A/N: Good god, am I eager to hear what you all think of this, LOL (!!!)
So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets. - Matthew 7:12
“You're late,” his father says to him, his expression reproachful. “Go and stand with the others.”
His father whacks him on the back of the head before he can pull away. It is more humiliating than painful, and it is hard for Enoch to repress a scowl as he takes his place in line.
“Begin,” his father orders, and Enoch turns to face the boy next to him. His opponent raises his blade and lunges first. Enoch parries with ease, then twists his body into the other boy, catching his foot with his own and causing his opponent to fall. He is the quickest in the line to subdue and disarm his opponent, and yet he earns only a frown from his father.
“It is easy,” his father comments, “to utilize skill when one expects to be attacked.”
Enoch stands, arms folded at his side and meets his father's eyes, his own narrowed in irritation. His father regards him for a moment, and then smiles, pulling a golden sphere from his pouch. His father holds the sphere in front of him, much like Menrva did in the orchard, and the sphere starts to glow.
All the other boys in the line turn and face Enoch. And then they are on him, and he has only seconds to fend the first one off before another one attacks. He manages to disarm about five before his arms begin to tire, and his pace slackens. A blade comes towards his face, and he is not able to deflect in time. It tears through his upper lip, and Enoch can taste his own blood. The next attack puts him on the ground. One of his attackers holds his blade high, preparing to drive it into Enoch's flesh.
“Father!” Enoch shouts in alarm. The blade comes down, and only stops when the tip is poised directly above Enoch's heart.
“Do you see, Enoch? Do you understand? For all your skill, how can you fight against an enemy that can turn your very brothers against you?”
“Enough, Cain!”
It is his uncle's voice, and his uncle's hand who removes the glowing sphere from his father's hand.
Enoch has never loved his uncle more.
~ ~ ~ ~
“I don't know what you want me to say,” Desmond says eventually, allowing himself to fall back onto Ezio's bed with a sigh. He rests his head in his hands, not really looking at anyone. Ezio, the bastard, remains quiet, arms crossed and leaning up against the wall.
Fuck you very much, you know. You can chime in here, anytime.
“How about the truth, boy? I am too old to play games,” Achilles responds, mouth set in a firm line.
Desmond huffs out a quiet laugh and throws his head back to stare at the ceiling.
“The truth? You wouldn't believe the truth. Hell, if I were you, *I* wouldn't believe the truth. The truth is impossible.”
“More impossible than, say, standing in a room with an assassin that has been dead and buried for centuries?” Achilles counters, and yeah, Desmond has to admit that the man has a point.
“I can't... I don't know what to tell you. We don't mean you any harm, or Connor for that matter. I can promise you that,” Desmond says, meeting the old assassin's eyes with his own.
Achilles snorts in response.
“If I thought you did, you would already be dead.”
Desmond looks towards Ezio in time to see the Italian assassin quirk a smile before it is ruthlessly suppressed in favor of the glare he has been sporting since they found Achilles in their room.
“Look... I can't tell you everything. But we are here for a reason, an important one. If we fail...” Desmond doesn't repress the shudder that travels through him. “There are some things we need to fix; some things that need to happen. This world... everything is at stake.”
Achilles regards him quietly for a moment, before he sighs, sitting on Desmond's bed and motioning to the apple and the iPhone.
“And I suppose these First Civilization artifacts are the reason why and how you are here,” Achilles comments. Desmond doesn't offer an answer, or even mention that the iPhone was made by men and not the First Civilization. He suspects that the question was rhetorical anyway.
“I don't trust... they have been leading the assassin's astray for centuries," Achilles continues, "Perhaps even longer. Connor... his mother... Ezio... Altair.. Aquilus... too many others to name. They bring us away from our creed, boy, and solve no problems.”
“Yeah,” Desmond pulls his hand through his hair. “Believe me, I know that. Ezio here definitely knows that. It's chasing those freaking things that got us into the situation we are trying to prevent. Assassin's and Templars fighting for centuries over the scraps left behind by a civilization that failed in a catastrophic way. Ours will too, if we don't succeed. We haven't got much time left, Achilles.”
“My descendant speaks the truth,” Ezio comments, resulting in Achilles' eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. The old man is contemplative for a moment, rubbing his chin with his fingers.
“I believe you. Just answer me one question.”
Desmond hesitates for a second, meets Ezio's eyes, and finding no reluctance in them, slowly nods.
“When were you born?”
Desmond meets the old man's eyes as he answers.
“March 13, 1987.”
The old man's age is never more apparent when Achilles answers, voice tired and hands rubbing at his eyes.
“So whatever is going to happen, it's going to happen in just over a couple of centuries. Not much time at all.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It is a quiet Achilles who leaves them, but not before he threatens them with their lives if anything should happen to his assassin in their quest to 'fix the world'. For now, the old man agrees to keep his silence. It is more of a concession than Desmond hoped for, and he feels as if he has dodged a bullet. But that feeling goes away as soon as he meets the cold eyes of his companion.
Ezio waits until Achilles is well out of earshot before slamming Desmond up against the wall. It is a mirror of his actions earlier, but it is scorn that comes from Ezio's lips this time.
“You knew, didn't you? You knew that the old man suspected, and yet you did not share this information with me.”
Desmond holds his hands up in surrender.
“Look, man, I'm sorry! Yeah, I knew he was on to us. I was going to tell you, I swear – there was just never a good time.”
“Never a good time! Keeping information like that to yourself could get one or both of us killed,” Ezio spits furiously, shaking Desmond once for good measure before letting him drop to the floor. Ezio pulls back suddenly, hands shaking as he combs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Every time you show some skill, Desmond, you do something to prove how much of a novice you actually are.”
“Yeah, well you know what – fuck you!” Desmond shouts back, hands balled into fists, suddenly furious. “I'm just making this shit up as I go along, you know? Maybe you could have been, I dunno, planning with me or some shit instead of taking off at every possible second to go play your fucking guitar.”
“It was part of our cover,” Ezio seethes, and Desmond gets right up into his face.
“Yeah? You're so far under fucking cover, you might as well not even be here! You like it, don't you? You like being Mario Erudito, traveling minstrel and not Ezio Auditore, master assassin, having to make the hard decisions. For you, this is like a fucking vacation, and you are perfectly fucking fine with it!”
The fist, when it comes, hooks right into Desmond's jaw, knocking him off balance. He feels the sting of it, tastes his own blood in his mouth before he rights himself, tackling Ezio onto his bed, hands at the other man's throat. He manages to get a knee into the meat of Ezio's thigh before the older man flips them.
“Merda!” Ezio hisses, “Vaffanculo!”
“Fuck you too, buddy!” Desmond responds, even as he's wincing from the blow that catches him in the side. Ezio grabs his head with both hands, forces Desmond to hold it still. Then the Italian's lips are on his in a punishing, brutal kiss. It is not about passion so much as dominance, and Desmond gives back as good as he gets, chasing Ezio's tongue with his own. He can feel the older man's hardness against his own, and even in his angry haze, that is good. He presses up against it, heat and pressure pulling a low whine from his throat. Ezio's lips drop to his neck and bites down, teeth worrying at the tender skin there.
“You are so – esasperante,” Ezio hisses into his neck, fingers fumbling with the edges of Desmond's shirt. Desmond pushes his hand into Ezio's breeches, grabs a hold of his cock and Ezio keens, pupils blown wide with a mix of lust and anger, and it's the hottest fucking thing Desmond has ever seen.
“You are no picnic yourself, buddy,” Desmond responds, pulling on Ezio's cock with a slow, steady pressure. “Been driving me absolutely batshit crazy,” he continues. He lets go of Ezio, receiving a greedy whimper in response, using the distraction to flip their positions again. Desmond pulls his shirt over his head, hastily tossing it to the other side of the room, and then there are warm hands against his chest, fingertips pulling at his nipples hard. They are followed by teeth, and Desmond's eyes roll back for a second, before he pushes Ezio back onto the bed with a hissed order to stay put. He pulls off Ezio's shirt as well, nearly tearing the fabric in his haste to remove it, and it is barely off before his hands are dipping to undo the laces at Ezio's breeches. There are too many fucking clothes, he can't get them off fast enough.
In fact, Desmond doesn't even bother taking his own breeches completely off, just pulls them down far enough to free his cock before he takes them both in hand, slightly to tight and rough, but it is good the way they feel together, silky heat against silky heat. He's not surprised at all that they are of a similar length and girth, the only difference being that he is circumcised where Ezio is not, but even that is hot too, adding a certain uneven sensation with each pull that just about breaks his fucking brain.
Ezio is hissing, biting at his shoulder hard enough to leave marks, muttering incoherently under his breath and swearing in Italian, merda, cazzo, cazzo. Desmond flicks his thumb over the head of Ezio's cock, thrusts his tongue between the other man's teeth and then tastes blood as Ezio bites his fucking tongue when he comes, pulling his mouth away only to bury it against Desmond's neck. Desmond follows immediately after, biting down on his lip in an attempt to muffle sound, white hot bliss burning through every nerve. He collapses on top of Ezio, breathing hard and covered in sweat, wiping his sticky hand against the side of his breeches.
“That... was fucked up,” he eventually says into Ezio's neck, following the statement with a soft press of his lips. He pulls back a little to push his breeches the rest of the way off. A little late for that now, he supposes, but he doesn't want to sleep in the sticky things, and he does not have the energy or even desire to move to his own bed.
Ezio sighs and wraps his arms around him, placing a soft kiss against his chin.
“Nulla e reale. Tutto e lecito,” Ezio responds.
Desmond rolls his eyes and molds his body to the other man with a sigh.
Fill: Every hour god sends part 11
So whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them, for this is the Law and the Prophets. - Matthew 7:12
“You're late,” his father says to him, his expression reproachful. “Go and stand with the others.”
His father whacks him on the back of the head before he can pull away. It is more humiliating than painful, and it is hard for Enoch to repress a scowl as he takes his place in line.
“Begin,” his father orders, and Enoch turns to face the boy next to him. His opponent raises his blade and lunges first. Enoch parries with ease, then twists his body into the other boy, catching his foot with his own and causing his opponent to fall. He is the quickest in the line to subdue and disarm his opponent, and yet he earns only a frown from his father.
“It is easy,” his father comments, “to utilize skill when one expects to be attacked.”
Enoch stands, arms folded at his side and meets his father's eyes, his own narrowed in irritation. His father regards him for a moment, and then smiles, pulling a golden sphere from his pouch. His father holds the sphere in front of him, much like Menrva did in the orchard, and the sphere starts to glow.
All the other boys in the line turn and face Enoch. And then they are on him, and he has only seconds to fend the first one off before another one attacks. He manages to disarm about five before his arms begin to tire, and his pace slackens. A blade comes towards his face, and he is not able to deflect in time. It tears through his upper lip, and Enoch can taste his own blood. The next attack puts him on the ground. One of his attackers holds his blade high, preparing to drive it into Enoch's flesh.
“Father!” Enoch shouts in alarm. The blade comes down, and only stops when the tip is poised directly above Enoch's heart.
“Do you see, Enoch? Do you understand? For all your skill, how can you fight against an enemy that can turn your very brothers against you?”
“Enough, Cain!”
It is his uncle's voice, and his uncle's hand who removes the glowing sphere from his father's hand.
Enoch has never loved his uncle more.
~ ~ ~ ~
“I don't know what you want me to say,” Desmond says eventually, allowing himself to fall back onto Ezio's bed with a sigh. He rests his head in his hands, not really looking at anyone. Ezio, the bastard, remains quiet, arms crossed and leaning up against the wall.
Fuck you very much, you know. You can chime in here, anytime.
“How about the truth, boy? I am too old to play games,” Achilles responds, mouth set in a firm line.
Desmond huffs out a quiet laugh and throws his head back to stare at the ceiling.
“The truth? You wouldn't believe the truth. Hell, if I were you, *I* wouldn't believe the truth. The truth is impossible.”
“More impossible than, say, standing in a room with an assassin that has been dead and buried for centuries?” Achilles counters, and yeah, Desmond has to admit that the man has a point.
“I can't... I don't know what to tell you. We don't mean you any harm, or Connor for that matter. I can promise you that,” Desmond says, meeting the old assassin's eyes with his own.
Achilles snorts in response.
“If I thought you did, you would already be dead.”
Desmond looks towards Ezio in time to see the Italian assassin quirk a smile before it is ruthlessly suppressed in favor of the glare he has been sporting since they found Achilles in their room.
“Look... I can't tell you everything. But we are here for a reason, an important one. If we fail...” Desmond doesn't repress the shudder that travels through him. “There are some things we need to fix; some things that need to happen. This world... everything is at stake.”
Achilles regards him quietly for a moment, before he sighs, sitting on Desmond's bed and motioning to the apple and the iPhone.
“And I suppose these First Civilization artifacts are the reason why and how you are here,” Achilles comments. Desmond doesn't offer an answer, or even mention that the iPhone was made by men and not the First Civilization. He suspects that the question was rhetorical anyway.
“I don't trust... they have been leading the assassin's astray for centuries," Achilles continues, "Perhaps even longer. Connor... his mother... Ezio... Altair.. Aquilus... too many others to name. They bring us away from our creed, boy, and solve no problems.”
“Yeah,” Desmond pulls his hand through his hair. “Believe me, I know that. Ezio here definitely knows that. It's chasing those freaking things that got us into the situation we are trying to prevent. Assassin's and Templars fighting for centuries over the scraps left behind by a civilization that failed in a catastrophic way. Ours will too, if we don't succeed. We haven't got much time left, Achilles.”
“My descendant speaks the truth,” Ezio comments, resulting in Achilles' eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. The old man is contemplative for a moment, rubbing his chin with his fingers.
“I believe you. Just answer me one question.”
Desmond hesitates for a second, meets Ezio's eyes, and finding no reluctance in them, slowly nods.
“When were you born?”
Desmond meets the old man's eyes as he answers.
“March 13, 1987.”
The old man's age is never more apparent when Achilles answers, voice tired and hands rubbing at his eyes.
“So whatever is going to happen, it's going to happen in just over a couple of centuries. Not much time at all.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It is a quiet Achilles who leaves them, but not before he threatens them with their lives if anything should happen to his assassin in their quest to 'fix the world'. For now, the old man agrees to keep his silence. It is more of a concession than Desmond hoped for, and he feels as if he has dodged a bullet. But that feeling goes away as soon as he meets the cold eyes of his companion.
Ezio waits until Achilles is well out of earshot before slamming Desmond up against the wall. It is a mirror of his actions earlier, but it is scorn that comes from Ezio's lips this time.
“You knew, didn't you? You knew that the old man suspected, and yet you did not share this information with me.”
Desmond holds his hands up in surrender.
“Look, man, I'm sorry! Yeah, I knew he was on to us. I was going to tell you, I swear – there was just never a good time.”
“Never a good time! Keeping information like that to yourself could get one or both of us killed,” Ezio spits furiously, shaking Desmond once for good measure before letting him drop to the floor. Ezio pulls back suddenly, hands shaking as he combs his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Every time you show some skill, Desmond, you do something to prove how much of a novice you actually are.”
“Yeah, well you know what – fuck you!” Desmond shouts back, hands balled into fists, suddenly furious. “I'm just making this shit up as I go along, you know? Maybe you could have been, I dunno, planning with me or some shit instead of taking off at every possible second to go play your fucking guitar.”
“It was part of our cover,” Ezio seethes, and Desmond gets right up into his face.
“Yeah? You're so far under fucking cover, you might as well not even be here! You like it, don't you? You like being Mario Erudito, traveling minstrel and not Ezio Auditore, master assassin, having to make the hard decisions. For you, this is like a fucking vacation, and you are perfectly fucking fine with it!”
The fist, when it comes, hooks right into Desmond's jaw, knocking him off balance. He feels the sting of it, tastes his own blood in his mouth before he rights himself, tackling Ezio onto his bed, hands at the other man's throat. He manages to get a knee into the meat of Ezio's thigh before the older man flips them.
“Merda!” Ezio hisses, “Vaffanculo!”
“Fuck you too, buddy!” Desmond responds, even as he's wincing from the blow that catches him in the side. Ezio grabs his head with both hands, forces Desmond to hold it still. Then the Italian's lips are on his in a punishing, brutal kiss. It is not about passion so much as dominance, and Desmond gives back as good as he gets, chasing Ezio's tongue with his own. He can feel the older man's hardness against his own, and even in his angry haze, that is good. He presses up against it, heat and pressure pulling a low whine from his throat. Ezio's lips drop to his neck and bites down, teeth worrying at the tender skin there.
“You are so – esasperante,” Ezio hisses into his neck, fingers fumbling with the edges of Desmond's shirt. Desmond pushes his hand into Ezio's breeches, grabs a hold of his cock and Ezio keens, pupils blown wide with a mix of lust and anger, and it's the hottest fucking thing Desmond has ever seen.
“You are no picnic yourself, buddy,” Desmond responds, pulling on Ezio's cock with a slow, steady pressure. “Been driving me absolutely batshit crazy,” he continues. He lets go of Ezio, receiving a greedy whimper in response, using the distraction to flip their positions again. Desmond pulls his shirt over his head, hastily tossing it to the other side of the room, and then there are warm hands against his chest, fingertips pulling at his nipples hard. They are followed by teeth, and Desmond's eyes roll back for a second, before he pushes Ezio back onto the bed with a hissed order to stay put. He pulls off Ezio's shirt as well, nearly tearing the fabric in his haste to remove it, and it is barely off before his hands are dipping to undo the laces at Ezio's breeches. There are too many fucking clothes, he can't get them off fast enough.
In fact, Desmond doesn't even bother taking his own breeches completely off, just pulls them down far enough to free his cock before he takes them both in hand, slightly to tight and rough, but it is good the way they feel together, silky heat against silky heat. He's not surprised at all that they are of a similar length and girth, the only difference being that he is circumcised where Ezio is not, but even that is hot too, adding a certain uneven sensation with each pull that just about breaks his fucking brain.
Ezio is hissing, biting at his shoulder hard enough to leave marks, muttering incoherently under his breath and swearing in Italian, merda, cazzo, cazzo. Desmond flicks his thumb over the head of Ezio's cock, thrusts his tongue between the other man's teeth and then tastes blood as Ezio bites his fucking tongue when he comes, pulling his mouth away only to bury it against Desmond's neck. Desmond follows immediately after, biting down on his lip in an attempt to muffle sound, white hot bliss burning through every nerve. He collapses on top of Ezio, breathing hard and covered in sweat, wiping his sticky hand against the side of his breeches.
“That... was fucked up,” he eventually says into Ezio's neck, following the statement with a soft press of his lips. He pulls back a little to push his breeches the rest of the way off. A little late for that now, he supposes, but he doesn't want to sleep in the sticky things, and he does not have the energy or even desire to move to his own bed.
Ezio sighs and wraps his arms around him, placing a soft kiss against his chin.
“Nulla e reale. Tutto e lecito,” Ezio responds.
Desmond rolls his eyes and molds his body to the other man with a sigh.