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Ezio was very rarely overwhelmed. Or, at least he very rarely let it show when he was. When he had been younger, still mourning the death of his brothers and father, there were times when he fluctuated between the worst fires of revenge and a crippling sense of newfound responsibility to care for the rest of his family and to make those who led to this pay dearly. Those days had been dark and difficult, he couldn’t lie, sometimes leaving him unwilling to wake up at all even as the sun began to sting at his eyes through the window and he could hear everything start to come to life outside of whatever room he was able to sequester himself in. But then he grew, and matured -- for the most part, anyways -- and learned to deal with this, the load not so much becoming easier to carry but bearable.
And now… He found himself overwhelmed with the one person that had helped make things so easier; Leonardo. Artist, inventor, confidant, lover. And it was the final part of his roles that left Ezio unable to cope. Not that he didn’t want it, because he did. He wanted it so much that it made him ache sometimes. When he was too far away from the man’s bed and his embrace, he felt restless, almost incomplete. And he knew he shouldn’t feel so intensely, likely couldn’t afford it, but these ‘attacks’ of thoughts and feelings never truly went away.
He was overwhelmed simply because it was so great. Leonardo was a very affectionate person, heart seemingly free to give to anyone he cared for in any way they needed it. A part of Ezio, when he was younger and still driven by the worst fires of his revenge, almost envied him in that, how he hadn’t lost faith in anything and still decided he could take what had to have been a risk to be so soft. And then he learned to lean into it slowly and surely, looking forward to it the minute he snuck into Leonardo’s workshop or rooms. Excited for how he made him feel welcome and safe for once, when he never had the opportunity to be safe otherwise.
His lover was caring and warm, and generous, and everything Ezio knew he personally wasn’t or couldn’t be.
“Ezio?”
“Hmm?” Ezio focused in again at the voice, eyes centering in on said artist behind his canvas, lips curling up in a small smile involuntarily. Leonardo met his eyes and gave a similar smile.
“Are you doing alright over there, mio caro?”
“Perfectly fine. Do you require something?”
“Perhaps another pair of eyes.” He admitted sheepishly, putting aside his brush and canvas to cross his arms and step back from the canvas. “I don’t know if I like it.”
Ezio stood, stretching a bit from sitting at the table for so long, and went to stand beside the artist as he took in the painting. It was nothing extreme, actually rather simple in its depiction of the Madonna and her son, but he knew right away that he liked it despite the half-finished nature of it and told Leonardo so.
Leonardo huffed in response. “You say that to be kind.”
“I’ll admit I don’t know much about art, but I can tell when I like something.” Ezio’s hand snuck around Leonardo’s waist, pulling him close to his side, and he hid his smirk at the way the man’s cheeks gained a dusting of pink at the implications.
“Be serious, please.” He halfheartedly protested, despite the fact that he leaned into Ezio all the more as he rattled off all its flaws, perceived and ‘real’; Ezio’s eyes flickered from the canvas to Leonardo as he spoke, trying to keep up and actually note his concerns, but quickly he realized that he really didn’t understand them. It wasn’t the first time he had heard his love bemoan and ridicule whatever piece of art or invention he was making, but he still didn’t always follow. And this realization… hurt him somehow. Maybe it was the way Leonardo had so easily brushed off his opinion, or his own admission of cluelessness on the subject, but soon he was overcome with a wave of… something.
He realized again that he had completely left the area with his mind when he came back and saw Leonardo staring up at him somewhat expectantly. He tried to play it off and shrugged just a bit.
“You know more than I do. I think it’s fine, but if you don’t… You might just have to finish it.”
Leonardo studied him a bit longer before sighing just a bit and nodding. “You’re right. Thank you anyway, Ezio.”
That wave of feeling, Ezio learned quickly, was guilt that he couldn’t do more.
Ezio never had a mind for the arts. But he knew his love did. And guilt, it turned out, was a wonderful motivation to try and fix things, which is why he found himself for the better part of a week agonizing over the writings on a piece of parchment and staining his fingers black with ink. He could never hope to bring as much artistry to their relationship as Leonardo could, his eye and talent for creating at odds with Ezio’s own penchant for destruction, but he could try to at least put some words to paper if he couldn’t bring a picture to life.
“I brought you something.” Ezio hesitated as they finished their dinner, weighing everything in his mind, and at Leonardo’s confused look, he pulled out the small scroll of paper and slid it over. It weighed in his pouch much more than was justifiable, but he wasn’t glad to be rid of it even at the way Leonardo’s eyes lit up.
“I thought I had deciphered all the Codex pages.” He glanced up at Ezio even as he united the ribbon that kept it rolled up, and Ezio’s eyes darted away.
“This is a bit more… personal.”
Only when his attention was on the paper did the Assassin glance back to watch his reaction. The confusion was present for a bit longer, his brow furrowing until it cleared up and his expression morphed into something… soft. Open. Ezio felt himself start to heat up, and as the artist opened his mouth, he made to get up and quickly leave.
“Don’t you dare- Ezio.” Leonardo reached over, having to lean a fair amount, and gripped the man’s forearm. Ezio could easily break out of it, but he found himself unable or unwilling to even as he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the wood of the table. “ Mio caro, what’s wrong? I love it.”
“It’s not…”
“Did you write it?” Silence. Then, a bit more insistent. “Did you write this?”
“Yes,” Ezio admitted after a breath, finally looking up at the artist for any form of rejection, as ridiculous as the thought might be. He found nothing of the sort, if anything he found acceptance, a silent plea to continue on. “It took me some time, I had to rewrite it, but… I had to try.”
“You should’ve told me about your penchant for poetry sooner.” Leonardo smiled and gave a small laugh, releasing his grip on Ezio as he put the parchment down and went around the table to get closer, hands settling on Ezio’s waist. “Have you been hiding things from me?”
Instinctively, Ezio’s hands went to rest on Leonardo’s shoulders, gently squeezing for comfort. “As if I could ever hide anything from you.” He smiled a bit before it dimmed, and tried to come up with more words. “I’m not… artistic, not like you are. And I suppose I felt as though I needed- Wanted to-”
“If you’re going to say you thought you needed to write poetry for me to prove something, don’t.” Leonardo’s eyes and mood were still light, but there was a seriousness there that made Ezio quiet up. “You have nothing to prove to me, Ezio.”
“Quite easy for you to say.” He muttered, the words escaping him before he could say anything else or stop himself, and he inwardly hated himself for how petulant he sounded, especially as a man of his age. Leonardo said nothing in response at first, but he began to adjust his position; the hands on Ezio’s waist moved up and wrapped around him in a hug, which Ezio found himself accepting; how could he not? He could do this one thing. Leonardo had this wonderful quality to his hugs, where you truly felt wanted in them despite how freely he gave them; in greetings, in goodbyes, in comfort, in excitement. The smell of paint was always on him, this oily tang in his skin and clothes, but when you got close it was almost comforting, a constant reminder of his presence to ground you and keep you in one place. Ezio hugged back tightly, face burrowing just a bit into Leonardo’s shoulder to hide the redness of his face.
“You should’ve told me if you were feeling like this. I thought we had worked past it.” Leonardo murmured, but there was no disappointment or chastising tone in his voice. “While I’m not against these things, and I do love it, don’t make me things or pretend to be anything other than yourself simply because you think you need to prove anything. You never need to prove anything to me, I promise. As long as you’re here, alive, and with me, that’s all I need.”
“I understand.” Ezio moved his head to hook his chin on Leonardo’s shoulder, gazing at the wall in front of him. And he did understand, he knew he did, but to remember was something else entirely. He cleared his throat after a while, breaking the silence but unwilling to escape the hug, and spoke again. “But you did enjoy it?”
“I think it’s more beautiful than anything else I’ve read or studied.” He heard Leonardo’s smile before he saw it, the embrace eventually breaking as they pulled apart just enough to face each other. “I’m quite flattered you think such things of me, I’ll admit. How did you describe my hair again? I think that was my favorite part-”
“Please don’t repeat it.” Ezio quickly caught Leonardo’s hand as it reached for the poem, holding it in his gently and delivering a quick kiss to his fingers. “I’m asking for mercy.”
“Fine, fine.” Leonardo chuckled a bit at the expression on Ezio’s face, and his hand escaped the grip to stroke Ezio’s bearded cheek. “Then do something else for me?”
“Anything.”
“Come to bed so we can continue this there? I plan to show my poeta what I think of him as well. Maybe give him some more inspiration.”
Ezio grinned, a million thoughts in his mind already. “If it’s for the arts, seems a worthy endeavor.” His sentence was punctuated with a kiss that began to deepen, and they all but hurried to the bedroom, though Leonardo did grab Ezio’s gift to him to be ‘put in a place for safety and admiration’.
The Assassin knew he still wasn’t worth much as an artist, of the literary or artistic sense. But, holding Leonardo close later that night and taking in everything about him -- the way his hair spread on the pillows like a halo, the constellations of freckles dotting his body and aching to be kissed and explored, how the moon shining through the window on them seemed to illuminate his whole body --, he knew that he would attempt a hundred sonnets and use any number of colored oils and brushes if it meant he could do this beautiful man any justice.