A/N: When you read this, you have to assume they're in Florence, Italy, like some of the rumours go.
Mio Dio = My God Bastardo = Bastard Merda = Shit Perdono = Pardon Sopresa = Surprise Va Bene = Alright
So this is it! Chapter 1 of 3. Really, there is not plot, so don't look for one.
A relaxing trip to the market always helped Michael think things through. A lot of the times he'd just seclude himself from the world but today he needed to do something for himself – and that would be shopping or food he liked. But what, in Florence's beauty eliciting architecture and community, there was no way in Hell he was going to trap himself indoors. He could go for a tan, any ways. An Assassin, though – and he was a paranoid Assassin, at that- he was undoubtedly on high alert, hearing the claps and splashes of waves as swords and misinterpreting a Christian as a Templar. It took 3 Italian Ices and 4 pretty ladies to hit on him before he started calming down and realizing he was going to be just fine. What would any Templar want to do with him, after all? He was just a normal guy-
"MIO DIO, GET OFF ME!" A hand brushed past his shoulder lightly, causing him to jerk around, out of his trance. The man made a snorted laughter, scanning Michael up and down like he was a sickening little rat. Michael could've done the same; this man was rather fat and hair, wearing as little as he could without being horrible indecent.
"Calm yourself the fuck down, bastardo, I barely rubbed you. Merda…" The man continued down into the crowd, blending in far easier than the skittish schizophrenic was. He had leapt up from his sitting post on a bench so furiously that about a dozen heads turned to see what the commotion was, and around six or seven pairs of eyes still lay upon him, waiting for his next move cautiously, as if he were a ticking time-bomb. In all honesty, he was.
It was hard to recollect on the actions that led up to him being diagnosed with schizophrenia, really. Michael had a hard time remembering it all, he knew he was talking to his 'friend,' (who was actually just a bothersome hallucination that he never admitted to making up) then he had a knife, then there was blood pooling at someone's body, and lastly in the hospital. He spent nearly 5 years in Juvenile hall afterwards, somehow being let go early. He was supposed to stay near 10 years for the honest craziness of the situation, but it didn't turn out that way because his friend never appeared for the damn therapy sessions, getting Michael in serious trouble at points.
The doctors insisted that his childhood friend and assistant-in-everything, Nicolbe, was just a fake being that Michael had made up to cope with his sickness, and was just a part of his imagination, oh! But did Michael know better! According to the most ludicrous of his stories, Nicolbe would, often times, try to kill Michael just for the God-given fun of it, and when that didn't work in making Michael beg for his life, he resorted to rape.
A shudder passed through the dark-blonde, remembering all those nights that he refused to give Nicolbe what he intentionally wanted, and how long they'd drag on after that – the sun ostensibly never rose on those days specifically. He was distracted by a nice breeze that rolled in, ruffling his hair and placing a smile on his face and forcing instinct to take over, making him relax again. His stable mood allowed the watchers to become passersby as he slumped down back onto the wooden bench. He closed his eyes after realizing just how heavy they were, letting his head loll back to allow him to listen to the people and things around him. A lady spoke with her husband of her excitement for the upcoming baby she was to have, but not without a certain pitch of intensity, so he assumed she was due soon and there was business that needed tending to. Children rand from one selling stand to another, taking more than they paid for and getting away with it simply for the fact that they seemed well-known regulars and were just kids (although Michael was pretty sure that one day they'd be robbers, and this is where it'd start)! A hybrid scent of fish and salt water unpleasantly tickled his nose, making him wrinkle it up in the absolute distaste of the smell it gave off. Just as he soon as it invaded his sense, though, it was replaced by the rather numbing smell of alcohol; just a tinge – not too strong, but enough for Michael to be able to smell it. The aroma seemed as if it had been lingering on the outfit for a day or two, so either the…man (he saw after opening his eyes eventually) had been smashed the night before or worked at a bar. The smell bumped into him, but didn't startle him as much as the fat man's touch did. This man, he knew. He'd seen them before, and he knew who he was.
He was very old friend, a fellow Assassin, a runaway.
"Perdono," the tall man grumbled unhappily. Perhaps he was in a rush somewhere, or recognized Michael. They both had the same looking scar on the same side of their lips… He nodded, unable to find it in himself to get scared, or twitchy, or aggravated, or any thing else for that matter but the sweet flutter of reminiscing.
His memories brought him back about 15 years; Michael was just 5 and this man who was now tall, lean, muscular, and pretty damn sexy (but as Nicolbe would say, "No homo.") was a wimpy little housed nerd of the innocent age 10. Michael always found himself watching as the kid would be forced into this power struggle with his parents in the manner of not wanting to train as an Assassin. His parents were all for it, as home-bound as they wished he was, but he wanted nothing to do with it – he wanted to get the fuck out. From the few short conversations Michael could remember overhearing, the kid once proclaimed he was like "a chicken cooped up in a cage" over there. Having looked up to him, Michael eventually fled to, but he'd never actually gotten the man's name. What was it, then…? Dais…Des…Dev…Devon, was it?
"Devon!" Worth a shot, if you ask him. The wine-man spun around so fast he knocked over a random lady who was unfortunately in his way and all but glared at Michael upon hearing his former name called, scowling. He really hadn't been called that name in almost 10 years, when he first ran away. Now he was Desmond. Who was this guy – to know his real name?
At the end of the day, that didn't so much as mattered, only that his birth name was used and that it never should've been. Michael swallowed hard, seeing the deep frown on 'Devon's face.
"S-Sorry, I thought I kne-" 'Devon' grabbed the black collar of Michael's t-shirt and pulled him so close it looked as though they might start making out right there. If the glare didn't intimidate Michael, he sure was shitting himself now, and he closed his eyes tightly, looking away just to cut the small factor that this guy might actually get funky on him in the middle of such a busy street.
"I don't know who in the hell you are, but you know me. Never call me that name again, I'm Desmond, got it?" Oh look, a scar.
"Y-Yes sir, Yes Dev- YES DESMOND!" Desmond dropped the trembling, babbling idiot and walked off, spiting. Michael had at that point become a heap of a shaking mess on the ground, gasping for the air he lost due to suffocation and the anxiety of stares, looking down at his own hands which were splayed out across the floor's surface. Before too much attraction was brought to him, he sprung up instantaneously, turned on his heel and ran as far as his skinny damn legs would take him, eyes wide, breathing heavily.
4 kilometers and about the shoving of 20 innocent city-goers later, Michael was relieved to be able to lock himself up in his house, sprinting up the stairs that lay just behind the front door and turning one sharp corner to the right, then quickly again to the left to continue down a narrow hallway that led straight to his bedroom which – thankfully – had the door of open (because God knows if it wasn't he would've bashed his head open running into it). He dashed in, slammed the door shut hard enough to rattle the bookcases - one to his right and one the against the wall behind his bed on the opposite side of his room, also to the right - and leapt to his bed, body still shaking. His eyes darted across the room madly, first seeing the little silver radio on his dresser that lay to the left of his door, then to the bland wooden closet with empty hangers inside, and lastly to the bookshelf that was now on his right after getting bundled up and sat upright against the wall. He gazed out his window to the ocean that was visible from it, sighing.
He was shocked out of his tranquility, though, when Michael felt pressure on the side of the bed, then somebody crawl behind him and wrap their arms around him oh so lovingly. But the arms became but constrictions him when the hands of the figure were rather abruptly shoved down his pants. Through a stifled moan, Michael was able to make out confused, terrified words.
"Nicolbe, why now? Why? Later!" The hands fumbled around, finally inching their way to the other's cock and grabbed it -hard- causing Michael to open his mouth widely and yelp. A hand shot up, three fingers protruded, and were forced into his mouth to shut him up, other still working at pumping his erection.
Ultimately defeated in strength and the growing arousal creeping up, Michael gave in, body slumping against his 'friend' to do whatever he pleased.
The next morning was...awkward, do say the least. Pain wracked through Michael's body and was released through his being in every step he took. Not surprisingly, he was convinced he had bruises all throughout the surface of his skin, costing him a trip to the E.R., which proved useless. The doctors knew him well by now and, before the poor kid could even get a seat, a doctor was ushering him out the door, reassuring him the 'bruises' were temporary and not fatal. So he left the building, hurt and confused. No one believed he was raped...
And there was that Assassin again. Michael's feet, despite the pain, moved on their own, disregarding his brain's screaming at them to stop. When they listened, it was only to make him trip over in front Dev- Desmond. Arms flailing, legs tucked underneath him now, and a girly shriek emitting from that seemingly somewhat-manly figure – it was no wonder Desmond leapt back about a house's length, letting out a scream of his own.
"Whoa!" He hurried to help the other up, not yet recognizing him. "Are you oka-? Oh, you." Michael brushed of his knees, nodding wearily.
"Sopresa!" he replied sarcastically, smiling lopsidedly. Desmond cocked an eyebrow, seeing how stiff the unwanted company was.
"Va bene, follow me then." Without so much as a second glance, Desmond shoved his hands in his pockets, walking across an old, brick-made bridge correctly assuming the other would follow.
Michael tried to pay attention to the man, but something sharp and cold punctured him in the back of the neck, and his moves were stifled. He began falling behind, and his peripheral vision became tunneled, and he collapsed onto his hands and knees, coughing out more blood than he thought even a hospital could hold. Desmond became another blur in the throng of bustling citizens. Definition was overcome by fuzziness, and when he attempted to get back up he swayed precariously. What was wrong? Why weren't his legs working? He couldn't breathe, or see, or call for help. He opened his mouth to say something but a cloth was nearly shoved in his mouth and then blackness consumed all.