Botbot, remember that one time you complained that nobody ever wrote Cesare as a bottom? Well here, let me take care of you for once.


He doesn't jump when the thud comes, the sound of something heavy and real on his window ledge; the curtains rustling and the figure casting an impossible shadow across his floor. Something like a perched bird: feral and sharp, graceful. He just waits, watching with a bright, expectant gaze as the older boy climbs through his window. The motions are familiar, practiced; they take him back to crisp October days and pumpkins and apple cider and a time when being on the second floor made him a world away. Oh, how things have changed.

He doesn't say anything, just watches, sits up in his bed. And soon muddy shoes are toed off and the boy's padding across his floor as silent as a ghost. Cesare vaguely wonders if this is yet another phantom, a too real dream sent to torment him. But the creak of his bed, the hard dip of the worn mattress, is very real, the eyes boring down into his as Ezio kneels before him, hovering with his height even now. His eyes…dark and endless, full to the brim with so many fucking secrets. For a moment it makes Cesare angry.

There are no words, no empty greetings, no apologies, no inquires. Just Ezio, finally Ezio, pressing against him hard. His mouth is dry and the stubble scratches his skin. But suddenly he's hungry, hungrier than he remembers ever being, his tongue tracing that scar. Hands push themselves into Ezio's hair, tugging out the rubber band so as to twist his fingers in it, pulling tightly in retribution, lets all his frustration seep through.

Cesare doesn't ask where he's been, why he hasn't come sooner when community college is only across town. He doesn't ask about the new splotches on Ezio's neck, the marks that shine in the faint moonlight, still deep and dark. And Ezio doesn't mention the new bruises and scrapes his hands find instantly. His hands are big and warm, firm, calloused fingers mapping out his body like it's the first time. He always does that, is always so fucking gentle when he finds fresh bruises, touching him feather soft like he'll break or some shit. They're nothing new, nothing he can't handle. Mainly crueler boys at school who don't matter, boys who come away in worse condition. Some are from Father though, always pushing Cesare, without rest. Always wanting him to be better, to follow that path that he's laid out for him.

The gentleness of his touch sends Cesare back. Suddenly he's fourteen again and just starting to understand, to shed the confusion of ignorant innocence. Ezio had touched him just like this that first time. The sun had been bright and hot, the air sticky. Sticky…just like Ezio's lips had been. His mouth tasting like watermelon and coke as he pressed Cesare against the gate of the fence. He'd smelled of freshly cut grass and potting soil. Their shirts sticking to sweat-soaked skin.

But he dashes the memory from his mind like a rock to the lake surface (just like when they were still so small, Ezio teaching him how to skip rocks). Because that was a long time ago and things have changed. Cesare's in high school, and Ezio across town at college. He's no longer just a hop over the fence should he need him. Which he does, but he won't admit that, his pride won't let him. And Ezio's usually too busy to come home; not so busy with classes and busier with the women who attend them, and the parties that thrive over the weekends.

His sheets are pulled back, tangled around their feet, so Ezio can pull his shirt over his head. He grips the back of his own and tugs, shaking the hair out of his face. He pushes Cesare back down, obviously eager against the boy's thigh. And then there are his lips again, exploring and demanding, and Cesare gives and gives and gives, wanting nothing more than to be devoured and filled with pleasure and satisfaction.

He can feel them on Ezio's back, feels as if they're burning his fingertips. The crisscrossed scars. Whether they show or not, Cesare can feel each and every one. Long, thin welts from schoolyard fights. The little raised shapes from peculiar mishaps and dangerous stunts. Parallel gouges from women and girls who cling to him, their heads thrown back in ecstasy, the severity in direct relation to how loud they screamed. Cesare's are on there too, somewhere. They're short and fairly shallow, the ends deep and round. But he can't always feel those. Some days he can, but most….

But that doesn't matter right now, because Ezio is here. He's here now, warm against him, solid and reassuring. Because even though it's been three months and Ezio's obviously been with many others since then, he came back. Just for him. And Ezio is whispering sweet nothings in his ear, touching him all over. As if he's the only one. His hands are steady like always, but Cesare's tremble against him, are unsteady with the eager anticipation for what he knows is to come.

Because no matter what happens, no matter how many times Ezio sneaks out of his life, he always comes climbing back in.

Always.