A calendar is unnecessary, he thinks. A calendar cannot do what a journal can, and what better way to track dates than to inscribe each and every memory into parchment?

So, he writes: dips his quill into the cool ink and scrawls finances, drawings, thoughts, expressions, and findings. He recreates each day onto papers that cushion the tables and floors of his workshop, much to the dismay of his apprentices, and he animates each dream as the days pass. Weeks, as well. The sun emerges only to dip back into behind the hills.

Or so he thinks.

For it is not two days later that he finds the noon inverting itself for blatant outrage. Or maybe it is just himself who wishes to throw all his goods and knead his temples. Si, and curse holy deities. And expel all breaths from his lungs. And, if he is most fortunate, push over that annoying street performer who cannot tell the difference between acrobatics and making an ass of himself.

But, alas, he is only a common man, and a common man is not that great of a fool to discard all of his fruit and niceties without coercion. Thus, he simply chooses to look to the right and left, perhaps sneak a small peak in every direction the wind blows. Then, walk faster. And faster. And faster. And scuttle by the guards.

Only to awkwardly catch his seat upon the wooden bench next to a hooded figure.

And the loudness of the plebeians maps out an entire new terrain of silence.


"What did I tell you about appearing in public again?" he whispers under bated breath. His back is hunched to dampen their exchange, but his head locks to his right in question. So is Ezio's. But Ezio never really cares for the nature of light versus shadow, nor does he welcome all things canon, so he merely shrugs. Laughs a little.

That does not make Leonardo laugh a little.

As if Ezio ever understands this.

"Buon pomeriggio, good sir. I am also very pleased to see you, as well." Joins his hands in casual silence before he quirks his lips. Leonardo finds himself spoiling his vanities as he looks upon that old scar in exasperated denial, and his mind betrays his conscience. It happens all too sudden.

"See? You are truly glad to see me."


"I am simply surprised that they have not taken your hide for a French carpet." Indeed. "And what are you doing out here? The city is still in unrest." His voice drops. "The French are expecting their supposed dues the Borgia could not repay. And you, Brave Sir Robin, are prancing about outside, knowing that your status as a public menace—" With a tone of a consul. "—is making your poor neighbors in Tiber have uneven heart palpitations!"

He is done. Or is he not done? Ezio says nothing in response. He himself might have those uneven heart palpitations soon if those sentries near the ruins continue to stare at them like hawks near roosting mice. And the rest of the population, if he thinks about it. Through the windows. And walls. Each second can bring about a throng of outraged soldiers demanding their heads as conspirators, and, God, he realizes that panic seizes him.

Strange how all things passed in the matter of five seconds until Ezio speaks.

"I could not wait for tonight."

Tonight? "Ah, well, you already have everything I have to offer." His throat itches for some odd reason: He finds out that it is exasperation past the due date for relief. He does not wish to be rude, yet he cannot help noting that Ezio must possess some high level of idiocy to just trudge to the bench and squat down as if daisies are growing out of his buttocks—all out in broad daylight.

What a madman.

An extreme madman.

A foolish hoot who flashes another pleased expression before grabbing his wrist.

"So you think."

Leonardo does not think. He already knows.

"But I did not come for what I already own."


Two surreal minutes land him in this predicament of the queerest sorts.

"Out here? Are you mad?"

Ezio nods. "Mad enough. I cannot wait any longer."

His instinct to fend off lunacy is quick, but the other man's desperation is quicker. A strong hand pulls him in for the kill by the neck: It is merciless, sudden, opposed to every hindrance. It is what silences him as Ezio's lips touch his throat and claim his flesh.

He breaks free. Barely. "Mierda, calm yourself! What is the matter with you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Oh, , it does matter."

"What matters?"




"It matters not."

"What? This outrage?"

"No, this—reason. It does not matter. I simply want."

"And I am simply confused."

"And I," Ezio breathes, "have always loved you that way."

And his lips and teeth and tongue are upon Leo's nape, ravenous and domineering in the way they control the tilt of the latter's head. Leo does not understand—he will never understand why his breath pushes out of his lungs in a short burst instead of fueling his impetus to resist and maintain decorum. Five. Four. Six. There must already be six violent marks littering the expanse of his neck.

Out in the open.

Where they are not alone.

Not alone.

"Then, not here." Pleading. He has to be pleading, or Ezio will never relent like he falsely promises. "We will be seen."

Ezio keeps on following the vein that leads up to his chin. Maps out his jaw and the shell of his ears. Then, slides his ardency over Leo's forehead and nose before he hits the curve of an upturned mouth.


"You are sure?"

"Aye. I do not simply claim; I promise."

"Well, those people: They can come by this place anyti—"

Then, let them come. His mind runs rampant with Ezio's assertion. Makes him grapple for a broad back that connects with a torso tightly pressed against his own. Makes him realize that they will never leave the bench at this rate. Like they will be able to stop yourself from coming first.


Like they will be able to stop your hand upon his cock and his hand upon yours.

It is absurd, he realizes, how quickly he responds to fingertips grazing the small of his back. It is even more absurd as to why the guards and nearby people have not already noticed this exchange. It is the most absurd when he tightens his grip and accelerates the pace to completion. And the catch of it all is Ezio breathing harshly into the folds of his cloak when he himself instigates this …

Thing. For all to see, no less. The sky warms to the hue of resting fields, to nighttime. No one and anyone can see.

Subtly. He must be quiet, or everyone will hear his muffled curse when the tight beginnings of familiarity pull at his stomach. He struggles, but he manages. He looks and sees Ezio struggling, but he manages. So they both struggle and manage while their breaths catch and seize their throats.

Faster. Harder. God.

"It is not enough."

It is never enough.


He is gone. Hit. Done. Robbed of all rationale. His release cuts across a desperate draw of air and makes his fingers curl into Ezio's thigh.

And Ezio.

Ezio is grabbing his hair and slamming his mouth down onto his own and—

—claiming the riches of his touch and smell and taste and—


—forcing him to grip the bench while he—


Cristo, that hand!—




—falls back to where he starts.


"You could have just visited tonight" is what he says right after, and Ezio catches his gaze before he rearranges his attire and leans back against the crumbled wall. There is silence—it is not strange. Leonardo always knows the answers yet ends up asking for the sake of routine.

"I could have, but I did not."

"You chose not to."

"And it was good."

So it is.

Not that Leonardo agrees outwardly. Although the bench creaks in great enthusiasm to mock him.

So the dusk descends into a hazy aura of sleep. Leonardo says once more that he has nothing left to offer, but Ezio disagrees with a pleased curve of his mouth. Thus, they follow the path down the street up to Leonardo's chambers where the air breezes past, and backs hit the bed successively.

Truly, he has nothing left to offer.

For Ezio takes naught but all.