"Stop being a child."

Cesare burrowed even deeper under the covers. "Take your leave, Auditore: I wish to be left alone."

"It is just a remedy, not poison—I promise I am not attempting an assassination."

A cough. "I am fine."


Three more hacks. "It is merely an aftereffect of my conviviality."

"Are you sure?"

Hoarse wheezes. "Por supuesto."

"Truly certain?"

"I said—"

A taste of his own medicine should do the trick.


Cesare idly toyed with the ends of the other's hair, resting his head on his arm as his fingers fiddled with a new gold clock. "I have turned twenty-four, and I have not even noticed the quickness of the year."

"Time flies: You should have known that when you were dealing with me initially."

"Sí, sí," he languidly continued, his expression soon morphing into one that would have been considered a peculiar version of a pout. "And I feel … quite old."

A scoff. "Just ignore the rheumatic geezer beside you—he must be younger than a suckling."

Chuckling, the Spaniard propped himself up on one elbow and hovered over the assassin, quirking his lips in amusement before molding them over another while his fingertips traced a cleanly shaven chin; he lazily continued the heated exchange as he trailed his hands downwards, past the neck, resting at broad shoulders, to slide back up and tangle themselves into Ezio's hair. Contentedly, he gave one more slow kiss at the corner of a curved mouth and pulled away, plopping back onto his pillow in drowsiness.

"You may be an old-timer, but you still function pretty damn well."

Grins all around. "So, I guess I will just have to keep you for now."


"Feed me."

Ezio cocked an eyebrow.

"I am hungry."

Incredulity. "Then, get off of the bed and help yourself—you have arms and legs for a reason."

"I am Cesare Borgia: I do not need to partake in such exertion, so feed me."

A tick. "And what am I?"

Oh, if only the grin on his face could manifest the universe.

"My personal walking breakfast."