AC2 Fic: Infected
Title: Infected
Rating: M for references (could be T - point is, it's not graphic)
Characters: Ezio/Leonardo
Warnings: Vague sexual references, a bit of angst, but a happy ending
Summary: Ezio drags himself to Leonardo's workshop, wounded, but it's a bit more complicated than usual.
Leonardo had cared for his wounds many times, but Ezio has never seen him look so worried. He tries to tell him that it’s fine, just a scratch, but Leonardo won’t listen; he’s too busy panicking, too busy hastily pressing bandages over the deep gash down his side, too busy begging Ezio to stay conscious. Ezio absently runs a hand through Leonardo’s blond hair, frowning slightly when he notices his fingers left behind traces of blood in the light strands. It’s important, somehow. He tries to apologise, but Leonardo brushes it off as nothing. He tries again, angry this time. Now he’s making calming gestures, cooing gently, and Ezio lets the matter drop. It could be fixed later. All Ezio would need was some soap.
“It’s cold,” Ezio realises, and he looks around him. Somehow they’ve ended up in Leonardo’s bedroom, and the artist is carefully pushing Ezio onto the bed. Apologising, he’s tying Ezio’s hands up, and the assassin looks at him in askance. Efforts to convince Leonardo he wasn’t really in the mood for this sort of fun were brushed away, and soon Ezio realises that wasn’t what the artist had had in mind. He’s pouring some kind of a liquid into Ezio’s wound, and Ezio is screaming, jerking his wrists against the bindings with all his considerable strength. Begging doesn’t seem to help. No matter how hard he pleads, Leonardo doesn’t seem to hear him, instead beginning the painful process of pulling his skin back together stitch by stitch.
It’s quiet for a while. Or maybe it’s not quiet, because everything seems different. The world is dark. Colour is nothing more than a memory. Most terrifying of all is that there is no Leonardo among the shadows. Why did Leonardo leave? Even if he had hurt Ezio, he wasn’t allowed to leave. Ezio needed him. Ezio tried to call for him, but instead his cries were answered by colour. The man (or so he thought) came in through the door, though it was impossible to determine any of his features. His entire body glowed with the brightest shade of blue light Ezio had ever seen.
“Who are you?” Ezio asks, though he can’t hear the response. A cup of something is pressed against his lips; he drinks obediently, trusting the blue figure. The blue figure remains with him as he drifts in and out of a haze of pain and shadows. At one point he’s hot, impossibly hot, and tears uselessly at his clothes, at his skin, anything to relieve the heat. The blue figure holds him down then, with impossible strength. No human was that strong, and Ezio said so. The figure simply shook its head, murmuring something soft and reassuring, yet even now Ezio’s not afraid of it.
The next time Ezio’s awake, the blue figure is gone and Leonardo is back by his side. His lover looks tired, haggard. He’s fallen asleep; his head on the bed beside Ezio, and the assassin can see he hasn’t been sleeping well. With a surprisingly great effort, he lifted his hand, gently cupping the side of Leonardo’s cheek. The artist’s eyes flutter briefly before opening. Upon seeing Ezio conscious, he lets out a great whoop of joy, babbling something about infection. It’s then Ezio realises it was Leonardo all along; Leonardo was his blindingly blue angel, and somehow the notion comforts him. He wouldn’t want to lose either of them, after all. When he tells Leonardo what he’s thinking this time the artist smiles, cupping his cheek with one hand as tears of joy fell from his bright blue eyes.
“You’re not going to lose me, love. You’re not going to.”
Rating: M for references (could be T - point is, it's not graphic)
Characters: Ezio/Leonardo
Warnings: Vague sexual references, a bit of angst, but a happy ending
Summary: Ezio drags himself to Leonardo's workshop, wounded, but it's a bit more complicated than usual.
Leonardo had cared for his wounds many times, but Ezio has never seen him look so worried. He tries to tell him that it’s fine, just a scratch, but Leonardo won’t listen; he’s too busy panicking, too busy hastily pressing bandages over the deep gash down his side, too busy begging Ezio to stay conscious. Ezio absently runs a hand through Leonardo’s blond hair, frowning slightly when he notices his fingers left behind traces of blood in the light strands. It’s important, somehow. He tries to apologise, but Leonardo brushes it off as nothing. He tries again, angry this time. Now he’s making calming gestures, cooing gently, and Ezio lets the matter drop. It could be fixed later. All Ezio would need was some soap.
“It’s cold,” Ezio realises, and he looks around him. Somehow they’ve ended up in Leonardo’s bedroom, and the artist is carefully pushing Ezio onto the bed. Apologising, he’s tying Ezio’s hands up, and the assassin looks at him in askance. Efforts to convince Leonardo he wasn’t really in the mood for this sort of fun were brushed away, and soon Ezio realises that wasn’t what the artist had had in mind. He’s pouring some kind of a liquid into Ezio’s wound, and Ezio is screaming, jerking his wrists against the bindings with all his considerable strength. Begging doesn’t seem to help. No matter how hard he pleads, Leonardo doesn’t seem to hear him, instead beginning the painful process of pulling his skin back together stitch by stitch.
It’s quiet for a while. Or maybe it’s not quiet, because everything seems different. The world is dark. Colour is nothing more than a memory. Most terrifying of all is that there is no Leonardo among the shadows. Why did Leonardo leave? Even if he had hurt Ezio, he wasn’t allowed to leave. Ezio needed him. Ezio tried to call for him, but instead his cries were answered by colour. The man (or so he thought) came in through the door, though it was impossible to determine any of his features. His entire body glowed with the brightest shade of blue light Ezio had ever seen.
“Who are you?” Ezio asks, though he can’t hear the response. A cup of something is pressed against his lips; he drinks obediently, trusting the blue figure. The blue figure remains with him as he drifts in and out of a haze of pain and shadows. At one point he’s hot, impossibly hot, and tears uselessly at his clothes, at his skin, anything to relieve the heat. The blue figure holds him down then, with impossible strength. No human was that strong, and Ezio said so. The figure simply shook its head, murmuring something soft and reassuring, yet even now Ezio’s not afraid of it.
The next time Ezio’s awake, the blue figure is gone and Leonardo is back by his side. His lover looks tired, haggard. He’s fallen asleep; his head on the bed beside Ezio, and the assassin can see he hasn’t been sleeping well. With a surprisingly great effort, he lifted his hand, gently cupping the side of Leonardo’s cheek. The artist’s eyes flutter briefly before opening. Upon seeing Ezio conscious, he lets out a great whoop of joy, babbling something about infection. It’s then Ezio realises it was Leonardo all along; Leonardo was his blindingly blue angel, and somehow the notion comforts him. He wouldn’t want to lose either of them, after all. When he tells Leonardo what he’s thinking this time the artist smiles, cupping his cheek with one hand as tears of joy fell from his bright blue eyes.
“You’re not going to lose me, love. You’re not going to.”