"Okay, guys—what do you want for dinner?"

"I am not hungry, so I will be fine without a meal."

"Really? It's been seven hours, though: You should at least eat a sandwich, or something."

"All is well; your friend Lucy was kind enough to buy me … a hamburger."

"Oh, okay. All right: Ezio, what do you want to—what the hell?"


"You mind taking your hand off of my ass? And tell me what you want to eat before I give you Cheerios again."

"Aye, messere—do not exert yourself; my dinner is right here."

" … That is disturbingly corny."


Desmond finds the mornings to be defined through schisms.

Altair doesn't say much at seven a.m., not that he could blame him, at all; he merely rolls over on the bed and allows his arm to comfortably rest around his waist, and Desmond can't really tell if he's conscious or not, but it doesn't matter—he feels for the familiar stubble along the angle of his jaw, and the outline of satisfaction is the whole of comprehension.

On the other hand, Ezio is quite different.

Where the hell he gets the sudden boost of energy, Desmond doesn't know—all he perceives as he registers the sunlight is the other straddling his hips, the curve of his mouth on a slow descent to his neck and the dip of his abdomen. There's that deviant grind of his hips, and he stills and breathes and clenches his teeth and oh fuck those hands they're grabbing his

Desmond finds that he can't really explain the mornings, anymore.

Ezio doesn't mind.


Ezio burrowed his face in Desmond's neck, lifting the other's leg higher as he pushed his fingers into the mouth he claimed countless times. "—and then, I kiss you madly; and touch you—God, I will touch you: fuck you." A groan. "Can you feel my cock, Desmond?" He snapped his hips. "Can you feel me deep inside you?"


"You want it dirty," the assassin hoarsely continued, his satisfaction guttural, "then, I will give it to you dirty: every way you like it—"

The sudden interruption was candid, set off by an acute clearing of the throat that held no pretenses of mollification; as the bed dipped under the new weight, the air was much more kinetic, much more compact, as if the heat that radiated off of their bodies was compiled into something darker, to make their breaths catch as calloused hands gripped their heads.

Altair pressed his hands down their forms.

"Make it up to me."




"How about a little kiss?" Ezio teases, pushing down the hood of Desmond's jacket. "You know, for making the lasagna."

Altair grabs Desmond's wrists, and it's all over—his lips mold over ones that were unexpected, the hand curling instinctively around his hips, the heated exchange bold, eyes narrowing at the playful indignation displayed in the other's gaze. Incessantly, he turns his head and blocks the paths the younger male could have taken to break away, and soon, there is no move to do as such, though a slight inquisition still rings above them. He could perceive the entirety of the scene that still smells of their midday meal, and his lips tug in amusement.

Ezio grins.

But Altair is faster.

"Wait until you taste my chocolate mousse."


Desmond arched his brow. "Hey, man—Altair is sleeping."

Chuckling, Ezio turned the other's face toward his and grabbed his buttocks, pushing the warm body even closer to the point where the two were chest to chest. He brushed his lips across fluttering lids and smiled.

"Do not worry—that old man cannot be woken, even if I fucked you over his ass."

Incredulity: "You wouldn't."

Ezio smirked.

"Good boys never lie."