Ezio finds Leonardo's hands to be unbelievably beautiful.

They're perfect like that—warm and calloused, a pleasure to grasp, a gift to study, a treasure to behold; he likes to wake up in the mornings and grasp them in his own, turning the pair over and over, studying the curves and angles, tracing the veins with his very eyes, as he kisses each knuckle gently and smoothes his lips over the palms. Never had he thought such mere appendages could form masterpieces and unimaginable inventions while treating the most delicate of birds, things that contradicted the various scars and indents littered around their planes—one trail, three whispers against those wrists, and he worships them in the early light to the sound of warbling pigeons and faint snores, perhaps even pressing down as if he wanted to melt into those limbs and ingrain them into his memory. It was without a doubt that da Vinci's hands were the loveliest of his world.

That, Leonardo knows the best.


"You can take it—right, Leonardo?" Ezio huskily rasped against his nape, laving down another kiss mark that blazed crimson in the dull lamplight. "You can take it, again and again and again and again—"

"Dio mio! Ezio, what is going o—"

Leo's eyes immediate widened when the younger male pushed him all the way down onto his member, hoarsely crying out into a mouth that hungrily took it in as inviting as another tug on his length, too blinded to see the confident smirk on the other's face; for a while, he was momentarily stunned, moaning a tad too highly to a sharp snap of eager hips, his fingernails biting into muscled shoulders, before a tiny sliver of rationality flooded his mind. "W-We just did i-it—Christo!—a m-m-minute ago!"

The assassin bit his collarbone and drove himself deeper. "Si, si—but it is not enough: It never is."

Yes, it never was.

Leonardo should've known that.


Ezio was not happy.

"Caro mio, how long will they stay?" he slowly asked, attempting to sound nonchalant whilst eyeing the pen of evil enemies that bore down on him. "I mean, your studio is getting very crowded."

Leonardo smiled, practicing a soft call to one of the pudgy freaks, extremely frustrating the peeved assassin when it cooed back and nuzzled its head against a soft cheek. "Well, as you know, these poor things are suffering from second-degree injuries. It wouldn't be right to send them out, right away."

Okay … "So … when is that?"

A thoughtful pause. "Oh, about two weeks."

"Two weeks?"

Say goodbye to indifference, Grand Master.

"Eh? What's wrong? Ezio?" There was a concerned hand on his shoulder/ "Ezio?"

Sorely attempting to avoid hyperventilation, but failing miserably, the younger man tightly gripped onto a nearby chair and massaged his temples, a protocol for control nagging his plagued mind; Dio! To think that those ugly bastards would touch that hand! That arm! That shoulder! That face! Just imagining what those scoundrels of birds would do to Leo nearly coerced him to dispatch a belt full of throwing knives. Only he was supposed to have his attention, damn it!

And there was also the matter of their favorite 'activities' …

"Ah, yes! There's something else I have to tell you."

Ezio grumbled. "What?"

"The little guys will be sleeping with us."

Not a day later, there were more than a hundred heralds and posters that advertised a mysterious 'pigeon exterminator'.

Now, who exactly would that be?