Hullo~. I'm going to give up apologizing for lateness, 'coz it happens every time...

So yeah, something new happening in this one. ^-^ *heeheehee*

Read and Review, pwease~.

"Buon Giorno, Uncle!"A certain Italian assassin sauntered into the Auditore kitchen, waving to his seated Zio.

Said relative looked up from his breakfast, eyebrow raised as he took in his nephew's chirpy disposition.

Glancing out the window at the morning sun, which hovered just above the horizon, Mario's eyebrow rose a little more.

He looked at Ezio.

Out the window.

Back at Ezio.

The window.

Ezio.

At this point, the elder Auditore had gained an exceedingly expressive 'WTF?' face. The other only smiled idiotically for a little longer, rocking to and fro on the balls of his feet.

"…Ezio…," Mario placed his piece of bread down carefully onto his plate. "You realize that it is morning, right?"

Humming a confirmation, he turned to the pantry, the Florentine beginning to sort through the various ingredients.

"…Early in the morning," his uncle stressed, cautious as he observed a nonchalant Ezio. "Very early."

"Yes, we've already confirmed that," the Italian rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "What about it?"

Mario stared for a little longer. "Ezio… the last time I got a maid to wake you up at a time like this, she barely escaped having your throwing knife in her skull."

The young Auditore shrugged. "Hey, I told her I was sorry, didn't I?" he smirked. "…Anyway, after a few of my unique 'expressions of remorse'… she was more than happy to forgive me."

His uncle shook his head, unable to help smiling wryly. "Yes, there were a fair few more of those 'expressions' than I would have liked…"

"What can I say? I'm thorough."

"Yes, yes, but that's not the point," Mario shot his nephew a disbelieving look. "My question is, how the hell are you even awake at this time?"

Ezio scratched the back of his head. "Dunno," he shrugged, before wrapping up the parcel that was his breakfast, slipping it under his arm as he turned to leave the room. "Well, got to go, Zio – places to go, things to do… asses to grope…"

With that, the legendary, agile, ruthless, deadly assassin –who had the ability to make guards run screaming for their lives– skipped (yes, skipped) away.

And the elder Auditore sat there, food completely forgotten.

He pinched himself.

…Just to be sure.

~( ^_^ )~

"Here."

"Huh? Oh – thanks, Altair."

Desmond took a swig from the offered water-skin, before returning to his former hunched over position on the bench. Sweat continued to pour down his face, his breath coming out in harsh gusts.

That was Altair's idea of an early-morning jog?

He could already feel the couch-potato part of him shrivelling up and dying.

…Painfully.

Shaking his head, the assassin-in-training rose to a normal sitting position, head tossed back as he exhaled loudly.

His 'mentor' looked towards him, eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly (his disbelieving face).

"You cannot possibly be tired alr–."

"Don't." Altair was silenced with a finger to his lips. Desmond glared up at him, his scowl a thin line. "…Don't."

The Syrian's eyebrow rose a millimetre higher (his shocked face). "What are–."

The novice made a tutting sound… which shouldn't have sounded menacing, but somehow Desmond managed. "Don't."

Gold eyes searched his own, Altair's gaze shadowed from beneath his hood. And then a gloved hand rose, agile fingers wrapping around Desmond's wrist.

The American froze at the contact, blinking.

Slowly, the assassin pulled away his hand, Desmond doing nothing as he watched on in silence. Their eyes never broke contact, not even as the other leaned forward, his face inches from Desmond's.

"Don't what?"

All the breath in his lungs seemed to freeze at that moment, the brunette still unable to move as –.

"Hullo, you two!"

And suddenly he could move again – very, very quickly. This was proven as Desmond all but shot off the bench, hand wrenched out of Altair's grip before you could say 'Ezio'.

He said it anyway, though. "Ezio!"

There stood the Italian in all his (big-headed) glory, grinning widely at the pair. Turning to the still-jittery American, he opened his arms…

…And pulled the other into a hug…

Altair's eyes widened ever-so-slightly (his 'OMG-what-the-fuck' Face).

…Before planting a big, wet smooch on Desmond's cheek.

The assassin-in-training's face was immediately engulfed in red, mouth falling open slightly.

"How are you today, Dezmond?"

It was as if a tomato had replaced the male's head (luckily, that wasn't actually the case, as tomatoes, as delicious as they are, would not, aesthetically, have been a suitable replacement).

And suddenly, the American was gone.

Both assassins looked on, one in amusement and one in surprise as the novice reached the Villa in record time, all but leaving a hurricane of dust behind him in his haste.

There was silence.

Then Altair's eyes narrowed.

And no, he was not pouting petulantly.

…Much.

~( ^_^ )~

If there was one thing that Altair did not like, it was Not Knowing.

And there had been a lot of Not Knowing occurring lately.

He did Not Know why Ezio was strutting about like an over-fluffed turkey.

He did Not Know why said Italian's little sister squealed and ran away every time she set eyes on either of the two novices.

He did Not Know why the mercenaries were so Allah-damn loud and the whores so… whorey.

He did Not Know the meaning of Life, and of the Universe…but that was a different matter.

Most importantly, though, He did Not Know why Desmond refused to even be within the same vicinity as a certain annoying Florentine.

Yes, there were a lot of Not Knows there.

And thus, Altair was most definitely not a Happy Chappie.

…Not that he wanted to be one anyway – it sounded absurd.

Thud. The muffled sound reached the Syrian's ever-alert ears, the assassin looking towards the thick wooden door closest to him. "Fuck!"

Curiosity… and boredom… overtook his sense of privacy, Altair opening the door and entering the high-ceilinged study that the Strange Old Italian man seemed to love so dearly.

Well, that was handy.

His biggest Not Know was right in front of him, hefting a mammoth of a novel onto the wooden table that took up the centre of the room.

"Dezmund."

"Hurk!" The other male made a sound halfway between a frog and a cat coughing up fur-balls (not that frogs coughed up fur-balls).

Thud.

"God-Fucking-Dammit!"

Throwing his hands up in the air, the American gave up, turning instead to Altair. "Did you have to do that?"

"…Do what?"

"Sneak up on me like that!" Desmond growled, placing his hands on his hips (it's an extremely manly thing to do). "God, you're like a cat!"

Altair blinked.

No, you are…

But he refrained from voicing this, for various reasons:

It would be bad for his rep.

Using that as a comeback would make him seem unoriginal.

Assassins do not think of kitty cats… Much.

Desmond could be a tad frightening when annoyed.

Instead, he settled for the much more inventive retort of, "…I'm not a cat…"

This only seemed to make the other more frustrated, though.

~( ^_^ )~

Shaking his head, the novice made another attempt at picking up the dropped book (it was ginormous – think of Claudia's mammoth 'Book of Amazingness' and then think larger), grunting as he hauled it over to a bookshelf.

"What did you want anyway, Altair?" he sighed, shoving it onto the shelf with a huff.

The Syrian was silent.

Desmond rolled his eyes, throwing his head back in irritation. "Seriously, if you don't want anything, could you please get out?" he groaned, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not in the mood for this, and– ."

"Why are you evading him?"

The novice tensed. "…Evading who…?"

Altair's eyes narrowed. "You know who I speak of, Dezmund."

"Well, even if I did know," the American said, looking to the side. "Why should I tell you?"

The Master Assassin crossed his arms in the menacing stance that he utilised so often. "There is no 'why', only 'will' in this conversation." His voice was low, shards of ice embedded in his words.

The other flinched for a moment, before his own brown orbs met the burning honey of Altair, glaring back just as heatedly. "'Will…?'"

The Syrian's gaze was sharp. "Yes, or is your hearing now impaired?"

"You…" The change in the novice's temperament was almost audible. Heat bursting forth, his eyebrows furrowed in rage, Desmond snarled, "Who the fuck do you think you are, ordering me around like– ."

The other was on him before he could even blink, a hand fisting his shirt as he was shoved back onto the bookcase. Pain shot through his back and neck, a grunt leaving his lips as he all but bounced off the shelves.

"Who am I…?" the assassin was far too dangerous, far too close, and far too angry.

"Urgh…" Desmond scrabbled at the other's wrist, trying to ease the pressure on his collar.

Altair's dark-gold eyes were burning holes in his head. "For your information, Dezmund, I am your senior, your teacher, your superior."

"No you're fucking not."

"Well, I do not see you pinning me to furniture," was the replied hiss.

But the trapped male refused to relent, also incensed. Jaw tight, he settled for gripping at the tight hold on his neck, brown eyes burning with stubborn intent. "Fuck you."

And then Desmond could barely breathe, an elbow digging painfully into his diaphragm as he was pushed even further up the bookcase. "What did you just say?"

"Maybe–," he gasped, sucking in an excruciating breath as he attempted to speak. The male struggled to take in air through his mouth, feet already dangling off the ground from the anger-fuelled strength of the other. "Maybe you're the one with the hearing problem, huh, Altair?" he grinned audaciously down at the assassin, sweat beginning to form on his forehead.

An animalistic snarl, and a strange sense of vertigo, before white spots were dancing across his eyes, pain piercing the back of his head. "Agh…," he groaned, his head spinning, and hurting.

Then, looking upwards from his new position on the hard, tiled floor, he witnessed one of the most terrifying scenes of his young life. The other straddled him, powerful thighs trapping the novice's own as a firm palm was placed on his chest. That, he could deal with.

The expression on the other's face, he could not.

Altair… was livid.

There was really no other word for it. And as he gazed into dark gold eyes that swirled with rage, Desmond felt his blood freeze.

Bad.

A shunk as the assassin's hidden blade was released, and the young American suddenly realised just how deep shit just got.

Very bad.

The other's face was now of a frightening enraged neutrality, Altair gazing at the blade in his palm, face expressing none of the anger that swam in his eyes. "Hm."

And then the other's stare was on him.

Oh God.

The hand on his chest pressed downwards, the sharp blade moving nearer, inch by inch. The Syrian's movements were painfully slow; mocking his inability to force himself free. By all technicalities, his arms were free, but there was no way in hell he was moving.

"Now tell me… Dezmund…," Altair murmured, weapon scraping lightly over the skin of his face. The American sucked in a breath, holding it carefully as he watched the glint of the metal from the corner of his eye. "What was your answer to my question again…?"

"Uh…" He swallowed nervously.

The assassin traced patterns along his jaw, edge digging in a hair's breadth deeper.

Desmond's mind scrambled for options.

…Not that there were all that many. At this stage, the truth wasn't exactly negotiable.

The… truth…

Desmond shifted uncomfortably, eyes refusing to meet his. "Ezio, um…," he murmured, head turning to the side. "He…"

"Speak properly, Novice," the Syrian snapped.

"Ezio…," the male was struggling to get his words out, seemingly caught between embarrassment and fear. "…May have done some things…"

And then, in this god-forsaken situation, his cheeks had the audacity to blush.

Within a second, everything froze.

Altair's honey eyes were suddenly wide, in an expression as close to un-hindered shock he had ever seen the other wear.

Did he… did he guess…?

The Syrian was a statue – unmoving, unspeaking, unbreathing.

A shiver ran down Desmond's spine, as his ears rang with the utter silence that filled the cavernous room. The other's expression was impenetrable, and he could do nothing but wait in apprehension.

The rasp of the hidden blade returning to its sheathe.

And then the world was turned inside out.

Lips were on his, rough, demanding, domineering, attacking his mouth relentlessly. His head was pushed further into the floor, Desmond's mind spinning in absolute confusion.

Grasping onto the frayed edges of his swirling thoughts, he attempted to tie them back together into a semblance of some sense. His hands, previously unmoving, rose to grip Altair's shoulders, pushing firmly.

Their lips separated, Desmond taking in a gasping breath. "What the hell are you– ?"

But the other would not allow that. His hands were seized by another pair, shoved onto the tiles – he instinctively struggled, hips bucking and trapped hands tugging as he protested.

"Altair, stop!"

Darkened honey eyes narrowed, the male holding him captive growling – a low, guttural sound that made his stomach curl and body shiver.

What is going on…?

His arms were released, powerful fingers gripping his jaw instead, forcing his mouth open. And the sounds of protest that left him were immediately silenced as the other sealed his firm lips onto his own.

"Unh…"

A slippery tongue slid itself into his orifice, tangling with his own and sending heat coursing through his system. The appendage curled itself around Desmond's, who could do nothing more but groan as the other moved on to explore the walls of his mouth.

F-fuck.

A languid swipe of the other's tongue on the roof of his mouth, and their lips separated, Desmond taking in a gasping breath.

"A-Altair?"

The Syrian did not reply.

And then fingers were suddenly under the cloth of his tunic, the assassin-in-training letting out a sound of surprise as calloused digits caressed his abdomen. "H-hey!" The hand moved further upwards, revealing his bronzed skin. "Sto– !"

He was cut off as two fingers were placed in his mouth, moving past his teeth and tangling with his tongue. "Ngh!" Brown eyes widened at the intrusion.

But this was quickly forgotten as a dexterous hand finally found its prize, tugging sharply at the nubs on his chest.

Desmond gasped.

Wha– ?

A shock of electricity ran through him as his nipple was pinched again, his mouth falling open as a small cry left his lips, muffled by the other's fingers.

What… was that?

Another tug, followed by the rolling of the nub between digits, and a small moan was emitted, cheeks beginning to flush.

Then he knew what the sensation was.

Pleasure.

~( ^_^ )~

Altair was not quite sure what he was doing.

Control…

He had lost such a thing the moment he had pinned the other beneath him.

Anger…

And he had further lost his grasp on reality as soon as that hesitant blush had appeared, coupled by that abhorrent name.

Need…

As of now, he no longer had any semblance of power over himself.

…And nor did he want any.

Eyes riveted on the face of the other, the Syrian tugged again at the delectable little nub that seemed to produce such delicious sounds from the male beneath him. And Desmond moaned.

He moaned.

Allah.

And Altair struggled to keep his own groan in, feeling his arousal grow as vibrations caressed the fingers within the other's mouth.

Oh the things that tongue did to him, even when not trying…

The things that tongue could do…

Biting back a moan at the thought, he lowered his neck to attack the smooth tan skin of the male's neck, nipping ruthlessly even as his tongue swiped over the surface.

Desmond tasted amazing.

And he could not help but bite harder, earning a groan from his prey, who bent his head backwards, baring the scrumptious expanse to his hungry lips.

How he wanted to just strip the other of his clothing, and feel the sensation of skin against skin as–

"Eeep!"

Gold eyes darted to the side, meeting the startled, doe-like orbs of the teenage Auditore girl.

He blinked, detaching his mouth from Desmond's neck.

At his stare, the girl burst into action, a heavy blush colouring her cheeks as she began to wave her hands. "I-I'm sorry!" she squealed, before turning and dashing out of the room.

A moment passed.

And then the Syrian realised what the hell he had just been doing.

Jumping up onto his feet, Altair leapt away as if he had been burnt, backing up as he gazed upon the blushing, wet-lipped mess that was the other.

Desmond's head craned up to look at him in return, brown eyes still slightly dazed.

"I… I am sorry."

And he strode out of the room as quickly as his legs could take him.

Am I moving it too fast? Do I need to build relationships? Do I need to add more drama? Do I... Do I...

Gyaaaaaahhhhh~! I don't know what I'm doing!

I can never tell when I write... sometimes it feels slow, sometimes it feels fast... ARGH. Why do other people's stories feel so perfectly paced, and mine feels like crap?

*Frustration*

But yes, please do review. ^_^