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It had taken Connor a long time to realise he was in love with his father.
He supposed it had been a slow development; a steady rise of emotional attachment that warmed him to his every nerve whenever he was so much as in the same room as the older man.
Now that he was aware of it however, he wasn’t sure where it left him.
What was one to do when faced with such awkward circumstances?
Not only was Haytham his father and only surviving parent, he was a Templar, and Grand Master to boot.
How was he to reconcile his desire for warmth and closeness with his lingering feelings of frustration and betrayal?
And... even if he did manage to get past all that, how was he ever to express himself?
Connor did not possess the same gift of eloquence his father had cultivated, and for him, touch was out of the question.
Connor did not like physical contact in any form, and while he knew that in colonial society it was a simple thing to express affection through a hug or a pat on the back, such things did not come easily to him, if at all.
He had been able to make an exception for the residents of the Homestead because they were civilians and good people and he believed beyond a doubt that they would never seek to harm him.
Others did not enjoy the same level of trust. Paul Revere in particular had been especially uncomfortable to be around, but the list of people who had touched him without permission was quite long now.
Even Haytham himself had invaded Connor’s personal space more than once, whether it be resting a hand on his shoulder or adjusting his lapels for him before they entered the warehouse in New York. Despite knowing his father would have gained nothing from attempting to harm him, Connor had been unable to prevent himself from stiffening in discomfort from his touch.
Connor wondered about it sometimes. Was it because it was considered impolite among his people to touch someone out of the blue like that? Or did it stem from something deeper?
On days when his hands were occupied while his mind was not (such as when he took time to maintain his weapons) he gave the matter some thought.
Finally he reached a plausible conclusion.
While contact of any kind was disagreeable to him, the thought of anyone touching his neck and throat caused him particular distress, making his heart pound unpleasantly in his chest even as he set down his tools to lightly brush his fingers against his skin and dispel the phantom touch.
Charles Lee he thought viciously, taking up his tools again to begin sharpening his tomahawk with renewed energy.
It was Charles Lee’s touch that still plagued him, the memory of that eventful day branded permanently in his mind.
To this day he could still recall struggling to breathe, his vision blurring as his greatest enemy increased the choking pressure on his windpipe, still remembered the sudden sharp pain of William Johnson’s musket cracking against his skull before everything had turned black.
Perhaps the Templars had not been responsible for the destruction of Kanatahséton as he had first believed, but they had left their mark on him all the same.
Back to the problem at hand then.
Was it even worth dwelling on his newly discovered feelings for Haytham, Connor wondered. The likelihood of them ever bringing him any joy seemed slim to none. Best to ignore them, he decided.
There was still a puzzle he had yet to solve however.
There was a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone, he knew, and yet he couldn’t help feeling he was almost certainly in the latter camp.
Except...
Well Connor might be a virgin in every sense of the word, but nevertheless he did have some inkling of what happened behind closed doors between two people who were in love.
However Connor felt no such desire, no pressing need to touch and be touched in return.
It was not the immorality such a union would pose, he was sure. He felt no repulsion at the thought. Haytham was an attractive and charismatic man, and yes perhaps that was partly why Connor felt so drawn to him. He simply had no interest in engaging in sexual activity with the man.
Having pondered this, Connor assumed at first that this was another manifestation of his phobia of touch, but then he had never felt physical urges of this kind before had he?
It wasn’t as though the Assassin feared his own touch after all, yet he had never felt much interest in the pursuit of self-pleasure either, except perhaps when he’d been younger and had explored himself out of curiosity, but that didn’t seem to count.
To Connor’s knowledge this seemed an oddity, after all wasn’t everyone interested in sex? True, some were louder about it than others (the sailors on the Aquila came to mind) but it seemed a commonly known fact about humanity that sex was something to be desired.
Perhaps there was something wrong with him, Connor thought doubtfully.
He wondered if there were others like him in the world.
So if he was in love with Haytham, but had no want of physical reciprocation, then what did he want?
He supposed it came down to emotional fulfilment. He wanted to care for someone, and be cared for in turn. He longed for singular companionship of a kind he had never experienced before.
Why his mind had decided his father was the right person for this was anyone’s guess, but the feelings were there all the same.
Burdened with the certainty of this knowledge, it wasn’t long until Connor forced himself to confront the object of his grudging affection, arriving on his doorstep shortly after midnight.
“I am in love with you,” he gritted out, staring determinedly at the floor. “That is what I wished to tell you.”
He paused for a moment. “I will go now.”
He turned to leave, only to be stopped by Haytham gripping his wrist and halting his progress.
“Do not touch me,” Connor said firmly. He met the Templar’s startled gaze and softened his tone slightly. “Please.”
“Very well,” Haytham said, releasing him. “But at least allow me to say something before you disappear again.”
Connor considered the request. “All right,” he agreed reluctantly, turning back around.
Haytham was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I imagine,” he began slowly, “that it must have been very difficult for you to confess your feelings to me as you have. Therefore I hope you will be patient with me as I attempt to formulate a satisfactory response.
“It is ironic,” he continued with the slightest of smiles, “that I for all my powers of speech will now struggle to express what you have managed to say so simply.”
“You are stalling, father,” Connor said with a faint smirk, having caught the Templar’s meaning despite his best efforts to divert him with meaningless language. He took a step closer. “Just say it.”
“You must be aware of how inappropriate this is, Connor,” Haytham replied, even as his son took a further step inside and closed the front door behind himself.
“I am,” Connor confirmed calmly – had he not made peace with that fact weeks ago? “But I am reassured by the fact that that was not the first thing you said when I told you.”
Haytham sighed. “Follow me,” he said, and led Connor into the parlour so they could sit and speak properly.
“I will not lie to you,” he said as they sat down. “I have been having similar thoughts for some time now. It has been somewhat of an uncomfortable realisation but... it seems I can no longer deny the affection I hold for you.”
Connor couldn’t prevent the smile that spread across his face and his heart swelled until he felt it would burst, so happy was he to hear his father’s words.
“May I kiss you?” Haytham asked suddenly.
His son’s heart raced in response, but not with excitement.
“No, perhaps not,” Haytham said, smiling sadly as he noted the expression of unease that crossed Connor’s face. “Forgive me, perhaps I’ve misunderstood...-”
“You have not,” Connor cut across him earnestly. “I love you. I just...” he broke off, unable to explain himself.
“I understand,” Haytham said quietly. “Now it is late and we should both be in our beds. You may stay here if you wish; there is a guest room that will accommodate you.”
Haytham went to bed that night plagued by the bitterness of a familiar guilt. Stupid, immoral fool, he berated himself. He came here to confess his sins, not to get into bed with you.
Oh but the knowledge that his son – that enticing youth who had haunted many of his dreams of late – was sleeping in a bed just down the corridor from his own was almost too much to bear.
If only he could have him once, just once, then perhaps these damnable lusts of his might be sated. Haytham knew that was unlikely and would probably serve only to inflame him further, but the thought lingered nevertheless.
Haytham had always prided himself on being a man of discipline and self-control, and yet it was Connor who was demonstrating restraint that was only decent, especially in a situation such as theirs.
It was admirable, truly, and Haytham felt sick for daring to push for more.
At war with himself and his own desires, it was some time before the Templar was eventually able to fall into a restless sleep.
In the morning, Connor stayed for breakfast and then left at the earliest convenience, confused by Haytham’s sudden reserved behaviour. He’d never exactly been particularly friendly, but Connor had hoped yesterday’s revelations might have encouraged a bit more warmth from him. After all, that was what he wanted most in the world.
Disappointed, he retreated to the city streets, wanting some time to think things over.
It took a lot of replaying their conversation in his mind, but eventually Connor felt he understood what had gone wrong.
He returned to Haytham’s estate the next morning.
“I love you,” he greeted his father without preamble. “But I do not want to sleep with you.”
“Keep your voice down,” Haytham hissed, closing the door behind him. Once more they filed into the parlour, but Connor did not sit this time. He had too much to say.
“I do not want to sleep with you,” he repeated. “But, not for the reason you are thinking.”
“Oh?” Haytham leaned back in his chair, looking sceptical. “So the indecency does not bother you then?”
Connor shook his head. “I am sure it wouldn’t, under different circumstances. It is not because of that. It is... difficult for me to explain.”
Haytham’s expression was puzzled, but he looked ready to listen, Connor was pleased to see.
“I do not... have never felt the desire for physical relations, incestuous or otherwise,” Connor explained haltingly, hoping desperately that his father would understand. “It is partly because I do not like to be touched, but I have also never experienced arousal.” His face flushed despite himself, but he forged on. “So you see... if what you feel is primarily lust then I fear I must disappoint you, father, for satisfaction is not something I can offer.”
Haytham rose to his feet and was about to approach Connor but remembered himself in time.
“I must apologise,” he said softly. “I had not realised. Thank you for telling me.”
He drew closer to Connor but did not attempt to enter his personal space. “I wish to tell you about a man I once knew,” he continued. “But first let me ring for tea.”
Connor rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help feeling relief at the break from their intense conversation.
Once they were seated at the table and the tea had been poured, Haytham told him the story of his late friend and lover, Jim Holden. “He had not the same aversion to touch that you have,” he explained. “But after the damage done to him, he no longer felt any of urges he once had.”
Connor could well imagine. He had not known of Jim Holden before now, but he couldn’t help mourning the sad fate of what sounded like a loyal, good-hearted man.
“It is not my intention to imply that there is anything wrong with you,” Haytham added quickly. “What I mean to say is that this is not an obstacle to me. I will love you no less. If you will let me.”
Connor’s body felt suffused with warmth at his father’s words. “I love you too,” he said with feeling.
A few days later and Connor was all but living at Haytham’s estate, delighted to his core at being able to spend so much time around the man that he cared about more than he’d thought possible.
Things weren’t always peaceful; they were still them after all, and could always be relied upon to argue over the smallest philosophical differences. However Haytham was always respectful, and never attempted to lay a hand on Connor’s person, even during their more heated debates.
Connor loved him for that.
Over time as he grew more comfortable in the older man’s presence he began to grow curious.
“Sit still,” he ordered one night, when Haytham was sitting in his armchair by the fire and reading a book. “I want to try something.”
Haytham raised an eyebrow but put his book down and stayed where he was as Connor approached.
Feeling shy all of a sudden, Connor avoided Haytham’s gaze as he knelt by the chair and took his hand in one of his own, examining it for a moment. Then, very hesitantly, he dropped his head to press the lightest of kisses against the skin on the back of his hand.
Haytham exhaled slowly, as though he’d been holding his breath, watching intently as Connor turned his hand over to give his palm the same tender treatment.
The Templar wanted nothing more than to touch, to hold, but knew better than to try. Instead he sat quietly as Connor gazed at his palm a moment longer before releasing his hand and rising to his feet again.
Connor wasn’t entirely certain how to behave after that, so he retired to his guest room.
It was only the first of such ventures however, and each one that followed was a little more daring.
It was still not sex that Connor wanted, nothing of the sort. It was affection he craved, and while he was still very wary of physical contact, it didn’t seem quite so abhorrent when touch was initiated by him.
One lazy summer afternoon, Connor had Haytham stand very still and ordered him to close his eyes.
Grumbling about indulging the whims of children, Haytham nevertheless did as he was told.
The first thing he felt was the light touch of fingers stroking his cheek, tracing the lines of his face before shyly brushing his mouth.
After a moment the touch was taken away, only to be replaced by Connor’s lips, his mouth brushing his in the softest of kisses.
It was the first time they kissed, but it would not be the last.
As Connor grew more confident, he began to show his affection much more readily. Perhaps he’d never be the most overtly tactile person, but he no longer hesitated to touch or kiss or sometimes even hug.
Of course letting Haytham touch him was a different beast altogether.
Like Connor, Haytham began slowly, with the smallest of touches. He could be patient when he wanted to be, and never attempted anything without asking permission first.
They learned each other like a language, and soon enough were able to touch and kiss and hug and hold each other without Connor feeling even a prickle of discomfort.
Gods, but you’ve gone soft, Haytham thought one night, mentally shaking his head at himself and the pure happiness he felt when Connor asked if he could sleep in his bed.
They both knew he meant only to sleep, and that was perfectly fine with Haytham.
He was growing older anyway, and time had dulled the edge of his desire.