Ezio stood numbly in the middle of the street, people weaving around him as if he were a stone in a stream. In his sights was a bench, innocently sitting beside a building, empty but for a fabric of rich red draped over it and a hand sketched in drafting chalk on the masonry, pointing a single index finger at the empty seat. One of Leonardo's benches. Ezio checked the clock upon a tower that shadowed the street. The rush of water flowing through the aqueduct mixed with soft murmuring of couples as they walked the cobbled streets. A crone, bent steeply to compensate for the pain in her back, muttered to herself inaudibly, dribbling between her gums. He had another ten minutes before Leonardo made his round and glanced the bench, vacant, or – if he was brave enough – occupied by himself. He took a deep breath and let it hiss out of his nose. His fingers flexed, the hidden blades adorning both wrists slid out and then back in cleanly. Nine minutes. Time was passing. And yet he still stood there, staring at that bench, not moving, clearly gaining a couple of stares now (which was really quite dangerous in his profession). Vaguely, Ezio wandered whether this was what it was like to be one of those caged birds that Leonardo seemed so intent on releasing. Then he shook himself from that line of thought, knowing that they would do nothing but distract him and that the task at hand would not do well to be put off for another day. The bench he was staring at had been quite out of his way, after all.
Five minutes. A quad of guards walked past him, armour clacking together with each step, weapons at their sides or waving dangerously in from of them. He was brushed to the side as they kept to their diamond formation, and it knocked him out of his stupor. As if he hadn't been standing still in the middle of the street for the last fifteen or so minutes, he walked towards the bench, mindful of the contents of his stomach and how they churned with nerves. The fabric folded and creased under his weight as he sat on the stone and twisted his hands together nervously. The metal of his armoured glove slipped easily from the clammy grasp of his sweaty palm, and he soothed himself by rubbing melodically at the smooth surface, tracing the slim edge with the calloused pad of a finger, staring at a pebble in the street.
A presence sat next to him, and he straightened a little in order to catch from the corner of his eye a familiar tunic and delicate golden embroidery. There was a moment of silence between the two, to calm the nerves of any who may be watching.
“How can I help you, my friend?”
Ezio stretched up as if cracking his back, let out a groan of satisfaction at the click that followed and placed his hand on the bench, either side of his legs. “I came to ask you to meet me tomorrow.” He mumbled back.
“Tomorrow? Why not now? Is there something to happen?” It was dangerous, but the weight of fingers tapped and stayed against his own on the bench, warm and calloused. Ezio drew his hand from beneath Leonardo's and brought it to lay over the back of his hand, curling around, savouring the feel of skin on skin.
“This is not the place to tell you.” He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes to collect his thoughts, calm his body. Though he was still and collected during a kill, he wondered just why a conversation could devour his stoicism completely.
“Is something wrong?” He leant forwards and towards Ezio, face obviously turned towards him now.
“Be careful. They may be watching.” He opened him eyes, stared at the pebble, flinches his hand over hair dappled skin. Leonardo straightened and looked about.
“The coast is clear.”
“Are you sure?” Despite the seeming lack of trust Ezio turned towards Leonardo and drunk in his face. The blue of his eyes, the tan of his skin, the freckles standing out clearly as they peppered themselves over his nose. His beard had grown longer. He looked healthy but for the bags beneath his eyes, almost a mauve in colour.
“Ezio, are you sure that you are all right?”