you, Leonardo.”
“Then what stops you?”
He was so close to the answer he could taste it, thick on his tongue.
“I do not know.”
But he must have known. He was still stiff—the belief Leonardo held that he would start pacing was clearly wrong, because he appeared to be one word away from leaving, and surely that’s what he’d meant to do, a moment ago—and his hands were balled into fists, prepared for an attack unseen.
“What do you see?”
He froze. If Leonardo still had him under his fingers, he’s sure he would’ve felt him tense.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
This was it. This was the answer he was looking for. Where he disappeared to, when his mind honed in and his eyes became sharp, yet still was gone from this world. This was what he’d been trying to find.
“You do.”
He was invading, asking like this. Pressing forward without Ezio's allowance. But this was a ledge, and Ezio was holding himself back, refusing to jump, when it's all he was built for. Leonardo would not be the one to push him off.
Leonardo had seen it, once, Ezio taking a leap of faith. His head thrown back, arms out, completely in control, as if the pull of the earth itself had no say in when he fell or when he flew. The twist before he lands, when control is no longer in his grasp.
Ezio was falling. He just didn't know it.
"Ezio," he said, one more time, just to drive the point home. "You can trust me."
And Ezio looked at him, really looked at him, earnest and wanting, with fear and apprehension, with hesitance, and when Leonardo stared back, a mirror in his own emotions, it leveled into determination.
"You're going to call me crazy."
Leonardo smiled, small and contained, cautious not to scare either of them away, because god, it was working, Ezio was trusting him with this. "Have I not already?"
A huff, light, playing off what Leonardo started, bringing down the tension. His shoulders loosened, only slightly.
"Sit."
Of course Leonardo complied.
It took some convincing, but Leonardo persuaded Ezio to sit in the chair closer to the bed instead of the one at Leonardo's desk. Hopefully, it would be easier to convince him to lay down with the comfort so close to him.
He fetched a wet cloth for Ezio to wipe his blade with the excuse of not wanting blood stains on the wood—ignoring the fact that the metal had stopped dripping by the time he showed up at his door, fresh cadaver in his arms. He figured he could use the time to think, though, and would be appreciative of having something to do with his hands.
When he returned, Ezio had replaced the worry on his face with an expression that was blank, meticulously crafted to keep everyone else clueless as to what was going on inside his head.
Leonardo handed it to him, and he took it gratefully.
Pulling the chair out from his desk, Leonardo sat across from him, close enough that their boots would touch should they stretch their legs, but far enough that Ezio would have the space he needed.
He would not be the first one to speak. He was willing to give Ezio as much time as he wanted, so long as they both stayed in their chairs.
Luckily for him, he did not have to wait long.
”I don’t know how to explain it,” he admitted. “It is not like anything I’ve felt before.”
Neither of them knew what they were getting into.
“Start with what you know.”
Ezio wiped his blade carefully, deft fingers avoiding pressing into the edge of it. Leonardo had done the same, once; had cleaned it of his fingerprints after finishing the inner workings of the mechanism. He wondered if it was still as sharp as he remembered. Knowing Ezio, it was.
“I was eight when it happened first, at the market with Frederico. I didn’t know what was happening, just that things were different. The world was different. Nothing made sense.”
He rubbed the blade mindlessly as he said this, watching the circles he traced. It was hypnotic.
“It was dark. Darker than night. People… they became ghosts, yet I could see them, moving, talking, some of them more clearly than I could before. I couldn’t hear them, though. Or- I could, just not as well.” He stopped, unsure how to continue.
Leonardo did not know what to say, overcome with an overwhelming amount of questions, but settled for the safest option, something to keep Ezio talking. “What did you do?”
He shrugged. “I panicked. Left my brother’s side. I don’t remember where I went, but I remember what it was like to slide through the crowd. There was so much, all at once, and yet… there was nothing at all.”
When he finished with his hidden blade, he retracted it back to it’s concealed state. “I thought I was dying,” he murmured, examining the bloodstained cloth in his hands. It was beginning to fray at the edges.
“My brother found me outside of an old shop, right around the corner. When I saw him, he was- well, all I could see, if that makes sense. His voice was the loudest thing there was.”
He held the cloth over to Leonardo, who took it without thought, stood, and placed it on his desk, before returning to his chair.
“What did he say?” He asked, urging him forward.
Ezio smiled—though smile wasn’t the word for it, for how slight it was. “I don’t remember. I was too focused on his the sound of his voice.”
Leonardo did smile at that.
“He took me home, and we never talked about it.”
“No?” He said, surprised. “Why not?”
“Frederico was afraid of what our mother would say if he admitted he had lost me. Speaking about what happened would have worsened his guilt.” There was a sadness in his eyes, full of grief, each time he said his brother’s name. “I wasn’t sure what I saw, so I did not think about it. Not for a long time.”
Did his brother find out? Did his brother ever hear the same words Ezio was muttering to him? Did he help him, guide him, show him an easier way? Did he suffer from the same ailment?
He wanted to ask, but knew better.
“You grew up with it.”
“Yes,” he affirmed, despite it not being a question. “Only I did not know how to use it.”
Use it? As if it had the capability to be used at all, and for his gain, no less.
“What do you mean, use?”
Ezio drummed his fingers against his thigh, furrowing his dark eyebrows and squinting his eyes, sorting the question—or his reply—out in his head. Leonardo, like before, gave him the time.
“It is a sense,” he explained, though his features had not smoothed. “Like touch or smell, so it can be used. With it, I can see people for who they truly are.”
A vague description, but a description nonetheless. With effort, Leonardo was able to maintain the appearance of a friend listening to someone explain the sun rising in the sky—an ordinary, everyday occurrence—and not someone being told that there is a sixth sense, made for examining other humans specifically.
“This second vision- it is a vision, yes?” He asked, though vision did not seem to fit quite right. Ezio shrugged in a jumbled affirmation, obviously not fully satisfied with the definition either, and Leonardo continued. “It allows you to see people’s intentions.”
“No, not intentions.” He breathed in deep—not sighing, but attempting to ground himself, which did not appear to be working—and exhaled, shaking his head in frustration, gesturing weakly with his hands. “I don’t- how can I explain this to you?”
Leonardo hummed, content to wait.
“I can see who they are to me, or to people with my loyalties. If they are a danger, I should be able to tell.”
“Convenient,” he noted. It was as if Ezio was crafted for the role he played.
“Yes and no.”
“How so?”
“It is not fool proof,” he tightened his jaw. “And if I cannot be sure of my allies, then how am I to be sure of my enemies?”
Leonardo could see, then, as the careful blankness he equipped lessened, and the hints of emotion he was searching for while they spoke grew until they were plain to see—the confusion, the fear, the uncertainty—displayed on Ezio’s face.
Trust, in a world like his, was everything. Without it he was stranded, and surely to be killed before he stepped a foot outside him home.
”If they were to give the right information to the wrong people…”
Not just himself, but his family—and this stranger, he thought bitterly—as well.
But must he rely on this ability for everything? Could he not tell who is friend and who is foe by his own volition? Was such a tool really so superior to his own intellect?
“And so, because of this error, you cannot trust anyone,” Leonardo speculated.
Ezio hesitated. Then, with a hint of a nod, replied, “Yes.”
“And what of your own observations?”
He frowned. “I have just told you, have I not?”
“No,” he specified, falling back onto his urge to reach out and take Ezio by the shoulders, if only to make his words better understood. He would, if it weren’t for the way Ezio crossed his arms—not out of aggression or arrogance, which was more common with him, but out of a need for another defense. “You have told me of your sixth sense.”
“The occhio d'aquila,” he added helpfully, before continuing. “It is no different.”
“It is.”
“How?”
Leonardo huffed, though not out of any humor. “You blind yourself to your own capabilities. Your mind is a tool, Ezio; don’t disregard it because you think something else can do all of the work for you.”
Ezio didn’t respond.
Leonardo had pressed before and it worked—he had opened himself up, let Leonardo into that head of his—but now, with Ezio there, avoiding his eyes, he was overcome with dread.
He watched as his friend skillfully undid the clasps that held his blade to his wrist, gently removing it and holding it in his hand as he did the cloth. He stared down at it.
“If I am wrong…”
“If you are wrong, then you are just like the rest of us.”
Ezio stood.
This was it. He would gather his things—because surely there was something else of his Leonardo had missed, scattered under a wayward paper or lodged between the shelves—and leave him, alone, after prodding too far into his mind and asking questions he had no right to ask.
Who knew hold long it would be until they would meet again. Weeks? Months? He did not want to think of a time longer.
He waited for his decent down the stairs.
Instead, Ezio walked over to the desk, and set his mechanism next to the cloth. Next, he removed his sword and the belt holding it, followed by his various pouches and items.
Leonardo could not move, only stared at the growing pile on his desk.
When he was finished, Ezio glanced back at him, then the chair, and finally rested his gaze on the bed.
He did not let his heart be fooled by such a look sent his way, like it so often wanted to be.
“You are welcome here,” Leonardo assured, hardly above a murmur, yet loud in the silence between them.
Ezio looked back to him, open.
Leonardo was having a hard time keeping his eyes off Ezio’s, trying not to wonder what he saw, in that moment—was it Leonardo, inviting him to stay, blood staining his fingernails? Was it a warm bed, and a promise to wake up safe in the morning? A promise to wake at all?
How often, he wondered, did he use that sense of his? Ezio was watching him, not with scrutiny or fear, but with pure, open trust. Had that been a result of his sight? Or was that something else, something deeper?
Did he trust Leonardo, not because of the world he saw through those ghostly visions, but by believing it himself?
Slowly, Ezio moved to stand in front of the bed, yet he did not sit, looking to Leonardo for something once more, and god, he wished he could understand what was running through that head of his, just to know if the words he ached to speak would be wanted, if he would be wanted.
He did not dare to attempt it.
Whatever Ezio was searching for was gone as he sat, finally, on the bed, tugging off his boots and setting them on the floor at the foot of it. He undid the red cloth at his waist and placed it on the chair he had sat in before. It was when he had his cloak half undone that Leonardo thought to look away, to spare them both the intimacy of watching him prepare for bed.
He wandered over to the page he’d been working on last, something, anything to distract himself, and examined the progression he’d made with his fighting vehicle that night. There were still improvements to be made, mostly to do with the issue of terrain, should it actually function the way it was meant to, yet the thought of it being used primarily for threatening the enemy rather than killing had its appeal.
Finding the right balance between supporting the weight while accounting for the traction was the main issue. He was not happy with having to rely on the wheels for both of these things, but for now, no other solution came to him.
Behind him the blanket rustled, and he glanced back.
Ezio was sat up, his loose undershirt, with its wide collar and slit down the center displaying his collarbones and part of his chest—common enough to see, yet Leonardo hadn’t grown used to it the effects it had on him, probably never would—blanket pooled around his waist, covering everything beneath it.
He was staring at him with that look again, and now that Leonardo could recognize it, put a name to it, the occhio d'aquila left a warmth where it trailed on his skin, as if Ezio had reached out and touched him himself.
But why he felt the need to use it, he was too afraid to ask.
“If you need anything,” he spoke, shivering when his friend raked his gaze over him, then returned to as he was before, out of the depths and back into a world he and Leonardo could share. “I will be downstairs.”
What he would do downstairs (other than pace uselessly, which he was sure to do) had yet to be seen.
Ezio paused. “You’re exhausted.”
Not untrue, as much as he hated to admit it. He’d had an earlier morning than planned, a good deal of commotion in the streets below—nothing more than a regular, fist-to-fist fight, as he was careful to check—waking up not only him, but others who were also enjoy a night’s sleep.
But Ezio couldn’t have known that. Did he wear his tiredness so plainly?
Ezio must’ve seen his perplexion, because he huffed, amused. “You cannot see yourself. I can,” and then, scooting over, “Come.”
He hesitated, staring at the empty spot in front of him. It wasn’t a small bed, but if they were to share, it would be a tight fit. If he were to move, or roll over without thinking…
“I told you, Leonardo,” Ezio interrupted his thoughts. “I did not come here to be a burden. I will not steal your bed from you.”
That again. But Leonardo did not have the willpower to argue with him, nor deny his request any longer.
With a sigh, he acquiesced. “Alright.”
Ezio smiled, relieved, and it was so real, so honest, that Leonardo was suddenly bothered that he had to blow out the candles.
It was a quick process, preparing for bed, much faster than Ezio and his endless amount of layers (in reality, it was only three, which he’d taken note of so long ago he could no longer remember a time he didn’t know.) Ezio waited patiently for him to finish.
He placed his shoes at the end of the bed, right next to Ezio’s. It felt weird. It felt right.
He climbed under the blanket, and only when he started to lay and make himself comfortable did Ezio do the same.
Leonardo waited to see how Ezio laid—if on his side, which direction would he face? Towards Leonardo? Away? If he faced towards, would Leonardo do the same? Or would he face the other direction?—which, of course, was on his back. Leonardo did the same.
They stared at the ceiling through the darkness. Or, that’s what he assumed. His eyes had yet to adjust to the lack of light.
He couldn’t help but wonder if Ezio’s sight suffered in the dark as his own did. If him being an assassin had anything to do with it, if he was trained to tell shapes apart in the dark.
Did his sense allow him to circumvent that entirely? He’d said the world became dark, but did that mean he could not see it at all? Or was he still aware of what was ahead of him regardless?
Ezio shuffled next to him.
But such a thing could not be possible. If there was no light to reflect off the people around him, there would be no way to tell what was there and what wasn’t, even if the eye was capable of directing what light it detected.
That was under the assumption that Ezio’s eyes worked like any other man’s, in that they took in light for the brain to interpret into solid objects, but that may very well not be the case.
But would there be a physical difference when in use, if that were the truth? As far as he was aware of, Ezio’s eyes clouded the same as someone who was deep in thought, or something akin to it. There was no alter in coloration, or shape, or anything to prove that his abilities went beyond that of a special mind controlling normal, human eyes.
Next to him, Ezio shuffled again, breathing in, then out.
Of course, there would be no way to tell what went on without doing a full examination, or, past that, a dissection. Leonardo recoiled at the thought.
Ezio, unexpectedly, grunted, propped himself up on his elbow, reached down into his clothes—underneath the blankets, which Leonardo will question later—and pulled out a small object. Leonardo couldn’t see it clearly, still adjusting to the darkness.
Ezio leaned to the side—his side—his hand brushing Leonardo’s shoulder, just barely, just enough, and dropped whatever it was to the floor. It hit the wood with a metallic clatter.
His astonishment was evident as Ezio laid back down.
“You had that this whole time?” He squawked.
Ezio shuffled again, tugging on the blanket, stealing some from Leonardo’s side. “It was getting uncomfortable,” he grumbled.
“Somehow, you still manage to surprise me.”
He heard a chuckle from next to him.
“You are not used to sleeping with weapons?” Leonardo asked.
“I am used to doing what I have to.”
His breath hitched. “Of course.”
A lull, in which Leonardo returned to staring resolutely at the ceiling, and nothing else.
“You know,” he started, because even in the darkness, his mind was whirling. “I understand it. Keeping a weapon on you, I mean.”
He had Ezio’s attention, he could tell, though he gave no reply.
“But you do not have to worry about that with me,” he finished.
Beside him, Ezio stiffened. Then, he rested himself on his elbow again, hovering over Leonardo.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark, finally, and here he could see Ezio’s features, just as brilliant in the dark as they were in the light, even as his expression was twisted to that of confusion—if confusion had the same glare in it that Ezio wore now—nose scrunched, brow furrowed.
“What are you saying?”
Leonardo looked up at him, at his confusion, at his eyes, so full of something, and Leonardo had that urge again, the one that he focused very hard to ignore.
“I-” he stopped. What was he saying? That Ezio could trust him? That he didn’t need to be afraid? “I don’t know.” He admitted.
Ezio studied him for a moment, trying to find whatever he was looking for in the bags under Leonardo’s eyes. This time, he seemed to have found it.
“Ridiculous,” he mumbled to himself. And then, to Leonardo, “You think I would strip myself of my protection if I believed I would need it?”
The pile on his desk mocked him out of the corner of his eye. “That is not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?”
“I meant,” he hoped he sounded more collected than he felt. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Leonardo,” Ezio sighed, and suddenly his exhaustion returned in full force, making him crumble in on himself, head hanging from his shoulders.
He tilted forward, only slightly, but it was enough for his head to brush against Leonardo’s sternum.
It wasn’t the burned he expected, but warm, like sitting at the edge of a fire, and it spread through his chest, awakening his nerves and setting them ablaze.
Hesitantly, he raised his hand, before softly resting it on the back of Ezio’s neck. He’d held him here before, in different circumstances, none of which were quite like the one they were in now. Knowing that only added to the intimacy of it.
They rested there, together, for as long as they needed, as long as Ezio needed, because that’s all this was, Ezio reaching for him in a time of need, of uncertainty. It was him pulling his fragmented thoughts back together.
His forehead gently came to rest against his chest. Leonardo said nothing, just breathed in the smell of him, reveled in the weight of him. Things to help him remember this moment, when it was over.
Ezio, who’s back must’ve been aching at this point, mumbled something into Leonardo’s shirt.
“What?” He asked, and Ezio shivered, a small, unseeable thing, and he would’ve missed it had he not been so close. He didn’t answer.
Leonardo slid his hand down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder, and, out of the pure need to feel, to know, dug his fingers into the muscle there, testing, taking in the sturdiness.
Ezio tensed, and for a moment, Leonardo was sure that he made a mistake, that he woke Ezio up from the state they’d fallen into—together, they were together, his mind added rather unhelpfully—but then he relaxed, loosening up even more.
“I know you are good,” he spoke while Leonardo traced circles into his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I don’t need anything else to tell me that.”
Leonardo stopped.
Ezio raised his head and looked at him in question.
Leonardo cradled the back of his head again, tangling his fingers into dark hair, then pulled his closer, placing their foreheads together.
Ezio did not fight it, closing his eyes. Leonardo did the same.
He could feel Ezio’s breath on his lips, and surely he could hear his heart pounding, just as he felt Ezio’s under the tips of his fingers.
This was his. There may be someone out there who won his affections, won his loyalty, but his confidence, his trust, those were Leonardo’s. No one else’s.
“Thank you,” he spoke softly.
Ezio hummed, and it vibration rumbled in his head, under his hand, travelled through the rest of his bones and made a home beneath his skin.
Ezio tipped forward again, and slotted his lips against Leonardo’s.
It was gentle, not that it could be anything else, with the night they had. They moved with each other, pushing and pulling like the tides, with no pressure to hurry or rush.
At some point, Leonardo pushed himself up, and Ezio rolled off his elbow and back down to the bed, hand coming to brace Leonardo’s cheek as they moved, brushing under his eye with his thumb. His stomach swooped, and he pressed a little harder against him.
That was how they separated—Ezio looking up at him, tired and flushed, both out of them out of breath. Ezio smiled.
He kissed him again without another thought.
It was after this that he realized what he’d done. He stiffened.
Ezio ran his thumb along Leonardo’s brow. “What is it?” He sounded satisfied, and Leonardo had to stifle his pride at the fact that he was the one responsible for it.
He held the hand that stroked his face, leaning into it. He didn’t want to approach this, not now, not when he could finally have a piece of Ezio to himself, but his conscience was weighing on him, and he couldn’t think of moving on without saying anything first.
“There is someone else, isn’t there?”
Ezio squinted. “What?”
It was cruel, forcing it out of him like this. “You have someone,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
His chest ached, not how he’d grown used to, which made it all the more painful as Ezio sat up, forcing Leonardo back.
“You said you worried for their safety,” was the only explanation he could offer.
Ezio stared at him, unreadable. Then, just as before, his eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth turned upwards.
“Leonardo,” he said.
“Yes?”
And then he surged forward and kissed him again.
Leonardo leaned into it, into him—he couldn’t help it—until they parted once more.
“I was worried for you,” Ezio breathed.
Leonardo stilled.
All of it, his fear, his dread, was pointless. There was no one else that Ezio would have to return to after tonight, or however long he planned to stay. No one would keep Ezio away from him.
“Ah.”
Ezio said nothing. Instead, he laid down, and Leonardo went with him.
They laid together, legs intertwined, and Leonardo listened to him breathe, felt the rise and fall of the chest beside him, and now, side by side, he felt a calm overtake him.
He’d almost drifted to sleep when he heard Ezio murmur into his hair, “Smartest man in Venezia, they say.”
“Who?” He managed to mumble. “Really?”
“No.”