i hate assassin's creed

One of the first things Ezio did after his uncle had showed him around the villa was to take his father’s robes to a seamstress. Not like they needed any patching - they were simply too big on him. 

The woman had smiled kindly at him when he had told her his name. The whole town of Monteriggioni knew the Auditore family. Or at least they knew Mario and the run down villa towering over the village. It hadn’t taken long for her to take his measurements. The robes hung too wide over his shoulders and he had to tighten the belt as tight as possible, but still the fabric sagged way too low over his hips and the scabbard of his father’s sword swung a bit too freely, bruising his thigh. It wasn’t practical, or safe, and most of all he looked to be drowning under the waves of fabric. If anything good about the outfit, the weapon belts and ornate insignia formed an illusion of a thicker waist and effectively hid the shape of his hips, and the knee-high boots were so big on his feet, he could easily slip some wooden wedges he himself had carved. Wearing them underneath his heels wasn’t necessarily practical, nor comfortable, but it did make him look taller. And carrying a weapon never failed to give him a rush of excitement and euphoria. 

Otherwise, the outfit was only good for reminding him of how much smaller he was than his father had been. Though he wasn’t necessarily short, most other men easily towered over him. Men’s clothing he wore always hung on him weirdly, too big in places he should fill it out and way too tight in places he should have been flat. His father had been slightly taller and wider than him, and his robes fitted him poorly at best. Even the leather gloves reached a bit past her fingertips. At least they weren’t slipping off. 

Luckily, Mario had given him money to have the robes fitted, as ill-fitting clothing not only looked bad, but also got in the way and would pose a risk in case he ever got into a fight. 

He sat in the back of the shop while the seamstress worked. He felt anxious wearing only an under shirt over the layers of bandages tightened around his chest in such an open and public place, even if it was a quiet afternoon. He had specifically chosen the time to avoid running into anyone. Having to partially undress in front of the shopkeeper was already mortifying enough. 

The seamstress worked quickly. In under an hour, Ezio was redressed in an outfit that felt like new. It sat on his shoulders just right. The cape emphasized their width, instead of dragging sadly behind his back like it had previously. The waist fit way better, too. He couldn’t help the smile spreading over his face as he thanked the seamstress. She was studying his face intently, and instantly he regretted the smile as he remembered how he looked when he smiled naturally, without making sure to only move his facial muscles in a way he had practiced for ridiculously long hours in front of a mirror. In a way that was safe. He remembered how his brows rose way too high on his face, high arched and thin. How his eyes were the wrong shape if they weren’t half-lidded. The smile itself made his face look slimmer and rounder, the shape of his lips too full and teeth too small. Wrong. He wiped the smile from his face, but the damage was already done. The woman had seen through him, and though she didn’t say anything, she was looking at him differently. Either with disgust or with the same curiosity one could look at an exotic bird. 

He paid with what money he had left after buying the dagger and armor Mario had told him to. His voice came out way too high when he wished good nights to the woman, who was still looking at him with that curious look in her eyes. At least she hadn’t mentioned it. Ezio dreaded nothing like intrusive questions, often stemming from a simple curiosity, sometimes from something more sinister.

He left the shop and ran all the way to the villa, his robes a whirlwind of red and white around him. 

He had grown up always looking up to Federico. They grew up to become best of friends, inseparable, always getting each other into trouble or out of it. Following Federico and his mannerism, he had learned to be a boy. How to walk with a confident stride, and take up as much space as possible whenever he talked. To be loud and harsh. To walk with a straight back, even when he wanted to slouch to hide his chest. But Federico encouraged him to be confident and to draw his shoulders back. Be a proud Auditore. Like any boy, his brother’s teachings had mattered a lot more than anything learned in a classroom or from his father. 

As they grew older, other boys grew past him in height. Their voices dropped, and an awkward stubble appeared on Federico’s chin. Ezio instead had to start wrapping thick bandages over his chest and he started to bleed, which freaked him out for the first months. Then he fell completely detached from his body during those days and it didn’t matter that much, most of the time. 

He wasn’t the biggest or the strongest of the boys, but he was always the fastest. And he could throw a punch. Once, Vieri made the mistake of calling him a girl. He broke his nose, obviously. And he and Federico beat up anyone who happened to try their luck with spitting insults at him. Word got around quickly, and it was not too long before everyone just knew him and Federico as Ezio and Federico, the brothers Auditore who you did not cross unless you wanted your face and pride handed back to you in pieces.

His mother scolded him once for hurting himself with the bindings when she once surprised him while he was getting dressed. That was the only time either of his parents showed anything but support to him. It was all well-meaning and came from a need to keep him safe, but of course it had only annoyed him back then. He kept wrapping his chest when his ribs weren’t too sore, as there was no way he would have left his room otherwise. More often than not it did hurt, and almost daily he found himself having a hard time breathing after any amount of running. As years passed, he grew almost numb to the pain.

It took him a long time to find anyone like him. It was on one of those nights in Venice, during the Carnivale, when he found himself at one of the less dignified brothels of the city, with loneliness eating at his bones and clawing inside his chest. When he needed comfort and company.  Though he was always welcome at La Rosa della Virtu, he couldn’t help the shame he felt whenever Theodora’s girls would look at him with such condolence when he kept coming, night after another. 

He had always liked women. Being with Christina, he had found that the simple act of being a man in a relationship made him feel good, even better than the feeling of full lips against his or holding a soft breast in his hands made him feel. It was like following a script, taking a role he was meant to take. As a man, he was meant to date a girl, whose femininity enhanced his masculinity the same way dressing in men’s clothing or carrying a dagger did. He wanted to protect and to take control since that was a man’s place. He did love Christina, of course. Like one loves their first love. He thought they would never fall apart, until they eventually did, since so had the gods woven his fate.  

He missed her. There were other girls, hookups, one-night stands, mistakes, and things between two people that fell flat on their face after a week or a month. He often stayed fully dressed the entire time and simply pleased his companion best he could. It turned out that there weren’t that many men actually capable of that. But he knew a woman’s body, and he knew what pleased them. Masculinity for their femininity. A protector or a caretaker. Someone to talk about their feelings with who could also make them cum. He did enjoy the sex, even if he rarely got much out of it himself physically. As stated, he loved women. 

There were men, too. His first timr ever had been with a man, or rather, a boy. One of Federico’s friends, who he had found attractive from the first time they met. He wasn’t sure how they ended up like that, but it only happened once. Later, he felt like the boy regretted it ever happening. It had made him feel awful and he wished he could stop. To be normal. 

But he wasn’t. He liked men as much as he liked women. In Firenze, it had hardly been a problem finding company of either sex. Finding actual intimacy was harder. Most men he ended up sleeping with were older than him. Sometimes they were married. He was attracted to their masculinity, the same way playing with boys as a child had made him feel more masculine himself. He loved their big, strong hands, sharp edges of bone and muscle, deeper voices, muscular, hairy bodies. But he was rarely more than something to state their curiosity and needs. A quickie in the dark, hands exploring underneath his shirt, asking what he hid under the bindings. Some, he realized, saw him as nothing but a confused girl. Those hurt him the most. It was already hard enough to allow himself the attraction to other men, to step away from the role he had fought so hard to keep up. So when a man he was hooking up with would look down on him with an ugly look and call him whatever names that made his skin crawl, he couldn’t help wondering if the things he had heard from women were actually correct. If men really were all bad, deep down. 

But he wasn’t bad, right?

So, it was easier to pay for sex than try courting anyone in a more traditional way. His work as an assassin didn’t let him stay in one place for too long, anyway, so it was safer to not get attached. Paying for a service guaranteed that he didn’t have to feel ashamed for lacking parts or for wanting to be touched himself. And he for sure would not be disrespected, either. 

If he didn’t ask for it, that is. 

It was Carnivale, and the bordello was full of noise and people. There was a troubadour singing and playing a lute at the back of the tavern. He wasn’t sure why the girl had caught his eyes. The red lanterns lit at each table left the room dim. Smoke from the fireplace hung heavy in the air, making it hard to make out the faces of patrons or the courtesans. Everything smelled like sweet perfume and incense to hide the ever present smell of sex, sweat and alcohol stinging his nose. A place where patrons were nameless and faceless, and the courtesans used names like ‘Destiny’. 

She was sat separately from the few other girls (and the few male prostitutes the place was in certain circles known for), but dressed in a similar revealing dress. Her hair was styled the same, too. A few dark strands were falling over her face as she looked at Ezio across the room, fanning herself with an ornamented fan that hid part of her face. His eyes seemed to move on their own down the wide shred of olive skin revealed above her dress, exposing her shapely collar bones

She was beautiful, he decided as he wandered to her and asked if she was available. She nodded ‘yes’. Her lips were painted red. She took his hand and led him through the bar, upstairs and to one of the small private rooms. The assassin followed her in a daze. She was barefoot, but still a little taller than him, long, smooth legs peeking out from her skirt.

Once they were alone, she looked him over and smiled at his dumbfounded expression. It was dark, with only one lantern illuminating the room. Most of the room was taken up by a large bed. It didn’t look the cleanest, but Ezio didn’t exactly have the highest of standards. He could feel her watching him intently as he spent a while disarming himself and peeling off his outer robes. After a quick consideration, his bracers joined the other weapons on the floor, and he sat down next to her unarmed, feeling shy in a way he rarely felt with any conquest, a courtesan or not. Her bare thigh brushed against his clothed one, and he swallowed. 

“What is your name?” He asked.

“Cecilia” 

It was the first time Ezio heard her talking. Her voice was rich and melodic, like that of a trained singer. He brought the back of her hand against his lips. 

“Cecilia. A beautiful name.”

“Grazie, bello. I picked it myself,” Cecilia smiled at him. She had very nice teeth. “What can I call you?” 

“Ezio. I-” he looked at her, feeling something he struggled to put into words. She was smiling so sweetly, waiting for him to continue. Her hand was warm in his. Her fingernails were the same red as her lips. He was happy. He felt lost. There was someone else. He wasn’t alone.

“-Have never been with anyone like me?” She finished for him, the smile never leaving her face.

 Ezio nodded. “I’m also-”

“I know, caro,” she says. “Oh no, don’t make that face, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, I can guarantee no one else would know. I just have a very keen eye.”

She kissed his cheek so very sweetly. Her perfume made him feel light-headed. 

“Are there others?” he asked, growing curious. 

“Of course. Not many, and most want to stay hidden, so they avoid places like this. But yes, there have been men like you.”  

Ezio was filled with such relief, he feared he might cry. Not being completely alone felt almost unbelievable, but she was right there, living evidence that he wasn’t alone; that maybe, maybe, there wasn’t something fundamentally wrong with him.

“Why are you here? If I may ask.”

Her smile never faltered. Looking back, Ezio wondered how many similar talks she had had with other men or women. 

“There are very few options for unmarried women from lower classes. I can’t get married, being as I am, so my only options are joining an abbey or… this. I’m not welcome in the church either, so here I am,” she took Ezio’s hand in hers and moved it to her chest. Her skin was soft and warm as his fingers slid underneath her dress. He wanted to keep talking with her, to know more of her and the people she mentioned. But he wanted other things, too, and his own need was getting harder to ignore when his fingers found a nipple, and she moved into his touch. He pressed his lips against her long, slender neck, and she moaned softly, wrapping her arms around him. She moved to straddle his legs, and he felt her hardening arousal against him. He felt intoxicated as she brushed her hands over his arms, complimenting his muscles, her breath hot against his ear. 

God, how he wanted her. 

He had never felt so understood and appreciated as when she took him apart. She gave him breaks to ask for permission, to undress or to touch, and to ask what and how he wanted. He found it easy to let her lower his pants and push them down to his ankles and let her hands slide in-between his legs. When she called him a good boy, he whimpered. 

Then the door was pushed open and the warm light of the hallway burst in. Ezio’s head snapped to look back at the door, and his eyes met with the two men standing at the door, both wearing masks disguising their features. It was Carnivale, after all. Behind them, two girls Ezio could remember having seen downstairs were trying to pull the men from the door, their faces red from embarrassment. They were avoiding looking at him, or at the girl bent over him. Cecilia’s dress was pulled down, exposing her small bosom and wide shoulders. The paint of her lips was smudged to the sides of her mouth. Her face went pale as she stared at the men still staring at them. 

“What the devil?” One of the men asked. His eyes were white behind the eyeholes of the beaked mask. There was something ugly in his voice, like he was looking at a dead body instead of having caught two people in a rather natural act. One of the courtesans tried to pull the door closed, but the man with the white eyes held onto it firmly. 

"Can you make sense of this show? Who is fucking who?" he elbowed his friend and both of them snorted, not unlike a pig would.

“Get out,” Cecilia said with a tight voice. Ezio pressed his legs together and crossed his arms over his chest. The bindings he rarely took off had loosened at some point, and he could feel the stranger’s gaze on his bare chest. He felt frozen on the spot, hoping to sink into the dirty mattress, to turn into dust and float away with the winds. He wished he had a weapon, to slit their throats and bleed them like animals.

Then the door closed. He sat still, feeling gross. They had looked at them like something less than human, something put on display for their amusement. A joke. A performance. He had to look away from Celicia to hide the way his eyes were tearing up. He couldn’t cry. Men don’t cry. 

“I’m so sorry for that.”

Ezio had to blink his eyes clear. His voice was quiet, and he hated how high-pitched it sounded. “It’s not your fault.”

She fixed her dress into something more decent and quietly helped Ezio secure the bandages back around his chest. His sides were aching, but there was no way he was leaving the room without them. Or going anywhere, ever, he thought.

They didn’t need words to know neither of them was up for picking up where they had been cut off. Her eyes were dry and there was a hardness to her expression. Ezio realized she was used to it, being treated like an object. Being something to amuse and to laugh at. What a horrible life.

“I hate them. I hate them all,” she whispered as Ezio got dressed. His hands were shaking and lacing his doublet took him way too long.

“Men?” 

She nodded furiously. 

“And everyone else. I don't know how to put it into words. Maybe hate isn't a right word for it. They hate us, you know? Of course, you do. They hate everything that isn’t man enough.”

He looked at her in confusion. 

“That’s not true. They love women. Most do, anyway.”

“How can they do anything but hate, when they look at us like we were nothing but playthings to them?” She paused when she noticed the look on Ezio’s face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call you a woman.”

Ezio waved his hand dismissively. “No offense taken.” 

She sat on the edge of the bed, looking deflated and tired. Her hair was falling out of the wraps secured on top of her head. 

“Everyone hates women. And everything that isn't the kind of man they want you to be. Even I do. It’s built in the very formations of our society. Into each of us. Can a father say they truly love their daughter, when he marries her to an older man when she is barely old enough to read? A woman must hate herself when she, year after year, submits to being nothing but a thing to keep her husband’s house clean and bed warm.”

She sighed and took down one of the destroyed wrappings. The silk ribbon used to hold the hair together fell onto her lap and her hair like a river over her shoulder, reaching almost to her waist. The assassin fought against an urge to reach out to touch it.

“I’m sorry for speaking like this, this is very unprofessional. It’s not easy. I don’t want to live like this, but it is what being a woman is, and that’s what I am.” 

He thought about the way he had first approached Christina. It had been Federico’s idea to follow her home, but he had chosen to do it, even after she had not shown any interest in him. He had felt entitled to it, to her. He hadn’t been, and later he had apologized for his actions. Christina had forgiven him. That’s what was a woman’s part. 

He felt awful. 

Cecilia brushed the tangles out of her hair with her long fingers. She didn’t look like a courtesan, then, just a tired, defeated woman in a dress she was made to wear by law. Or rather a girl, she couldn’t have been much older than him. 

“Then why live as a woman? If being a man would be a lot easier.”

She scoffed. “You know why. I would maybe have a family, or a job that didn’t make me hate myself and everyone else, but I would feel like I was drowning every moment of the day. Because I am not a man. I can’t lie to myself, and I refuse to do so, even if it makes me so lonely. I want to live as myself, be happy in my own way.”

“Are you happy, then?” he sat next to her, leaving a room in between them. The weapons scattering the floor were still there, and he had little interest in picking them up. He didn’t want to leave the room and be witnessed, again. 

“I don’t hate myself, if that’s what you mean. I am happier than I ever was as a man,” the courtesan twisted her hair into a tight ribbon and started fastening it around the ribbon. “You shouldn’t either. It’s not your fault you are what you are. If anything, blame the whatever stupid rules and laws that make people want to live in a certain way.”

“Does anyone even enjoy it? Are men any happier in that… box they have made themselves?”

Cecilia shook her head. The half finished wrap fell and she sighed. 

“I don’t think so. It’s about power, I think. People are easier to control if they live by some stupid laws and if they, by default, think and act the same. Like how a man thinks he controls his wife and his family, but truly, the expectations and norms that tell him to have a family and to hold dominion over it, control him. No one is truly free.”

The courtesan fixed her hair while Ezio thought about her words. Truth be told, he had never even thought about it. How society was split into such bizarre parts, that blindly followed a set of rules never questioning them, no matter how miserable they made them. What did being a certain gender even mean? Body parts, dressing up in clothes sold as either women’s or men’s, submitting or controlling? The small pile of weapons under his feet made him no more a man than having a dick or a flat chest could. They were simply objects or things, neutral on their own. All of it made less sense the more he thought about it. 

“I think I would just like to be freely happy to be myself,” he told Cecilia, who was fixing her lipstick. She smiled at him from the small mirror she had pulled out from somewhere. 

“I hope you get there one day, Ezio.”

“You as well, Cecilia.” 

She almost refused to take his money, but eventually Ezio left the brothel with a lightened purse, his pride bruised and mind swimming with thoughts and questions he doubted anyone had the answers to.

The last time Ezio could remember crying for any reason but pain was the day he had watched as his father and brothers were hanged while Firenze, their home, their city stood by watching like they were some common criminals. Even though Petruccio had been twelve and adjusting the rope low enough for his neck had taken a few extra minutes. Even though Federico was a known trickster, a good-for-nothing, a sloth, who despite all was loved by all for his easy-going nature and brilliant laugh. Even though Giovanni, their father, was known for the charity his bank did, and his willingness to help anyone, always, be it financial or whatever small favor he was asked for. Nobody had moved a muscle to help them, back then on a warm afternoon in Piazza della Signoria. For the first time in his life, Ezio had felt completely alone. There was no one he could have turned to, not a place he could have gone to for help. For a friendly face. So he had run until his body ached, and then he had cried until he was too tired to. Then he had slept, feeling small and alone and lost. 

And years had passed. 

And his sorrow was covered with a thick armor of anger and violence. 

And he never stopped long enough to grieve, since being angry was easier than feeling lost and alone. 

Since that was, he thought, what men did. His father had never cried. Neither had Federico, even when he got his nose broken or when his girlfriend broke up with him. He just laughed and wiped the blood off his face. Later Ezio could hear him breaking something in his room, a book thrown to a wall or a fist punched through the door of his closet. But he didn’t cry. Neither did Ezio. 

It hadn’t been long since carnivale when he found himself sitting by his friend Leonardo da Vinci's dining/work table. Since arriving in Venezia with the painter, he had started spending more and more time at his bottega, relishing the Tuscan accent and a familiar face so far from home. He was pretty sure Leonardo felt the same. He hoped he did. At least he hadn’t so far complained of him barging in any hour of the day and disturbing him from his… work. If him spending half the day ‘thinking’ by his desk, occasionally strumming a lute or leafing through one of his many books could be called that. 

Homesickness wasn’t the only reason for his frequent visits, though. His affection for his friend had surpassed the mere platonic feelings at least a year ago. It must have been way longer, but that was when he had realized what was happening. But it was too late and his stupid heart had thrown itself into yet another seemingly hopeless crush. He tried sleeping around, as he had done on carnivale, getting to know Venetians, anyone who could distract him from the way his thoughts kept slipping away, to the small workshop in the middle of San Polo district where a man was always waiting with his windows and doors and his precious heart open for him. And soon he was making his way where his heart told him to go. And being there barely helped the itch underneath his skin. Seeing Leonardo, holding him in a painfully platonic embrace, listening to him talk or tinker with his machines was never enough. His blood would keep boiling until he’d find someone else to break his heart over, or somehow they’d end up together. Neither of the options seemed possible. He didn’t want anyone else. He wanted Leonardo. But he was terrified of talking to him. There were a million things that could go wrong, that would make the inventor never talk to him again. And he couldn’t bear another rejection. Screw any more noble reason to stay out of relationships, like devoting his entire attention and life to the Creed: he simply did not want to get hurt. 

To make matters worse, they had already talked of their mutual feelings for each other, in a way. After a long night of drinking, talking about ex-lovers (Leonardo had been… impressed by Ezio’s long list of men and women he had bedded), sex, all that. They had always been open with each other, that was nothing new. Only when Leonardo had asked about his current conquests, Ezio had gone quiet. 

“I do have my eyes on someone,” he said after a moment. Their eyes met. Leonardo’s face was flushed from the alcohol. He took a sip from his glass, and Ezio watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. His mouth felt dry. When had Leonardo moved so close to him? Was his knee brushing against Ezio’s on purpose? Was he losing his mind?

“Who is the lucky girl?” Wine had stained Leonardo’s chapped lips. Ezio’s own cup was empty. 

“A man. You… you know him.”

Leonardo smiled. 

“You won’t tell me? How curious. He must be special.”

Was there envy towards this fictional man in his voice? What did that mean? Surely, surely, Leonardo couldn’t share his fondness. Not for Ezio. But he was looking at his face, and maybe Ezio was just drunk and feeling falsely hopeful, but maybe he seemed genuinely hurt and as confused as Ezio felt. 

“He is. He is…” he was stammering. Were there words in the Italian language that were enough to describe the charm and intelligence and beauty close to perfection that was Leonardo, but wouldn’t out the target of his affection? He noticed Leonardo stealing another look. He was sure now, barely hidden misery was written over his face. His heart ached. He decided to refill his cup, but the traitorous bottle was empty. 

“Well, I hope you get him, whoever this mystery man is,” Leonardo said bitterly. He emptied his cup and buried a hand in his hair. Ezio watched him curl a piece of sandy hair around his finger. 

I like you. It’s you, I love you, Leonardo. Leonardo. Leonardo. 

The words died before he managed to even breathe the air to his lungs to form them. 

Idiot. Coward. 

“I also am keen on someone,” Leonardo stated.

“Is he also a man of mystery?”

“He is. And I don’t think it will ever go anywhere, I’m too much a coward.”

“Then there are two of us.”

The mood lightened a little. Leonardo fetched a new bottle. There was a sway to his feet and he bumped giggling against one of his workbenches. Thankfully the bottle found its way to the table they were sitting around safe and secure. Ezio got them both water, thinking of the next morning and the hangover they would inevitably face.

It took them a few more glasses before they were drunk enough to return to the topic. By then they had moved from the table to the carpet by the fireplace, where the last embers glowed red in the dark. The evening had turned chilly and it was nice to get comfortable by the warmth.

“Bene. You have to tell me. Who do you fancy?” Leonardo asked him, a sloppy smile on his lips. His eyes weren’t quite focused.

“I’ll tell mine if you tell yours,” Ezio grinned over his glass. Leonardo’s leg had returned against his own, and the contact was making his head spin. Or then it was the wine. 

“Blackmail! Bah! You are my guest, you have to tell me.”

“And you are my host, you must entertain me.”

“Are my feelings only entertainment to you? My heart weeps, assassin,” the painter threw a dramatic hand over his face, but didn’t seem to be in any sort of mental anguish. 

“How about this? Let me guess. Give me a hint. Three of them, and if I don’t know, I lose and you get your turn,” Ezio grinned. 

Leonardo considered. 

“Va bene. But what if you win?”

“I get to keep my secret.”

The painter huffed and topped his glass. After taking a long sip he licked his lips and said: “First hint. You know him.”

Ezio gasped. “No. Antonio?”

Leonardo laughed. “Antonio! Oh, that would… no, not Antonio.” He smiled, looking at his lap. “But I must admit, he is attractive. I do like the dangerous type.”

“That doesn’t count as a hint.”

“Ah, merde. I shouldn’t have said that. No, it doesn't. Uh. Second, he is…” Ezio could swear Leonardo’s eyes darted towards him and quickly searched over his features. “A Florentino!”

That barely narrowed it down. Leonardo had a lot of friends, from the craftsmen to the noble courts of Florence. Not Lorenzo de Medici, surely. One of the boys Leonardo studied with under Verrocchio, that one lad, Botticelli? Ezio had met him once, through his mother like he had met Leonardo. Then there was La Volpe Leonardo also had some sort of connection to. Who else, who else… 

“There are a lot of men in Firenze…” he moaned, rubbing his temple. Leonardo was looking at him, hands fisting his doublet. He looked nervous, almost terrified. 

There is also me, Ezio thought. A thrill ran down his spine. He quickly buried the thought and blurted out:

“Sandro Botticelli?”

Leonardo smiled. “Not a change, he has his Venus. A good guess, though.”

“Alright. Last hint. Go easy on me, Leo.”

“Let me think. He…”

Now Ezio was sure of it. Leonardo was looking at him, looking so unsure beneath his drunken haze. He knew. 

“He is… Un memento, per favore, I’m quite drunk,” he muttered. Their legs were pressed together. There was a pulse pounding in Ezio’s ears, so strong he wondered if Leonardo could hear it. His light eyes were drilling into his. Doubt, fear, want, brilliant cornflower blue under light lashes.

They kissed. They were both drunk. They made out like teenagers on the carpet before talking in quiet, soft voices, words just slightly slurring together. Then they kissed again. They promised to talk it through in the morning. It wasn’t just the wine making kissing and company feeling heavenly, but what both of them had wanted for a long time. Feelings long buried. But they were too far gone to actually talk about anything real or serious so they just confessed their obvious crushes to each other, in rich language and using poetic phrases they’d cringe at thinking back. Then they went to bed, holding each other, chest against chest. Ezio kept his shirt on, but let the bandages come loose. Leonardo didn’t say anything but kissed him goodnight sloppily.

“We’ll talk in the morning. I promise. This won’t be a tonight only thing, I will not let it be,” he slurred.

“Me neither. I really like you. I’m serious, I really like you. Do you really like me?”

The artist smiled wider than Ezio had ever seen him before. He looked so out of it, but so happy Ezio had to smile as well.

“Of course I am. Trust me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone.”

A clumsy hand patted Ezio’s cheek. His eyes were slipping close. It was warm underneath the sheet with Leonardo’s body tangled with his. Arms and legs slotting together like they were made to fit together like that.

“Me neither. I…” he yawned. Leonardo did as well. His breath fell on Ezio’s face.

“Let’s sleep. The morning will come quicker and we can talk.”

“This won’t end after tonight, right?”

“I promise. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Leonardo?”

“Si?”

“Sono così felice.” I am so happy.

Leonardo was barely awake. His head was spinning slightly, eyes fully closed. 

“Anch’io, Ezio, anch’io.” Me too, Ezio, me too.

And they never talked about it. Ezio woke up to an empty bed. His head was throbbing and the room was swaying side-to-side not so gently. He got up, got properly dressed feeling suddenly terrible about his bindless chest underneath his shirt. Maybe Leonardo had realized how repulsive he was. How twisted, wrong. Ezio wanted to melt through the floor and float down the canals. He also wanted to throw up, which he did through the window. Luckily the narrow street below was empty. 

Leonardo was hungover downstairs. He offered Ezio a tight, tired smile and a glass of water. He had already drunk a few. They shared focaccia with olives in silence, barely even looking at each other. Ezio’s head and body were heavy. His legs felt like they were made of marble, as did his tongue and brain. Even his eyes were dry. He wanted to lay down in a cool bed and forget last night ever happened. He wanted Leonardo to say something. He wanted a body he could simply live and breathe in.

After the breakfast he stood up, thanked Leonardo for the wine and company and left. 

And things returned to normal. They didn’t speak of it, but their friendship stayed as close as it had been. But it was hard to ignore the way Leonardo looked at him when he thought Ezio didn’t notice. How they skirted around the topics of love and relationships and avoided wine. Their interactions remained stiff, both of them considering each word fearing it might be the one to break the ice and send them both falling to the icy depths. 

It was agonizing. Ezio wished he had never touched wine. That nothing had ever happened. For his heart to stop fluttering at the sight of his friend hunched over his journals, pen furiously dancing over the paper. He was dressed way too fancy for a quiet evening spent in-doors, but Leonardo couldn’t help his taste for expensive fabrics and bright colors. He looked like a highborn poet in his two-colored pants and finely embroidered tunic. Ezio knew they had been sent to him from Firenze and only arrived a few days back. Venetian fashion was duller, unless it was carnivale. Leonardo really stuck out of the crowd, but he seemed to enjoy the attention.

The assassin watched dreamily as his friend pulled a fresh ink bottle from his desk and set opening it, his pen never stopping its movement over the paper. He was going through a phase of intently studying the flight of birds and the topic seemed to fascinate him beyond anything else. His strange handwriting filled page after page with calculations, sketches and observations, text and drawings coming together into a work of art of their own. Unlike paintings he did as commissions to get by and which rarely managed to hold his interest, he put his entire soul and mind in its brilliance into his research. There was a gleam in his eyes and to Ezio, he looked like a man who was seeing the light of Heavens on the paper, in the endless line of words, in understanding how everything worked. There was some brilliant fire burning inside of him so bright looking at him made Ezio’s knees weak. Knowing that the same fire burned for him as well was enough to make him feel it scorching his insides. He cursed the skies for his cowardice as Leonardo struggled with the ink bottle and finally brought the vial to his lips, grabbing the cork with his teeth thoughtlessly. There was a crack as he pulled the fragile bottle with too much force. The glass shattered like, well, glass. Then there was ink. It didn’t pour down his face to his new, beautiful clothes and desk and his notebooks. There was a bottle that shattered and then the ink was everywhere. On the pitiful man in his not-so-fancy-anymore clothes, the floor, the desk, covering the pages he had worked on for who knows for how long. 

Ezio couldn’t help his smile. It was terrible, yes, but no other man than Leonardo could manage such a chaos in so little time. He looked completely miserable with the ink staining his chin and soaking into his hair. He still held the cork, the only remains of the bottle that now laid around him in thousands of tiny shards glimmering in the candle light. He turned to look at Ezio, barely moving anything but his eyes so the ink or the glass won’t get anywhere else. 

“Can you please get me a towel? And put on some shoes, there is… glass.”

Ezio fetched a wet rag and approached the desk carefully. The artist didn’t dare to move from his spot, though he had set the cork on the ruined table. He was looking at the damage with way less despair than Ezio would have. It wasn’t the first time his own carefulness had cost him his work, after all. You either faced it with humor or you let it prevent you from ever making anything. 

Ezio helped Leonardo wipe his hands so he could help himself. The ink didn’t quite lift and his fingers remained black. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked as Leonardo took the rag from him to start sorting out the mess. His mouth opened and his eyes fell wide open as he stared at Ezio. Somehow there was ink on his teeth. He looked ridiculous in his now ruined way too fancy and expensive clothes that were not at all suited for a quiet night indoors. 

“Right now? I’m covered in ink and glass. Yes! But don’t, it stains,” he blurted out. Ezio laughed and bent down to kiss him, uncaring of the consequences. 

Leonardo was a little taller than him. With any other man it might have made him self-conscious, but being around Leonardo never made him feel less. Besides, he was the perfect height for Ezio to push his hair to the side and press his lips against the nape of his delightfully sensitive neck when he wasn’t paying attention, making him lean into his chest and sigh happily. And Leonardo was enthralled to find out Ezio could easily pick him up and carry him like a sack of potatoes. A man his size rarely got the privilege of being handled with such care, but Ezio was strong enough and he loved showing off his strength. And carrying Leonardo to bed did get them both going. 

Leonardo never pushed him. It took them months to get past the phase of searching, unsure touches under blankets and clothes. Ezio was quicker to get his hands on him. Then his mouth. He kept his own clothes on and Leonardo kept his hands from his chest and his crotch. It was alright. Taking Leonardo apart was enough to get him off, too. The painter made sure to be vocal about his needs and how well Ezio was performing. Though Ezio felt like he would have wanted to be more in control, bending him over and drawing sweet sounds from him with his fingers was intoxicating. Seeing a man so willingly succumb to him was more than just pure pleasure. It made him feel more masculine, though thinking about it made him feel dirty and he tried not to.

After almost six months into their relationship, Leonardo finally gathered his courage. He was lying by Ezio’s side, head delicately placed on his arm so as not to put any pressure on his binded chest. He was flushed and still out of breath after the orgasm the assassin had pulled out of him. Strands of sandy hair were sticking to his sweaty hair. He looked spent. Lewd. Still, he sounded so uncertain and innocent as he pressed a kiss to the side of Ezio’s mouth and said:

“I want to touch you.”

The assassin swallowed. He shifted his legs, suddenly aware of how riled up sucking Leonardo off had made him earlier. How wet he still was. He did want him to. It wasn’t like Leonardo didn’t know. But it was way easier to ignore his own needs altogether, become so detached from his own body he could imagine it being his dick fucking Leonardo instead of his fingers. 

“It’s fine if you don’t want me to, I won’t do anything you do not want to. But I want you to feel good, too.”

He stroked Leonardo’s hair absentmindedly. He looked nervous as Ezio felt in the dim candlelight. 

“Can you put the light out?” Ezio asked finally. The painter nodded and reached to blow out what remained of the candle. A dark gloom settled over the small bedroom. Ezio’s pulse was pounding in his ears like the beat of a drum. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. 

“Yes. Please.”

There were lips on his chin, probably aimed for his lips but missed their target in the pitch black. He settled his hands around Leonardo’s neck and turned to his side, so their chests were pressing together. Suddenly he was unsure what to do. Where to put his hands. He buried his face against Leonardo’s chest. A pair of warm hands snuck around his waist, dipping below the hem of his shirt. 

“I have to admit, I do not have any idea what I’m doing,” Leonardo confessed. 

Ezio raised a brow. “Really? You have never…?”

“Never. Always with a man. A man with a penis I mean. Ugh that came out wrong. Sorry.”

Ezio swallowed, suddenly feeling terrible. Why was he here, in Leonardo’s arms? Did the man even find him attractive or had he simply been someone to fill his bed with? He wanted to disappear into the darkness, but the hands feeling his spine and sides kept him locked in place. He wanted them lower, bolder, Leonardo’s clever hands where he most needed them. But the painter was hesitating, avoiding the sharp hip bones or his soft lower stomach. 

“Then why with me?” he asked silently. The hands stilled on his skin but remained holding on to his waist. 

“Because I love you.”

“But you don’t like women.”

“And you are not one. I’m not attracted to dicks, I’m attracted to men. The majority of men just happen to have one.”

Relief washed over him.

Ezio kissed him sloppily and open mouthed. There was tongue in his mouth and he felt a knee pressing against his clothed crotch. He felt drunk, Leonardo’s words sparking euphoria throughout his body. He loves me as a man. He loves me as a man. He loves me. 

He allowed his legs to open a little, swinging one of them over Leonardo’s to allow for better access. A clever hand followed the sharp line of a hipbone downwards, making his stomach knot and his breath hitch. it stopped at the waist line of his low hanging pants. 

“How long has it been?” Leonardo whispered against his ear. 

“A year. Longer. Please,” the assassin breathed. He didn't count carnivale since that night had been cut short. He was sure Leonardo could feel his wetness through his pants. He was burning up. A cool hand finally slipped into the front of his pants and he sighed as fingers brushed past his heat. His body was tensing up and he only realized when Leonardo’s free hand came to gently free his fingers from his hair where he was pulling his scalp painfully.

“Sorry,” he breathed. 

“It’s nothing. You are doing so good,” Leonardo answered. If Ezio had been more focused he might have come up with a dry comment like “you are not,” but he was pretty out of it as Leonardo’s hand rubbed over him clumsily. He took a hold of his wrist and guided it a little higher, showing him what to do and how to move. Leonardo was a quick learner. He smiled as Ezio shook in his arms, thighs flexing involuntarily. In the dark it was easy to get lost in the warm dampness and the pleasure burning through his core, especially when rough kisses, tongue and teeth were raining on his neck and face, the scrape of facial hair and the soft lips driving him senseless. 

“I love you. My beautiful, beautiful boy. Let me take care of you.”

Ezio sobbed, moans spilling from his open mouth. The words barely made sense to him but nonetheless they made him ache. 

“Can you come for me?”

Ezio did, surprising himself as well as Leonardo, who kept rubbing him gently even after Ezio had gone limp, panting with his head against Leonardo’s sweaty chest. He felt kisses peppered into his hair. 

“You did so well. You are so good, Ezio. Thank you.”

They laid underneath the blanket, in the dark for a long time, content with just listening to their slowing breaths as night grew colder. Eventually they cleaned up. Ezio changed into a clean pair of trousers. They went to bed and fell asleep, holding each other close. In the morning Leonardo was still there, as he was there the next morning, and the morning after that.

Ezio learned to cry. He did so often, Leonardo often joining in his tears. He was tired, way more so than he had ever thought. The sorrow and loneliness he had carried with him slowly melted away with his tears, and in the morning after a tearful night the birds always sang a little louder and the sky was a little bigger, brighter, more open. Since being a man doesn’t mean not crying. Being a man means being a man. Crying and feeling mean being a person.

Nothing is ever perfect. Sometimes Leonardo said something thoughtless that made Ezio wish he was never born. But it was never on purpose. More often that feeling came from some black space within Ezio, where even Leonardo could hardly reach. Sometimes it was a comment or a look from a stranger that made him want to hide away. But the bad days passed. It was easy to forget how his body looked like when Leonardo loved him all the same. As did his family and the friends he made along the years. 

It was easy being Ezio when the people around him loved him as Ezio. There were times when he even felt happy, being who he was and as he was. With Leonardo it was easy to shut out the rest of the world. Forget gender, forget the long road he had taken to be him. And to be with him.