Fun Fact: Leonardo da Vinci was very fond of playing pranks - especially if he could throw the entire Vatican into fits of panic by, say, dressing up a lizard like a dragon. Our Leonardo with a meat cleaver? Totally up his alley. Ezio was probably just no fun to prank, and so we don’t get to see more of that side of Leonardo within the game. Also, Leonardo was born on the 15 of April by the Julian calendar, though our (Gregorian) calendar would put him down as born on the 24th.
Secondary fun fact: The Carnivale of 1484, the year of this story, fell in the start of February. Cristina and Ezio had their second-to-last meeting at the Carnivale in 1484. I did not actually plan that when I began on Of Artists And Assassins, but sometimes fate decides to make things work in one’s favour.
They coupled again at some point during the early morning. Ezio woke to curious. questing fingers trailing over the growing number of scars on his back; and he had pulled an apologetic but willing Leonardo on top of himself in return. Dry seed and old oil had presented an interesting counterpoint to the sensations of flesh against flesh, and, really, the assassin would have been embarrassed by how quickly he found his release, had his attention not fully been on stroking and petting and caressing until the other shuddered and added to the mess between them.
Giddy and sated, Ezio reacted too slowly to prevent the artist from rolling out of the warm bed and retrieving a wet cloth to clean them both with - though he did manage to stave off sleep long enough to insist that Leonardo joined him again. Once again curled up around a warm body, sleep quickly reclaimed the assassin’s otherwise well-honed mind.
When he woke again, the sun had risen, and Ezio was disappointed to find that the bed was empty. That the clothes over the back of the chair were missing. And, which caused his stomach to knot painfully over the simple domesticity, his clothes had been picked up from the floor and neatly folded, bracers and sword on top. A basin of water waited for him, clean cloth by its side, and he was certain that he could smell toasted bread wafting up from the downstairs workshop.
It took him a short while - sitting at the edge of the bed, savouring the ache in his loins and the bruises on his neck, and trying not to grin like an idiot - to realise that he felt happy. For the first time since Cristina had yelled at him and plainly told him that he had missed any chance he could have had with her, and that she never wished to see him again. A strange feeling, he concluded, when that memory was no longer accompanied by quite the same heartbreak as earlier.
After washing and dressing - spending far too long, really, on tightening and adjusting the multitude of buckles in an unhurried way that he had not had the luxury of in several years - and strapping on the considerable arsenal of weapons he owned, the now fully-dressed assassin made his way downstairs. Leaving the bedroom where both of their barriers had been broken down, and left the two men with something… new. Ezio was still unsure of what to call it, but, he knew, it was something he had every intention of holding onto, by any means available to him.
Of course the workshop was still eerily clean. But Leonardo seemed to have had a flash of inspiration over the course of the night or morning, and Ezio was happy to see that one only-just-begun painting; four sketches of birds and one of some kind of giant crossbow; one half-constructed model; three glass jars with unmentionable and possibly flammable liquids; and half a dozen screws and springs now decorated various surfaces around the workshop. Slowly, but steadily, Leonardo’s tendency to begin projects had started to turn the place into something that had a cozy familiarity to its chaos.
And within the kitchen, Leonardo was puttering about in trousers and tunic, with only a pair of loose shoes protecting his feet from the cold stone floor. The table, cleared of what had remained of their dinner, had instead been laid out with breakfast, and warm tea steamed from the cups.
“Good morning, mio amore,” Ezio said with a grin, leaning against the door frame.
“Toast’s gone cold, sorry,” Leonardo said, gesturing momentarily with a skillet, and very nearly sent the sliced turnips within into the fire, although his smile was broad and happy and just a bit nervous, as if the assassin would up and vanish at any moment.
“I think I’ll survive,” Ezio replied, walking over to give a kiss to his new lover, and found that, yes, he could most definitely get used to this peaceful life.
Of Artists and Assassins (11/11) - le fin
Secondary fun fact: The Carnivale of 1484, the year of this story, fell in the start of February. Cristina and Ezio had their second-to-last meeting at the Carnivale in 1484. I did not actually plan that when I began on Of Artists And Assassins, but sometimes fate decides to make things work in one’s favour.
They coupled again at some point during the early morning. Ezio woke to curious. questing fingers trailing over the growing number of scars on his back; and he had pulled an apologetic but willing Leonardo on top of himself in return. Dry seed and old oil had presented an interesting counterpoint to the sensations of flesh against flesh, and, really, the assassin would have been embarrassed by how quickly he found his release, had his attention not fully been on stroking and petting and caressing until the other shuddered and added to the mess between them.
Giddy and sated, Ezio reacted too slowly to prevent the artist from rolling out of the warm bed and retrieving a wet cloth to clean them both with - though he did manage to stave off sleep long enough to insist that Leonardo joined him again. Once again curled up around a warm body, sleep quickly reclaimed the assassin’s otherwise well-honed mind.
When he woke again, the sun had risen, and Ezio was disappointed to find that the bed was empty. That the clothes over the back of the chair were missing. And, which caused his stomach to knot painfully over the simple domesticity, his clothes had been picked up from the floor and neatly folded, bracers and sword on top. A basin of water waited for him, clean cloth by its side, and he was certain that he could smell toasted bread wafting up from the downstairs workshop.
It took him a short while - sitting at the edge of the bed, savouring the ache in his loins and the bruises on his neck, and trying not to grin like an idiot - to realise that he felt happy. For the first time since Cristina had yelled at him and plainly told him that he had missed any chance he could have had with her, and that she never wished to see him again. A strange feeling, he concluded, when that memory was no longer accompanied by quite the same heartbreak as earlier.
After washing and dressing - spending far too long, really, on tightening and adjusting the multitude of buckles in an unhurried way that he had not had the luxury of in several years - and strapping on the considerable arsenal of weapons he owned, the now fully-dressed assassin made his way downstairs. Leaving the bedroom where both of their barriers had been broken down, and left the two men with something… new. Ezio was still unsure of what to call it, but, he knew, it was something he had every intention of holding onto, by any means available to him.
Of course the workshop was still eerily clean. But Leonardo seemed to have had a flash of inspiration over the course of the night or morning, and Ezio was happy to see that one only-just-begun painting; four sketches of birds and one of some kind of giant crossbow; one half-constructed model; three glass jars with unmentionable and possibly flammable liquids; and half a dozen screws and springs now decorated various surfaces around the workshop. Slowly, but steadily, Leonardo’s tendency to begin projects had started to turn the place into something that had a cozy familiarity to its chaos.
And within the kitchen, Leonardo was puttering about in trousers and tunic, with only a pair of loose shoes protecting his feet from the cold stone floor. The table, cleared of what had remained of their dinner, had instead been laid out with breakfast, and warm tea steamed from the cups.
“Good morning, mio amore,” Ezio said with a grin, leaning against the door frame.
“Toast’s gone cold, sorry,” Leonardo said, gesturing momentarily with a skillet, and very nearly sent the sliced turnips within into the fire, although his smile was broad and happy and just a bit nervous, as if the assassin would up and vanish at any moment.
“I think I’ll survive,” Ezio replied, walking over to give a kiss to his new lover, and found that, yes, he could most definitely get used to this peaceful life.