bnnuytxt

AU INFORMATION

If you end up using this, feel free to change the title, but I've been calling it "Spoiled Sweetly (to my blissful doom)"

Modern AU (No Assassins, Templars, or Isu/First Civ).

Altaïr and Desmond are already in an established relationship by the start of the story.

This story is meant to span from Ezio's sophomore year to the start of his junior year (2nd Year to 3rd Year of University).

For the sake of the AU, Bad Weather (the nightclub Desmond canonically tended to) is a luxury location where the rich and wealthy gather.

I placed a timeskip between parts IX and X!

---

BACKGROUNDS

Ezio's Background

Law student, 2nd-year/sophomore, barely scraping by.

To make ends meet, he takes on odd jobs and art commissions, inspired by how he painted targets in canon.

The Auditores aren't exactly wealthy, but they get by.

However, when Ezio was young, a violent incident (break-in? mass murder?) took the lives of his father and brothers, leaving his mother in shock.

With no financial stability, debt collectors, loan sharks, and all kinds of opportunists swarmed them.

Maria, who was a housewife, had no means to fight back, and Ezio and Claudia were too young to do anything. They lost everything.

Maria fell ill from grief, and Claudia followed soon after.

Ezio tried his best to take care of them—worked odd jobs, bargained, and more,

But it wasn't enough, and he was all alone.

He was placed in the foster system, bouncing between orphanages and bad homes until around 16.

He fought tooth and nail for an early emancipation, managing to also get lucky enough to get a university scholarship early, even with the sub-par orphanage-provided schooling.

After managing to save up and get his own apartment, he worked odd jobs with terrible pay and dealt with awful commission clients just to afford rent and groceries.

Altaïr's Background

Runs a VIP security service that caters to high-profile clients, former military, and the elite.

People find his personality generally unappealing or difficult to deal with, but he's in high demand because he's just that good at his job.

He was born into what was essentially a cult that worshipped god-like figures (inspired by the Isu/First Civ, though they don't exist here.)

The cult's leader, Rashid, took him under his wing after his father died.

He was raised under strict, militant discipline—trained from childhood to be ruthless, efficient, and detached, resulting in a variety of scars—including one on his lip.

At 13, he met Desmond Miles, a runaway escaping his father, William Miles.

In usual Desmond fashion, he challenged everything Altaïr had been taught, managing to shift his perspective on the world.

Somewhere along the lines, he ended up leaving the cult with Desmond.

Altaïr ended up landing a job as a bouncer at a bar where he gained a reputation for being brutally effective.

His skills eventually caught the attention of legitimate security services, leading to a job offer in private security.

Over time, he saved enough money and built enough connections to start his own security company.

He and Desmond had spent years making allies on the streets who desperately needed jobs, and so those were his first hires.

Desmond's Background

Highly successful bartender serving celebrity clients and high-profile figures with information dealing as a side job.

Extremely charismatic with a wide social network—a keeper of secrets too. People talk when they drink, and Desmond makes sure to note things down for later use.

Born into a private military family with high expectations—his family has a long line of sergeants.

As the only son of William Miles, a high-ranking officer, he was pushed to his limits from a young age.

He was trained relentlessly, sparred constantly, and lived under strict discipline.

At 13, a sparring match with a live blade went wrong, leaving him with a scar on his lips.

Deciding that was the final straw, he ran away, eventually crossing paths with Altaïr.

He landed a job as a waiter at a bar, the same one where Altaïr worked as a bouncer, and quickly worked his way up over the years, eventually becoming a bartender.

He steadily climbed the ranks, moving from small bars to high-end clubs—Altaïr always close behind, of course.

Eventually, get managed to get an exclusive event bartender gig, leading to more elite events and connections with the wealthy and the powerful.

As a bartender, he hears a lot of confessions, knows things he legally shouldn't, so if someone needs information or a connection, Desmond is the go-to guy.

---

OUTLINE

I. Coffee & Coincidences

Desmond and Altaïr are on a rare, private date at a cafe.

Ezio, meanwhile, was rushing to class, having stayed up to finish an essay that was due the night before.

It’s actually Desmond who bumps into Ezio, though the coffee spills on Altaïr’s coat.

Ezio stares for a moment because that coffee had been a luxury—a little reward for himself after surviving back-to-back lectures and all-nighters to finish a commission.

- He had spent minutes justifying the expense in his head before ordering - He didn’t have a budget for another one. - But that was his problem, not theirs.

Ezio starts apologizing, offering to cover the dry cleaning even if he knows he’ll have to cut on his already meager grocery budget to afford it.

But Desmond is amused at the notion,

- “You gonna foot the bill for that, pretty boy?” - “I spilled it,” Ezio shot back, crossing his arms. “I’ll pay for it.” - “You sure? Because this coat isn’t exactly cheap.” - Ezio scowled, “What, you think I can’t afford it?” - Desmond grinned. “Oh, I know you can’t afford it.” - Ezio's eye twitched. - Altaïr sighed.

Introductions happen (reluctantly on Ezio’s part). Ezio doesn’t recognize them at all, though that’s not a surprise.

Desmond waves the incident off, and when Ezio tries to protest, Altaïr steps in and tells him to let it go,

- Ezio was suspicious. - But he was also late for class. - “Fine,” he muttered, grabbing his bag. “But this isn’t over.” - Desmond chuckled. “Looking forward to it, baby.” 

The pet name doesn’t register as Ezio rushes out.

Desmond is entertained, Altaïr is unimpressed, and Ezio has unknowingly marked himself as their newest obsession.

---

II. "Accidental" Encounters

Ezio never believed in fate—life had never really given him any reason to,

But when he started running to Altaïr and Desmond again—and again, and again—he should have been suspicious.

Instead, he mostly just felt annoyed,

- “You again?” - Desmond smirked. “You sound happy to see me.” - “Forgive me," Ezio scoffed. "I’ve had a long day.”

He runs into Desmond at a cafe after getting groceries,

- Desmond subtly prods questions at him, though he doesn’t realize. - "You get all your meals from here?"

Then Altaïr is at the library while he’s studying a case for his Criminal Law class.

Then, at a bookstore, while Ezio was struggling to justify buying a secondhand law textbook (that still cost way too much!).

Then at the university gym (Altaïr was apparently an expert at hand-to-hand combat and had an irritating way of critiquing Ezio’s form).

Then at a vendor’s stall (Desmond buys a meal and smugly offers to split, the bastard).

Ezio isn’t stupid. He notices the pattern,

- “Are you two following me?” He finally demanded after yet another ‘coincidental’ meeting at a bus stop - Desmond snorted. “That’s an interesting accusation.” - Altaïr, frustratingly enough, didn’t even blink. “Do you really think we have the time for that?”

Ezio hesitates because it's not like they had a reason to stalk some broke law student. But it's still weird as hell.

Desmond just laughs and says it's fate, Ezio counters by saying he doesn’t believe in it, and Altaïr just cryptically says maybe he should.

If Ezio had been paying attention, he might have noticed the way Desmond leaned in slightly.

Or how Altaïr’s smirk held something more than just amusement.

But he wasn’t…

Oh well.

---

III. The Soft Sell

It starts small.

Desmond started showing up to the cafe (suspiciously always at the same time Ezio did), getting to the cashier first and conveniently ordering one extra coffee,

- “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ezio scoffed the first time Desmond held it out to him. “I can pay for my own coffee.” - Desmond raised a brow, “Then pay me back later.” - Ezio narrowed his eyes, “I will.” - “Sure, pretty boy,” Desmond drawled, sipping his own drink with far too much amusement. - Ezio grumbled but took the coffee.

Next, it was Altaïr at lunch in the library,

- Ezio just stared at him. “You can’t be serious.” - “You don’t eat enough,” Altaïr said, utterly unconcerned. - Ezio scoffed. “I eat plenty.” Altaïr didn’t even look up from his book. “You eat whatever is cheapest and smallest.” - Ezio bristled. “That’s not—” - Altaïr finally met his gaze, sharp and knowing. - Ezio clenched his jaw. - “This is not charity,” Altaïr said simply, pushing the food closer. “Eat.”

Ezio barely recovers before the next ‘coincidence’ happens.

This time, Ezio’s walking home from university—it was getting late, which was dangerous considering where Ezio lived.

Then a sleek black car pulled up beside him, the window rolling down,

- Desmond, grinning far too smugly, leaned against the steering wheel. “Need a ride?” - Ezio exhaled sharply through his nose. “I am perfectly capable of walking.” - Altaïr flatly scanned the dark, empty streets. “Sure.” - Ezio crossed his arms. “I don’t need saving.” - Desmond smirked. “Who said we were saving you?”

And it keeps on happening, over and over.

The thing is, Altaïr and Desmond never pushed or forced anything. They just… became a constant. A presence that became normal.

Ezio should have resisted harder, really, but every time he moved to argue, they would argue, deflect, or just plain ignore his protests,

- A well-timed reminder that he wasn’t eating enough. - A teasing remark to make it feel less like charity. - A casual offer for something he hadn’t even realized he’d need.

Yeah, Ezio was losing this metaphorical war.

---

IV. Desmond Plays the Long Game

Ezio had always been stubborn—it was both a blessing and a curse because it kept him going when most would have folded, but also made him terrible at accepting help.

He had a habit of brushing off kindness, of turning down offers even when he clearly needed them.

Desmond found it infuriatingly endearing.

So he did what he did best—he observed, learned, and most importantly, he waited.

He started picking up on the little things,

- The way Ezio tapped his fingers against the table when he was lost in thought - The absent-minded way he ran his hand through his hair and tugged when he was frustrated - The quiet sighs he let out when he was too tired to keep his guard up

Most people wouldn’t notice, but Desmond did, so he started to intervene.

Desmond starts dragging Ezio into late-night walks, started by a casual text at odd hours,

- Desmond: You up? - Ezio: Unfortunately.

They never have a destination in mind, sometimes ending up at a 24-hour cafe, other times, they just walk.

Ezio talks about anything and everything during these, and Desmond, ever dutiful, listens.

He gets attached, naturally, because underneath the exhaustion, beneath the snark and stubborn pride, Ezio was brilliant.

One night, after yet another exhausting day, Desmond invites him over to the one he usually tends to—Bad Weather,

- Desmond: Come by Bad Weather. You need a drink. - Ezio: I can’t afford Bad Weather. - Desmond: I didn’t say you had to. - There was a long pause before Ezio finally caved.

Desmond didn’t think he’d show, but Ezio just rolls his eyes and accepts the drink Desmond poured for him without thinking.

The bar’s full of rich and powerful people, so Ezio feels a little out of place,

- Ezio glanced around the bar, brows furrowing slightly, “I feel like I should be wearing a suit just to be here.” - Desmond chuckled. “Please. Half of the people here inherited their money and have no idea how to spend it. You actually work for a living. That’s worth more than their net worth combined.” - “That’s a dangerous mindset for someone who makes money off of these people.” - “I don’t take their money. They give it to me.”

Then, Desmond prods about law school, causing Ezio to start ranting,

- “So, tell me. How’s law school treating you?” - Ezio groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t even get me started.”

Desmond slides more drinks to Ezio as he talks. A few drinks in, and he was looser, his usual sharp edges softened.

Desmond keeps him talking about schoolwork, his workload, his art commissions.

He files every little detail away.

Then, casually—too casually, really—he asks,

- “What if you didn’t have to worry about money?"

Ezio laughs, thinking it's a joke,

- “What, are you offering to sponsor my education now?”

Desmond doesn’t correct him.

---

V. Altaïr Pushes Buttons

Altaïr, unlike Desmond, took the opposite approach.

He engaged Ezio in a battle of wits and endurance, a game neither of them would ever explicitly acknowledge but would play anyway.

And Altaïr, much to Ezio’s frustration, was really, really good at challenging him.

It starts subtly, with a few questions here and there,

- “Explain this case to me,” Altaïr said, arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. - Ezio, naturally, rose to the occasion. “Which part?” - “All of it.”

Ezio would huff, but his eyes would spark as he picked the case apart piece by piece.

Altaïr would listen and absorb every detail, then poke holes into Ezio’s reasoning, questioning him and countering the logic.

Ezio thinks Altaïr’s just being difficult, but then he’d see the subtly curl of Altaïr’s lips when Ezio found a way to counter his arguments, something almost like approval flickering in his expression.

And Ezio thrived.

It becomes routine, the late-night debates over cases, philosophy, or even finer points of morally gray areas.

They argue for hours until he’s exhausted, slumped over a table but grinning,

- Altaïr, the smug bastard, always looked perfectly composed in contrast.

Somewhere in the mix, Altaïr starts pushing Ezio’s boundaries in other ways, too.

Sometimes, Altaïr would slip a casual Arabic phrase or word, and subconsciously, Ezio starts picking up on their meanings.

Ezio doesn’t realize he’d been absorbing it, just nodding along and responding until one day, when Desmond called him out,

- “Since when did you speak Arabic?” - Ezio blinked. “What?” - Desmond gestured lazily. “You just responded to Altaïr in Arabic. You even said it right.” - Ezio turned to Altaïr, eyes narrowing. “You planned this.” - Altaïr just looked at him, perfectly neutral. “Did I?”

Then there would be the meals, surprisingly enough.

A moment where Ezio forgets to eat—not intentionally, of course, but with everything going on, he just… forgot.

Then, suddenly, Altaïr places a plate of food in front of him,

- “I’m not hungry,” Ezio muttered, glancing back at his notes. - Altaïr didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just said, calmly, “Eat.” - Ezio scowled. “I said—” - But something in Altaïr’s tone made Ezio hesitate. - Altaïr simply watched him. Unmoving. Unyielding. - Ezio glared for a few more seconds. Then, with a quiet huff, he picked up the fork. - He ate.

---

VI. The Unravelling

With all that had been going on in the whirlwind of Ezio’s life, it made sense that he didn’t notice at first.

When Desmond paid for dinner, Ezio barely batted an eye now. Didn’t argue, didn’t reach for his wallet, didn’t even register the exchange until he was walking back home.

He brushed it off, told himself that it would just be this once.

But it happened again.

This time it was at the cafe he frequented—Ezio walked into the building where Desmond was already waiting, rubbing his temples after a brutal lecture, and Desmond just… slid a cup to him.

And Ezio automatically took it. Didn’t even realize until half of the cup was empty. Ezio opens his mouth, but Desmond beats him to it,

- “Don’t even start.” -Ezio narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say anything.” -“You were going to.” - Ezio scoffed. “You don’t know that.” - Desmond raised a brow. - Ezio huffed. He took another sip, muttering under his breath. “Bastardo.” - Desmond just grinned. “Love you too.”

Then there was Altaïr.

Ezio hadn’t commuted anywhere by himself in weeks.

He just started expecting to see the familiar sleek, high-end car idling at the curb at the end of university.

One day, Ezio just reaches for the passenger door handle before even registering what he was doing.

It happens again while Ezio is studying.

Now, he expects Altaïr to have a snack or meal waiting for him every time he stops by the library.

Absentmindedly reaches out to the container before he even sits down because his stomach is growling.

But the breaking point happens on a cold night outside a restaurant.

All three had just finished dinner, Ezio halfway through a debate with Altaïr about some case study, while Desmond stepped away to handle the bill.

A cold wind rushes past, making Ezio shiver, then Altaïr shrugs off his coat—the same expensive one he had spilled coffee on when they met all those months ago—and drapes it over Ezio without a word.

Ezio barely reacted, only pulling the coat around himself tighter as he kept talking.

It wasn’t until they were halfway towards the car that it hit him—the already paid bill, the warm and heavy coat, the car waiting at the curb.

Oh.

- Ezio froze mid-step. - Desmond glanced over his shoulder, “You good?” - Ezio stared at the coat. Then at Desmond. Then at Altaïr. - “…I’m getting spoiled.” - Desmond smirked. “Finally noticed?” - Ezio opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked genuinely horrified. “No. No, no. I— I am not—” - Altaïr raised a brow. “You are.” - “I am not,” Ezio insisted. “This—this is just—you offered—” - Desmond snorted. “Uh-huh.” - Ezio turned to Altaïr, desperate. “Tell him he’s being ridiculous.” - Altaïr’s face was perfectly neutral. “He’s not.” - Ezio looked betrayed. “You—You are both ridiculous.”

Altaïr and Desmond exchange a knowing glance.

And that’s when Ezio realizes that they weren’t going to argue or fight him on this, not because he’s wrong but because—

- They were waiting. - Waiting for the inevitable. - Waiting for him to give in. - Waiting for him to realize there was no way out of this. - Ezio’s heart pounded. - He was losing.

---

VII. The Breaking Point

Ezio’s day had been shit.

It started with his exam results—he had worked hard, studied until his eyes burned, and poured hours into preparation.

But when the grades were posted, his score wasn’t what he expected.

It wasn’t a failure—not even close. In fact, he had done well,

But it wasn’t enough (not for his standards anyway).

Yet Ezio was still Ezio, so he clenched his jaw and decided not to think about it.

Then came the commission.

He had been counting on it—rent was due soon, and his budget was already spread thin,

But the client backed out with the excuse of finding another artist who could do it for cheaper, despite already agreeing to Ezio’s rate.

He swallowed down the frustration and sent a polite response, even though his hands ached to throw something,

And then, just to really twist the knife, his apartment’s heating broke.

The landlord? Useless. Maintenance? Busy. Earliest it could be repaired? Next week.

- Ezio sat on his bed, wrapped in his thin excuse for a blanket, and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. - Just for a second. - Just to breathe.

Then his phone buzzes, and as Ezio is staring blearily at the screen, he realizes it's Desmond,

Desmond: Dinner. No Arguments

Ezio hesitates, because he should say no. He should stay in, tough it out, and deal with it like he always did.

But he was cold, tired, and the thought of being in his freezing apartment all alone made something in his chest curl tight.

So he puts on a sweater and goes.

When he steps inside Bad Weather, it's the warmth that hits him first.

Not just the temperature, but the atmosphere—the low hum of conversation, the scent of food and liquor, the way Desmond looks up from behind the counter and immediately smiles,

- “Hey, gorgeous.” - Ezio scoffed, shaking off the cold. “Don’t start with me.” - Desmond just slid a plate across the counter. “Your usual.” - Ezio paused. Looked at the food. - Hot, fresh, and exactly what he would have ordered.

Ezio should argue. Insist on paying. But he’s too tired, too cold

So he sits and picks up the fork,

- “Altaïr’s here, by the way.” - Ezio barely had time to register that before a heavy warmth settled over his shoulders. - He stiffened and turned his head. - There Altaïr was, draping a thick, expensive-looking blanket around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. - Ezio blinked. “What—” - Altaïr said nothing, instead pressing the edges into place, making sure it was snug around him. - Ezio’s throat felt tight.

He wants to fight it. To push it off—to pretend

But he doesn’t. He just sinks into it, lets it happen.

Lets himself be taken care of.

---

VIII. Indulgence

Now that Ezio has finally caved, Altaïr and Desmond stop trying to be subtle at all.

Fancy clothes? Bought. Expensive sinners? Scheduled. “Random” gifts? Constant.

Ezio protests, of course, but it’s half-hearted at best now

One night, they catch him in a sweater Altaïr bought him and a watch Desmond picked out.

Another night, Ezio just steals Desmond’s drink and a piece of meat from Altaïr’s plate.

One minute he’s complaining about his old laptop—how the battery barely holds any charge, how the fan sounds like it’s dying, how he lost an entire legal brief because it crashed mid-save

Next thing he knows, he’s being dragged to some high-end electronics store by Altaïr and Desmond,

- “Guys,” Ezio protested, digging his heels in, “I don’t—” - Desmond just slung an arm around his shoulders like he was a particularly stubborn shopping cart. “Come on, baby, just look around.” - Ezio scowled. “I don’t need a new laptop.” - Altaïr, who was already heading to the premium section, didn’t even glance back. “Yes, you do.” - Ezio sputtered. “I already have a laptop!” - “You have a relic,” Desmond corrected. “That thing belongs in a museum.”

Before they can argue further, Altaïr just hands him a brand new laptop—top-of-the-line. Sleek. Expensive. The kind that costs more than three months’ worth of rent,

- “What the fuck.” - “Consider it an early graduation gift,” Altaïr said, tone utterly impassive. - Ezio was a sophomore. - He gripped the edges of the box like he was considering throwing the damn thing. “I hate you both.” - Desmond grinned, “Love you too, baby.” - Ezio groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “You absolute bastards.” - Altaïr just sipped at his coffee.

Following that, they drag him to a designer boutique of all places.

Ezio, of course, takes one look at countless racks of stupidly expensive clothes and tries to turn around and leave immediately.

Desmond catches him by the back of his sweater,

“I am not doing this.” - Desmond just grinned, way too pleased with himself. “Pretty boy, you are doing this.” - “No.” - “Yes.” - “No.” - “Yes.” - Altaïr—who had been watching the exchange with all the patience of a saint—finally stepped in. “Ezio.” - Ezio gritted his teeth. He knew that tone. That specific tone meant ‘stop fighting and accept your fate.’ - Ezio narrowed his eyes. “You planned this.” - Desmond didn’t even have the decency to deny it. “Yeah, kinda.” - Ezio groaned. “I hate you both.”

He ends up with an armful of clothing anyway.

At some point, Desmond shoves a leather jacket into his hands, and it fits. It fits ridiculously well. Too well, even.

Because it made him feel like he belonged here, in a world of luxury and excess, with Desmond and Altaïr.

It made something in his chest twist,

- Desmond stepped closer, adjusting the collar and smoothing out the sleeves. His fingers lingered at Ezio’s wrists, his voice softer. “Just take the damn thing, baby.” - Ezio swallowed. - For once, he doesn’t argue.

---

IX. The Ultimate Test

Ezio doesn’t mean to push them away. Not really, but the thought, once it appeared, refused to leave his head.

But as he stares at his reflection, wearing new clothes and spotting the new laptop sitting on his bed, some unpleasant thoughts start to make themselves known.

A whisper at first, then a murmur, and now a constant, vicious snarl in his head.

- What the fuck are you doing, leeching off of two guys who are happily in a relationship? Clinging to them like you belong? - The thought was unbearable.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But the thought won’t leave him alone.

They had each other before he even came into the picture. They would be fine without him. Have been fine without him.

So what the hell is he doing? Why is he letting them take care of him like some helpless pretty thing?

Ezio is just… there. Their charity case. Their idiot, stray law student that they’ve inexplicably decided to pamper, and for what? What does he bring to the table? What does he give them?

The answer is obvious.

Nothing.

So Ezio stops.

He decides, in the only way he knows how, that he’s going to prove to himself and them that he doesn’t need them. He digs in his heels and stubbornly refuses everything.

For the first three days, it isn't so bad.

Desmond swings by his apartment to pick him up for class. Ezio tells him he’s already on his way (A lie—he takes the subway and hates every second of it).

Altaïr hands him a coffee when they cross paths on the way to one of his odd jobs. Ezio shakes his head, feigning indifference. (The caffeine withdrawal headache kicks in two hours later.)

They try to buy him lunch, and he refuses.

They ask him about dinner, and he makes up some bullshit excuse.

Desmond and Altaïr watch him. They don’t push, but Ezio can feel their gazes, sharp and considering, like they’re waiting every time they just so happen to come across each other.

By the fourth day, Ezio is flagging.

The subway is miserable. The coffee withdrawal is worse. He’s eating the bare minimum—whatever he can scrounge from his apartment or afford on his own.

It’s familiar and lonely and stupid. So stupid.

But the thought of giving in—of crawling back with his tail between his legs—is unbearable.

By day five, he’s pushing through on sheer willpower alone.

He’s exhausted. His body aches. His assignments pile up. He doesn’t sleep because there’s too much to do, and the lack of proper food is starting to get to him.

But he can do this. He doesn’t need their money or their stupid fucking kindness. He doesn’t need—

He doesn’t mean to pull an all-nighter, but the legal brief he’s working on refuses to cooperate, and before he knows it, the sun is rising and he hasn’t slept at all.

He’s sluggish, thoughts slow, and the only thing keeping him upright is sheer force of will.

He goes to class running on fumes, doesn’t hear a single word of the lecture, and stumbles back to his apartment in a haze.

And then, somehow, Desmond is there,

- Ezio blinked, sluggish and barely comprehending as the door swung shut behind him. - Desmond is standing in the kitchen, completely at ease, a bag of takeout on the counter.

The smell of food hits him like a punch to the gut, stomach cramping angrily, all the while Desmond looks at him with knowing eyes,

- “Hey, baby.” Desmond’s voice is too soft. Too knowing. “Rough couple of days?” - Ezio stiffened, his grip on his bag tightening.  - Don’t fold. Don’t fold. - “I’m fine,” he rasped, pushing past him. “Don’t need—” - His stomach growls. Loudly. - Desmond snorts. “Yeah. Sure.”

Ezio’s vision blurs for a split second as he grits his teeth, exhaustion making his body sway, and then Desmond is there, steadying him and guiding him into a chair before he can protest,

- “Sit down,” Desmond murmured, nudging the takeout towards him. “Eat.” - Ezio swallowed. His throat felt tight. His hands clenched uselessly in his lap. - “I hate you,” he croaked out. - Desmond just smiled, brushing his knuckles against Ezio’s cheek. “I know. Eat, baby.” - Ezio picked up his fork with shaking hands and took a bite. - It’s over.

The first swallow nearly undoes him. The second makes his vision blur. The third—

Fuck.

Ezio makes a broken noise before shoving his sleeve against his eyes, before the tears can fully spill over.

But Desmond sees. Of course he does.

And suddenly there are arms wrapping around him, pulling him close, his head tucked against a broad chest, and—

- “Shh, sweetheart,” Desmond murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” - Ezio gripped the front of his hoodie with shaking hands, unable to stop the way his body folds in.  - He doesn’t sob, not quite, but the tears don’t stop, and when a second pair of arms wrap around him from behind, Ezio makes a choked sound - Altaïr’s voice is quiet, firm. “Enough of this, Ezio.” - Ezio swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I just—” - “You are not a burden,” Altaïr cuts him off. “You are not an inconvenience.” - Desmond tightened his hold. “You’re ours.”

It’s not fair how they make it so easy to fall apart.

They hold him, firm and unyielding, as Ezio lets the last few days break him.

When he stops shaking and the tears finally slow, he sags against them, wrung out and exhausted,

- Desmond pressed another kiss to his hair, voice warm with affection. “Better?” - Ezio sniffed, rubbing at his sore eyes. “No.” - Desmond snorted. “Liar.” - Altaïr hummed, a rare note of amusement in his voice. “We’ve let you suffer long enough.” - Ezio scowled weakly. “Didn’t let me do anything.” - Desmond flicked his ear. “Yea, okay, baby.” - Ezio groaned, but it’s softer now, the fight bleeding out of him. Fuck. He hates them. He hates them. - (He doesn’t. He never could.)

He isn’t getting rid of them, no matter how hard he tries,

- “You’re not getting rid of us,” Desmond murmured, his voice dropping into something quiet, something unshakable. “Stop trying.” - Ezio closed his eyes, breath stuttering. - “Okay,” he whispered.

Ezio doesn’t move for a long time.

He eats.

He lets them hold him.

He’s theirs.

---

X. Sweet Surrender

Ezio should feel victorious.

He thinks he’s entitled to feel some sort of sense of accomplishment. After all, he lasted longer than anyone (not that there are others to compare to).

A year ago, he had snarled at the mere suggestion of letting anyone, least of all two disgustingly rich bastards, take care of him.

Three months ago, he had been dead set on resisting.

Now?

Now Ezio’s sitting in the passenger seat of one of Altaïr’s many cars, wearing a jacket Desmond bought him, with a new phone in his pocket holding a cup of coffee he hadn’t paid for.

Desmond was in the driver’s seat, humming under his breath as he cruised comfortably through town towards their apartment (Because that was a thing now, Ezio having moved in over the summer).

Altaïr was nowhere to be seen, having gone into some high-end restaurant to pick up their food.

Takeout because Ezio had refused to go inside and sit at a table where the cheapest thing on the menu cost more than his entire (old) grocery budget,

- “…I’m getting spoiled,” Ezio muttered. - Desmond snorted. Didn’t even look at him. "You’re just now figuring that out?" - Ezio glared. “I didn’t say it was a good thing.” - "Didn't say you did." Desmond’s lips twitched, his smirk sharp enough to cut. “But you're sitting in Altaïr’s car, drinking my coffee, waiting for our boyfriend to bring you dinner." - Ezio choked. “You two are not my—” - "You’re wearing the jacket I bought you, with the phone Altaïr picked out, and you haven't paid for coffee in weeks." Desmond tossed his phone onto the dashboard, turning to him with an obnoxiously satisfied grin. "Face it, baby. You’re ours." - Ezio scowled. "I hate you." - Desmond reached out, smooth and lazy, like he’d done this a hundred times before, and tugged Ezio in by the collar of his jacket, pressing a kiss to his temple. - "Love you too, baby," he murmured against his skin.

He’s happier. Healthier. More comfortable in his skin than he’s ever been.

Ezio still insists on paying things when he can, still glares when Desmond or Altaïr swipe their cards before he gets the chance.

But nowadays he lets it happen, lets them take care of him.

There’s a moment, one lazy afternoon, where it truly sinks in.

He’s sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, head pillowed on Desmond’s lap while Altaïr sits at the other end, reading.

Desmond’s fingers are in his hair, absently combing through the strands, and Altaïr’s hand rests against his ankle, warm and grounding.

Ezio sighs, sinking further into their touch. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

Because, for once in his life, he doesn’t have to do it all alone.