Whenever someone invited him to something that would have him away from Ezio for an extended period of time, Giovanni gently and politely turned them down. Many of them were from the assassins (and even a few not) around his age and from the amount, he seemed to have a lot of friends. Friends…he should be spending time with, doing things people his age were doing. What had he been doing around Giovanni’s age (it seemed so long ago now…)? Running Firenze’s streets and roofstops with Federico. Getting into brawls. Rounding up his friends to fight with that Vieri de’ Pazzi and his gang. Sometimes drinking and games. And of course, the girls.
But he was seventeen then, Ezio mused, and now he is getting close to sixty. He hated to be reminded of it. And he hated to admit it. However, the truth was plain. He’s old. And Giovanni? He is young. While everything might soon be narrowing and coming to an end for Ezio, it is widening and just beginning for his piccolo.
Ezio followed Giovanni with his eyes as the young assassin made another round. He was still humming softly and swaying the as he walked the baby to sleep. Earlier on, desperate for a day to themselves, Bartolomeo and Pantasilea had dropped off their two young children to be babysat by one of the older assassins. The assassin, a woman who had children of her own and joined the Brotherhood during the era of the Borgia to protect them, had been watching them. That was until she was called away as backup for a mission. Since few others where available in the hideout, he and Giovanni were watching them until someone came back.
It turned about that Giovanni was magic with young children. The two children had arrived grumpy, crying, and wanting their parents. But now Bianca, the D’Alviano’s five year old daughter, was happily playing with her dolls, creating random child stories that she told Giovanni whenever he walked by. The same with Lothario, their 9 month old son, who had been wanting his mother and thus been a headache to others all day. Within the hour Giovanni had managed to get him to eat, burp, and was nearly done getting him to sleep.
The master assassin turned in his chair so that he could observe his lover and the baby better. The baby sighed in his sleep and curled his head against his holder’s neck. Giovanni smiled softly and rested his cheek against the baby’s whispy hairs, closing his eyes as well for a moment.
He would make a good father, Ezio knew. But Ezio also knew that that would never happen, as long as Giovanni had to be with an old man like him. He should go find a girl his own age and marry. He should have a bunch of kids to nurture and drive him crazy. He should be able to grow old with his lover. Not be forced to watch his love die decades before him.
“There, the bambino is finally asleep.” Giovanni whispered as he set the slumbering baby in a large basket that served as a makeshift cradle. With a sigh of relaxation he stood to stretch his arms. These same, now familiar arms wrapped loosely around Ezio’s neck, bodying warming his back. “How is your arm?” His hands automatically moved to dip beneath his shirt and press carefully against the muscles of his shoulder and arm, checking for knots.
Ezio closed his eyes, emptying his mind to think as the young man’s hands worked magic. The same hands that were growing more skilled in deadly arts, that held pen or skimmed pages, that touched him when they gave themselves to each other, and the same hands that with the lightest of touches calmed and reassured. He could hear Giovanni’s pattern of breathing, something that could be forgotten for hours by his ears but at the smallest change he noticed it. At times Ezio even fancied he knew the boy’s scent, or could sense when he was near without turning to see him. As he steeled himself, Ezio shocked himself in the realization how deep Giovanni had managed to go, how deeply he cared for him.
Impervious Fragility 11/?
But he was seventeen then, Ezio mused, and now he is getting close to sixty. He hated to be reminded of it. And he hated to admit it. However, the truth was plain. He’s old. And Giovanni? He is young. While everything might soon be narrowing and coming to an end for Ezio, it is widening and just beginning for his piccolo.
Ezio followed Giovanni with his eyes as the young assassin made another round. He was still humming softly and swaying the as he walked the baby to sleep. Earlier on, desperate for a day to themselves, Bartolomeo and Pantasilea had dropped off their two young children to be babysat by one of the older assassins. The assassin, a woman who had children of her own and joined the Brotherhood during the era of the Borgia to protect them, had been watching them. That was until she was called away as backup for a mission. Since few others where available in the hideout, he and Giovanni were watching them until someone came back.
It turned about that Giovanni was magic with young children. The two children had arrived grumpy, crying, and wanting their parents. But now Bianca, the D’Alviano’s five year old daughter, was happily playing with her dolls, creating random child stories that she told Giovanni whenever he walked by. The same with Lothario, their 9 month old son, who had been wanting his mother and thus been a headache to others all day. Within the hour Giovanni had managed to get him to eat, burp, and was nearly done getting him to sleep.
The master assassin turned in his chair so that he could observe his lover and the baby better. The baby sighed in his sleep and curled his head against his holder’s neck. Giovanni smiled softly and rested his cheek against the baby’s whispy hairs, closing his eyes as well for a moment.
He would make a good father, Ezio knew. But Ezio also knew that that would never happen, as long as Giovanni had to be with an old man like him. He should go find a girl his own age and marry. He should have a bunch of kids to nurture and drive him crazy. He should be able to grow old with his lover. Not be forced to watch his love die decades before him.
“There, the bambino is finally asleep.” Giovanni whispered as he set the slumbering baby in a large basket that served as a makeshift cradle. With a sigh of relaxation he stood to stretch his arms. These same, now familiar arms wrapped loosely around Ezio’s neck, bodying warming his back. “How is your arm?” His hands automatically moved to dip beneath his shirt and press carefully against the muscles of his shoulder and arm, checking for knots.
Ezio closed his eyes, emptying his mind to think as the young man’s hands worked magic. The same hands that were growing more skilled in deadly arts, that held pen or skimmed pages, that touched him when they gave themselves to each other, and the same hands that with the lightest of touches calmed and reassured. He could hear Giovanni’s pattern of breathing, something that could be forgotten for hours by his ears but at the smallest change he noticed it. At times Ezio even fancied he knew the boy’s scent, or could sense when he was near without turning to see him. As he steeled himself, Ezio shocked himself in the realization how deep Giovanni had managed to go, how deeply he cared for him.