His copper brown eyes pierce the horizon with depths of esoteric brooding. The smooth curves of his softly tan face are crystalline with apathy. From the side only the bridge and point of his hawkish nose and the delicate curves of his supple lips are visible. They crinkle simultaneously in a demonstration annoyance, and he veers his steely gaze towards his staring companion: "What is the point of this?"
"At sunset, Italy is an exceptionally romantic time, fiore," Ezio coos. His voice is trained at a soft level, sweet with romantic delight. Altair snorts, open to allowing Ezio to know his lack of impress, and his annoyance at the sweet nickname. Ezio only smiles, a handsome gesture that he would still use send many maidens near swooning if Altair hadn't expressively declared his discontent at the price of admitting jealously.
The Italian can see the veil of chilliness begin to draw away within the assassin's eyes as they flicker towards his curved lips. In his eagerness to successfully flirt with Altair, the Master Assassin was quick to learn how much his companion found his velvety smile alluring.
His smile remains gentle and coaxing on his face, his eyes gazing protectively into beautiful depths of soft brown. Beyond all else, Ezio loves the assassin's eyes the most. Oh, Altair's eyes are worlds full of richness, those portals from which emotions and an inner voice came from. When the Arabian held everything else behind a thick curtain of taciturnity and filtered his soul behind a shrewd voice, as he often liked to do, his eyes would sometimes bleed with the appeal of vibrancy. Those bastions of beauty were under the servitude of Altair's very inner thoughts. No matter how he tried, the assassin could not master the design of a guise to hide his eyes behind. And one of Ezio's deep hopes was that he never would.
Altair flashes an amused smirk, before turning his gaze back to the horizon. He knows what Ezio is looking at. Damn, how he knows Ezio loves peering into his inner thoughts. It annoys him like the Master Assassin seems to do quite easily, but it always sends a shiver down his spine, a rapt sense of delight to be noticed in such a way. He likes the way Ezio looks at him. The way his brandeis eyes bloom upon the ever rising eve of fondness when they look upon him.
Ezio is eager to read him, wants to read him. Altair, of course, would remain the dusty book tucked away hidden and always watching if it were within his grasp. But of lately he has been realizing he wants Ezio to read him. No one else has the diligence or patience. Altair used to believe it was stubbornness that had kept the Master Assassin from walking away. And in a way he was right, but looking out to the rich horizon singing in color, he realizes he it was more then that… it was—is—the stubbornness of... love. Or perhaps love in its early stages.
The sun melts behind the curves of distance hills before his bronze eyes. Above mulberry kisses edges the dark blue sky with cerise and red-violet smoothly blends into the center where a rich magenta red boldly sings. Soft evening clouds lull sleepily within the basking reds. To the west they burn with auburn in their centers with fringes of folly. To the east they blaze with scarlet and tea roses tickles their cusps. Then, where the sun slips away to let darkness settle, a handsome tangelo orange frisks the dark hills. The sun, itself, is a fading bold dot of gamboge orange in the center of the chef-d'oeuvre.
"You are right," Altair whispers, feeling lost. "It is romantic." Ezio remains quiet behind him, but the Arabian hears him stir and arms wrap around his waist, the warmth of a sturdy body behind him. His chest tightens, uncomfortable with the contact, and he shifts, but not entirely from discontent. The arms loosen to release him as if Ezio is afraid to make him uncomfortable, but desiring to touch him. "No," Altair says simply.
"No?" Ezio's voice is thick with his native accent. He seems almost genuinely confused, but it is not every day Altair decides he wants to "cuddle". The latter does not reply, his mind mulling over words he wants to say. It will be entirely dark soon; the sun is barely a peeping glow from the horizon now, its colors nearly completely faded with it.
His mind progresses back to reality as he begins to focus on Ezio as his chest presses against his back with every breath. The touch feels somehow exhilarating and so monumental that he can barely notice anything else. The sudden desire to look into Ezio's deep blue eyes is so overwhelming that he heeds to the hankering without a moment of deliberation.
He slowly turns to face his Master Assassin. Their bodies are pressed so close together, Ezio's hands still enveloping Altair. The Arabian assassin is only a hand's height smaller so he looks up when he searches for the blue that reminds him of the cleared skies after rainfall. It's too dark for him to see, but he can feel Ezio's eyes gazing back down at him. He can feel the sturdy posture of a strong form, the relaxed muscles beneath robes. Every part where the Master Assassin touches him is highlighted, set apart, severely recognized within his mind.
Ezio's left hand shifts slightly in a tentative stroking motion as if he fondling a gracious predator. It leaves Altair's back tingling, and something within him ripples. Deep in his inner core, a desire sparkles a revolution of emotions, charging him head first into the sudden craving to kiss the Italian. It strikes him as strange, but he does not repress the feeling… it sounds nice.
The Master Assassin's mind must be mimicking his own, for the Arabian is shaken from the stupor of his mind's desire when the soft tickle of a preened beard caresses his cheek and a tender, feather-light kiss at his cheekbone warms his face. "Sei bello," Ezio whispers. His hot breath sends a tremor of shivers frolicking down Altair's spine. "I do not understand what you're saying," he mutters. Ezio chuckles sweetly, a sound that has not changed since he was younger—or so Leonardo da Vinci has told him. "You would only scowl if I translated," he replies.
"Tell me."
"You are… beautiful."
In commonplace, the word normally reserved for women would have offended Altair and, indeed, have made him scoff, but now it only escalates his desire to feel Ezio's lips. He hesitates… his mind revolving backwards to being pensive.
When Altair is silent, Ezio knows he can attempt what he has only fantasized and dreamt of. He feels the curl of a sensation, a desire that he knows only the Arabian can quench. The Master Assassin lets his mind slip blank, falter to create any chain of thoughts other then the yearning to feel Altair's lips. Damn, how he's been waiting so long for this. He smiles softly with internal elation as he leans down and embraces Altair's lips. The shorter assassin lifts himself into the kiss, surprising the Master Assassin and spurring him to drain all the tenderness of hidden fondness he has quelled within for so long. Ezio tightens his hold on the Arabian's body, pressing them so gloriously close against one another.
Altair's lips feel perfect against his own in their tender, attentive, and passionate way. The Master Assassin can perceive the Arabian has kissed very few, and he is glad, knowing the jealousy would strike him rather harshly.
Altair feels lost, so passionately and beautifully lost. His heart pounds profusely in his chest as if he'd make a long, furious dash, and his mind grasps vainly to understand, identify this euphoria. He gives in suddenly, loosening his normally tense muscles, melting into Ezio's broad form. It feels right… natural even.
The kiss is plain, tender, gracing on the cusps of something more, but adhering to the cautionary side of this unfamiliar territory.
The bittersweet need for air breaks them apart.
Reality corrals Altair as his gulps in a needed breath of air. He is glad the sun has bidden its farewell and the darkness is too deep for Ezio to see his flushed cheeks. He doesn't want to take into account that he might feel the heat that seems to swell so powerfully from his face. He hears the Master Assassins sighs softly, a sound deeply imbued with content. Altair realizes Ezio would not be teasing him at this moment. He finds himself smiling for some reason, a gesture that feels attuned to being foolishly tipsy.
Words suddenly clasp him. They are words he has never spoken before, foreign and almost forgotten. He cannot speak though, he cannot even begin to whisper them, but they ring within his mind like the chime of a bell calling out in dawn's crisp air: I think… I love you.
Author's note: Hey, everyone. I decided to copy n' paste this story over from my AO3 (Archive of our Own) account. It's not freshly written, but it might be a new read for some of you Ezio/Altaïr fans. Hope all enjoyed! ^_^
I also want to note that the title is Italian, and I'm not entirely sure if it's correct (apologies for this). According to my phone's translation it means "Sundown of the lover". If you know this isn't correct or know the correct translation please let me know. :)