i.
Their first meeting is typical. They're on the same road, traveling, trading. They exchange a few items and are on their separate ways. They meet only a few more times, traveling always on the same roads and by the who-knows-what meeting, they exchange names.
Indian black rats boar ships and being plague to Eurasia, 2/3 of the Byzantine Empire dying. The two men are a part of that fatality.
ii.
The second time they come face-to-face is on the battlefield. Girolamo is injured, left arm gone and bleeding out in the mud of Leo's land.
Leo takes pity on him, he'd never wanted to fight, had always had a passion for art and trouble. So Leo takes the unconscious man and manages to take him from the death and the rot.
They find refuse at a stream, and Leo is exhausted but Girolamo, the man he may have just betrayed Sparta for on a whim, is bleeding out still and barely holding on and Leo surely couldn't just let the man die after this.
He bandages the man, stops his bleeding and restores life into the man with the meager supplies he has. (Leo always found a way to make it work.)
When Girolamo awakes, he finds himself cared for and an enemy asleep. He doesn't remember being carried here, just the pain of his limb being torn away, the blood of his brothers. This man's state had caused all of this, but Girolamo couldn't bring himself to kill him.
When they can travel, they head out to seek a better place of refuge, one with a roof and no war.
They're found by their respective states of Greece and are executed as traitors two weeks later.
iii.
The third time Girolamo rests his eyes on Leo, it's in a field.
The countries are at peace and it feels as though all is right in the world. Leo certainly feels it is, as he stands there in that vast field filled with overgrown grass and wildflowers.
Girolamo thinks that the man before him is a painting of God's creation. The sunlight filters through his hair as though God had put the sun there for this man. Leo still hasn't turned to look at the guest, but when he does all Girolamo can think is that there is a galaxy of knowledge residing in the man's hazel orbs.
Leo sees Girolamo, not just sees; but really sees. He understands the man as they talk, and it pains him weeks later when he's to marry for politics, something decided long before he was conceived.
Girolamo never quite forgets the man he met in the field, but must plow on.
iv.
When Leo sees Girolamo, his blood boils because thisman had tortured Nico. This man had something to do with the nuns, Vanessa, getting poisoned.
He forces himself to calm, listening to Lorenzo talk and watch the implosion of a pomegranate, thrown with fury, on the ground. Putting the man out of his mind, Leo makes a plan.
Leo's smile is large and awe inspiring. He makes a fake bow, a mere bluff, and makes Rome back down. He mentally check mates the man who tortured Nico, who nearly caused Vanessa's death, who works for a twisted Pope that has many more vices than virtues.
They see each other frequently, more so than both Leo and the Count prefer. It is almost always followed by blades clashing, wits colliding in a battle of real-life chess. Leo respects Girolamo's intricate mind, but feels no more than that and spite for the man who caused so much pain for them all.
It's in the New World that Leo is forced to trust him, and likewise Girolamo must place his faith in the insane artista if he had hope for making it to Rome alive. (Alive only to be killed, Leo would later argue. Much later.)
In the field, Girolamo beats men to death with his hands, painted in foreign paints and performing a foreign ritual, all for the artista who'd done nothing but refuse to join God's side.
Girolamo kills the one woman who'd ever glimpsed at good in him, for the Book of Leaves.
For the artista.
He brought back the antidote that would save him, let life full his body once more. Leo's life was spared, and he was more than grateful for Girolamo having been the one sent on this task.
In the vault, Leo put his life in Girolamo's hands as he bent over the side, dangling and exposed to the seemingly endless fall, and searched for the keyhole that would save them all. He found it, of course he did he was Leonardo Da fucking Vinci, and they entered the vault without "the moon." (Leo later thought back on it and realized the "moon" had not been that woman.)
In the vault, Girolamo again put his life in the hands of Leo's technology. He'd stepped onto those tiles without fear, and now with the same feeling he jumped off the ledge with the makeshift parachute that kept them all from falling to their deaths.
Girolamo's fall was rough, his leg broke completely and he knew he was helpless. Even I would abandon me, he had thought as Nico proded at his leg in feeble attempts to fix it. He'd taught the boy to survive and yet here he knelt, waiting for Leo to help.
Help he did.
Leo didn't hesitate in his choice to save the man. They went back to the ship, finally trusting of one another after all this time. They knew it couldn't last, of course not they'd been out to get one another from the start, this start.
Leo tried his damnedest to sway Girolamo, but the man was adamant on seeking absolution. "You'll be hanged if you return." "If it is what I deserve, I will accept it." Leo knew this was goodbye to him; it was not and yet it was.
v.
The Book of Leaves is a myth once more. Piracy is where it's at now, and Leo couldn't be more pleased with sailing the seas and robbing Spain's ships of treasure and spices.
And Girolamo couldn't be happier taking down the scum of the sea like Leo. Girolamo was a well-respected man, could have his pick of the women, could climb the ranks of he so desired. Instead, he set his heart on The Chase.
Leo was unwatchable, he was what any bounty hunter could only dream of handing in, was what any noble captain could only dream of taking down.
Girolamo knew the day would come.
Patience, he had chided his men, patience.
Girolamo had spent circa five years chasing after Leo (oh if only he knew) and his commanding officers were becoming worried about his rather unhealthy obsession with the man.
In response, Girolamo became a high-ranking official. With no one to limit him any further, he chased after Leo with all he had. It was either blind luck or God's will that they met in a shabby bar that no one knew Leo frequented to visit his old friend Vanessa. (Girolamo did not believe in luck.)
Leo wasn't surprised when Girolamo approached him, meeting dark orbs with hazel ones. Girolamo didn't start a spat in the bar, suggesting they take their business outside. He honestly and truly did not expect Leo's lips to collide with his own, didn't expect to feel the wood of the bar's walls hitting his back.
Girolamo was frozen for a moment, feeling Leo explore his mouth and by God...
Leo treated Girolamo gently, and the latter responded with an urgency even he hadn't known he had, would never have guessed in a million years.
Girolamo had of course heard the rumors of Leo's womanizing, and not only with women, and of course even he could admit that the man had decent physical attributions
He was a man of God, not blind.
But it was the way Leo held a lover that made it so addictive, so dangerous. He treated each person like they were all that mattered to him, like this moment, right here and now, was all that existed and ever would exist.
Girolamo wanted more of that touch, of the small nudges and caresses he hadn't had in so many years.
(Approximately five.)
By the time dawn broke through the shabby inn's windows, the bed next to Girolamo was empty and cold. He spent years after that chasing Leo down, but he'd seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
(He technically had; a whirlpool in the Bermuda had taken him and his ship to their watery graves.)
vi.
Leo is but a simple artist, looking for a muse or model that appealed to him in any moment. He found inspiration in the morning dew, in uncontrollable fires (he was not a pyromaniac, it walking one or two or three times!), would see beauty in the ant carrying shards of a leaf, in the way the man before him seemed to be a true angel of God.
His hair fell loosely to his shoulders, blond and soft and beautiful. His nose was rather angular, and his cheekbones marvelously defined.
Leo had not picked him for his extra services, but the boy had insisted because you're Leonardo and everyone wants to be drawn by you so this is my thank you. It was that following morning that Leo spotted him.
He was tanned with the sun's rays and toned with endless hours of labor. He had frown lines etched apparently permanently into his cheeks, but Leo could see a softness in his eyes. It wasn't in the way he looked at the world, but the way his soul seemed to shimmer with light.
Leo approached him immediately, tapping the man on the shoulder. Before the words "Pardon, may I draw you," could leave his mouth, a man shooed him away. This man seemed rich, his clothes made of fine silk and his belly quite obviously full. His voice boomed, demanding why a street rat was talking to his new property.
Before Leo could even attempt to explain, he was being yelled over. (Yet again, mind you.)
As the fat man had turned his back, the boy had managed a escape. The man hollered, already running on (a very wrong) instinct down the street. The beautiful man came out from an alleyway, and Leo wondered how he'd managed to fit in the first place.
Beautiful man disappeared into the throng of bystanders and that was that.
(Leo never quite forgot the man, he'd been beautiful. He never managed to capture the man's features just right by memory, he always saw some fault, though he could never figure out what it was.
Girolamo hadn't recognized the man who came up to him, though mentally thanked him each day for allowing a distraction. He forgot Leo rather quickly, soon thereafter meeting the wondrous Zita.)
vi.
Girolamo is exhausted, and the only solace he gets that night is flipping through his religion textbook. (He knew others would scoff that this is his idea of fun, but didn't quite care enough to put the book away.)
Leo sat, grading paper after paper, mediocre C after F after A after F... His students were just awful, not intending to be of course but awful nonetheless.
There was one boy who always got 100s on everything he passed back, the boy was a bit nutty.
Leo thought his name was Girlambo or Garolam or Jiro Janbo, something along those lines. All Leo really cared for was his grades and his face. Giro Boy had a nice face.
He sat at the front of the class, the light pooling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The light hit his cheekbones just right, no matter the angle, it made his eyes seem richer, browner than they possibly could've been.
He was a shit student.
He got constant A's, came from a classic well-to-do family full of political bastards, and never spoke to his classmates. Leo preferred even the stoners in the back, because at least they were fun. He seemed like the most boring person Leo could ever lay eyes on, save for the boy's face.
Leo was the faculty head of the college's art clubs, one specific club's main focus being the human form and anatomy. (The college has several art clubs, Leo ran them all.) He left the students to pick and choose models and muses and sat in and drew with them most of the time.
(This is relevant.)
Nico, one of Leo's favorite students and long-time friend, was usually asked to be the one to pick the models. He had a fine eye and could sum most anyone up over their clothes.
Typically, he picked people who seemed outgoing and fun.
(It's still relevant.)
The model that walked into the club room that afternoon looked neither outgoing nor fun.
Leo wanted to smack Nico upside the head, not reallyof course but all the same. When the Giro Boy took the robe off to model, Leo wanted to kiss Nico, very really.
Leo started with his legs, working up to his waist. Leo knew he'd have a plethora of time until the students caught up, so he worked up the outline of his torso to his collar bone. Feet next, then some finer details in the calves. Giro Boy had beautiful calves. Biceps, too. Thighs, cheekbones, dear god his cheekbones.
(Now, Leo didn't have any particular anatomical fetishes, but he could certainly appreciate this man's physique.)
Leo's hang moved of its own accord. He glanced down at his paper but didn't really absorb what it was he was drawing, just letting his pencil roam freely over the paper. Time was hazy as he swapped his gaze between the model and paper.
When Leo heard the timer ding and looked down at his work. He'd gotten a rather rough body sketch and a larger drawing of his face. His eyes were very clearly unfinished, at least clear to Leo. Others may later see the sketch and think it complete but Leo knew it would remain unfinished. The eyes were drawn per say but didn't contain anything.
Giro Boy robed himself, going to leave but stopped by a student. She introduced herself, overly friendly and Leo knew her voice and it was an octave higher now. He replied, a tight smile on his lips, "Girolamo Riario, and you as well." His exit was smooth yet undeniably hasty. Leo watched him go, wondering just how Nico had found the boy.
It was near three weeks later when Giro Boy- Girolamo- first spoke to Leo. They'd had class discussions and debates but had never really spoken in all the months of school being in session.
They talked about non-class related topics, things happening in the world, how Girolamo's other classes were holding up (unsurprisingly well), what being a professor was actually like (pure and utter hell).
Their conversation moved to hobbies and passions. Girolamo didn't particularly enjoy politics, had been raised with religion so of course it was his belief, but had an interest in architecture. He had traveled to many different countries with his family, admiring the structure of the buildings each trip.
Leo had been a freelance artist for quite a while, it had always been something he loved. He got by with commissions until the university offered him a job. Girolamo knew the system well enough to know that universities don't just ask a freelance artist to teach, so Leo told him the truth.
He was a certified genius, could've had his choice of jobs. He chose what he loved. (Girolamo envied the man for being able to follow his heart so freely. He knew he could and would never go against his Uncle's word.)
Girolamo told Leo of his plans to leave collage after graduation to travel a bit more before settling in with the political world.
(Note that this was not over coffee, this was over pizza at Leo's apartment and Girolamo on his couch and the air filled with pepperoni and the smell of paint that went anywhere Leo went.)
Girolamo didn't tell him that he'd wanted to settle down in Europe somewhere, anywhere that felt right. He didn't tell him about how marvelous he thought the medieval castles were. Didn't speak aloud how he wanted to absorb all he could before he died.
Leo still knew.
They talked for hours on end some nights, even after the term was done and Girolamo was no longer enrolled in his class. He modeled again for the anatomy art club. He had ham and pineapple on his pizza, sitting on Leo's couch and buzzed with the beer Leo bought in bulk and hardly touched.
Girolamo wasn't in his right mind when he did it, and neither was also but some argued he never was. Girolamo remembered bits and chunks of the night and partially into the morning, enough to feel the dull throb and feel the sunlight on his eyelids. It was a Saturday morning and Girolamo knew what he'd be confessing the following day.
Leo woke soon after, feeling the rustling of sheets. He didn't move, letting the younger man dress and leave silently. There was never another Friday night and pizza and beer and the scent of paint but there was Leo grading papers and drawing models he didn't know and there was Girolamo studying and praying God for forgiveness.
He went into politics.
vii.
Life had turned... shitty.
People died and killed daily, though it was rarely other living people that were brought down.
Bombs had dropped all over the globe circa forty years ago, when both Girolamo and Leo were still young and too young to truly remember but they both knew. Radiation caused mutations, but human prevailed against it all and though there were few of them, they had the will to go on. Go on they did, through the shit and the murder and the blood and death and everything that was bad with the world.
Leo and Girolamo were both well into their forties, though didn't look a day over 28. Twenty to thirty years after the bombs dropped, people aged slower and no one was quite sure why but there were no researchers left to research, so really why worry about it.
People took life's little moments whenever they could, and the two of them found those moments in each other.
They found moments between mutated bears trying to rip them to shreds, between having to kill the little boys and girls that had succumb to the radiation and whose faces were half off, dried blood and dead eyes staring at nothing as they were murderer.
(No one thought of it as murder, more like a release from having to stay in that form any longer. It helped to sleep at night, thinking that the brain inside was dead, that that hadn't still been a little girl that they'd just stabbed or chopped or whacked or cracked.)
Leo read the stars at night, naming countless constellations that Girolamo already knew. (He knew all of them, though, so it wasn't quite fair to say it like that.) They found warmth in one's back pressed against the other's chest; in one's hand in the other's and the feel of one's lips on the other's.
They found strength in each other, moments of joy they'd give anything to have a lifetime of.
They were one at long last, in a place where everything was wrong but nothing was changing or happening. In a world where joy and moments are sparse, they found each other at birth, leading and growing together, going into this shithole together and planning on going out the same.
They were one.