Ezio first noticed his attraction to Leonardo as something that crossed the border of friendship on a ride around the southern border of Roma, searching for a Borgia flag that had marked the territory as belonging to the family, and quite wrongly so. It was as he caught a glimpse of red disappear behind a corner that, quite obviously – even from the distance between his eyes and the building – belonged to a cape. His heart caught in his throat, a familiarity rose up and coaxed an uninhibited smile to his face. The possibility that the cape that had so mysteriously fluttered out of sight belonged to Leonardo was slim; Leonardo had been quite busy as of late, forced under the Borgia to work almost day and night on designs for weapons and the odd painting for a rich client. Upon their last meeting on a bench Leonardo had muttered to him that he had been told to paint Lucrezia Borgia, and yet each attempt he made of her was 'not good enough', and that Cesare denounced each one as unworthy. Never-the-less, Ezio dismounted his horse, landing on the cobbles and patting his horse on it's shoulder before walking briskly towards the place at which he had last seen the fabric. As he turned the corner his hopes swooped up as if caught by the wind, but as his eyes took in naught but another street, empty of a known cape and hat, fell. Ezio searched the streets for what had to have been at least half an hour before realising that, even if the cape had belonged to Leonardo, he would have moved on by now.
He collected the flag from the top of a ruin and set off back towards Tiber Island, dusk hanging low on the night sky and clouds obscuring the stars. He pondered, on his way back, just how many of his friends, or perhaps comrades, he would search for when the chance was small that he would find them there at all. When the answer came to him it was without shock, only surety; none, without true reason.
Since then, Ezio found himself taking wider notice of small things around Leonardo, things he had seen and acknowledged, but not noticed before. The small crows feet about Leonardo's eyes that deepened when he smiled, the enthusiastic movement of his hands during speech, the failed attempt at subduing the movements during their secret conversations upon a bench. The way that Ezio himself would relax completely or tense up awkwardly at the sight of his friend, and the way his heart would wrench almost painfully with disappointment upon their parting, the panic and excitement that jumped in his chest if they were to part ways with an amicable embrace that surely must have rattled his chest plate.
He left it for a month or so, trying his best not to notice the way that the attraction did not fade, nor lend itself to others he felt he was close to; his sister, Bartolomeo, La Volpe, Machiavelli. But he did notice, and there was nothing he could do but face the fact as it stared him in the face and caught itself in his throat. Bit by bit, if not already, he was falling from a perch and deeper into the unknown.
FILL [2.a/?]
He collected the flag from the top of a ruin and set off back towards Tiber Island, dusk hanging low on the night sky and clouds obscuring the stars. He pondered, on his way back, just how many of his friends, or perhaps comrades, he would search for when the chance was small that he would find them there at all. When the answer came to him it was without shock, only surety; none, without true reason.
Since then, Ezio found himself taking wider notice of small things around Leonardo, things he had seen and acknowledged, but not noticed before. The small crows feet about Leonardo's eyes that deepened when he smiled, the enthusiastic movement of his hands during speech, the failed attempt at subduing the movements during their secret conversations upon a bench. The way that Ezio himself would relax completely or tense up awkwardly at the sight of his friend, and the way his heart would wrench almost painfully with disappointment upon their parting, the panic and excitement that jumped in his chest if they were to part ways with an amicable embrace that surely must have rattled his chest plate.
He left it for a month or so, trying his best not to notice the way that the attraction did not fade, nor lend itself to others he felt he was close to; his sister, Bartolomeo, La Volpe, Machiavelli. But he did notice, and there was nothing he could do but face the fact as it stared him in the face and caught itself in his throat. Bit by bit, if not already, he was falling from a perch and deeper into the unknown.