A/N: I love to imagine that these two write letters to each other. After all, they need to keep in contact somehow, right? And this kinda sucks, I know. It hasn't been the best week for me, and this was written to put my mind to some sort of use after it being turned to mush because of three days of constant sleeping and upsetness. I may edit this later, because it's clearly not my best work. I kinda want to put something out there though, to feel like I've accomplished something this week.

DISCLAIMER: Assassin's Creed belongs to Ubisoft

Leonardo felt like such a woman sometimes. He stayed in his house for the most part, did all of the cooking and cleaning (which really, wasn't much) and didn't have a trade that he was bound to.

That, and he waited by his door for the postman like a lovesick maiden.

Which is what he was currently doing, his work put aside for a moment as he stood by the entryway, readying himself for the knock that would be coming shortly. Hearing footsteps outside, he threw open his door and snatched the mail from the surprised postman's hands, tossing him a few coins before slamming the door shut. He clutched the envelopes tightly, walking slowly to a chair to sit down and see if maybe, this time, he received something he actually wanted.

And most of the time he didn't. What he got was interesting enough, yes; commissions for art pieces, questions about his inventions, invitations to parties… it was all enough to keep him occupied for awhile, but nothing made him as happy as getting one of those letters.

The brown, tattered, crinkly ones that had traveled hundreds of kilometres through the mountains and the rain to get to him. The ones that were simply addressed and the handwriting always altered a bit, an attempt to make them as untraceable as possible. Leonardo's heart would race and his fingers would stumble over the envelope, clumsily fumbling about as he attempted to open them. Freeing the letter, he would scan his eyes over the top of it, looking for that telltale greeting, those two words that would indicate that yes, this is what he waited at his door like a woman for.

Salve Leonardo.

Today, Leonardo had four letters delivered to him. Gripping the papers with more force than probably necessary, he slowly began to sift through them, setting the letters that disinterested him to the side. By the time he reached the third letter, his heart sank. One letter left, and the odds were against him that it would be what he was hoping for.

Slowly, he lifted the letter away, revealing a wrinkly, smudged, pathetic looking piece of paper.

A smile broke out across Leonardo's face and he could feel his heartbeat quicken in his chest. His fingers, able to paint and build like no other man before him, seemed suddenly immobile as he began prying the wax sealing off the back of the envelope. Cursing, he held it closer to a candle, the heat from the flame making the wax just flexible enough that the artist could peel it back and free the piece of paper trapped inside.

Clumsily, he lifted the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it, smiling as he saw the sloppy, smudgy handwriting that could only belong to Ezio Auditore. Adjusting the candle a bit for better lighting, he began to read:

Salve Leonardo,

I hope this letter gets to you on time, because I'm coming back to Venezia. I just wanted to give you fair warning, and some time to cool off because you're probably going to be pissed at me. You see, I broke the blade in my left hand on some thicker armour, and I need a repair… Mi Dispiace, I know you told me not to use them like swords, but I was in a bit of trouble and didn't have a choice.

Leonardo sighed and rubbed his temple. That idiot… he thought, but his lips curved into a smile nonetheless. He raised an eyebrow at the next section of the letter, most of the text crossed out or smudged to the point of illegibility. The words that weren't tampered with were hidden between the mess, and Leonardo had to strain his eyes to read it.

I miss you.

Leonardo blushed. No wonder it was revised so many times. Ezio didn't exactly have the best way of going about expressing these things in person, so the inventor couldn't blame him that he struggled so much with them on paper.

If you don't mind, I plan on staying for a whole week, regardless of the fact that the blade repair will only take a day or two. It's been almost two months since we've seen each other, and I would like a little more time with you while I can spare it. I'm going to Roma soon, and I don't know when I'll be back in Venezia again…

The letter trailed off back into a thick mess of ink smudges and cross-outs, and Leonardo immediately understood. Ezio was worried. And if Ezio was worried, then this mission may actually pose a threat to his life. Leonardo's heart beat harder in his chest and his hands grew cold, fear beginning to course its way throughout his body. If Ezio was worried, then no doubt Leonardo was going to be an absolute wreck.

I will see you soon, Leonardo. Please don't be too mad about the blade thing, alright? I promise to be more careful with it in the future.

Leonardo rolled his eyes. As if that idiot will be more careful; he's brought the damn blade back to me four times already, and all four visits he's told me that same line, he thought, struggling to make out the writing at the bottom of the letter.

I love you.

Leonardo's breath hitched and his cheeks flushed, his eyes darting back and forth as he re-read the line. Ezio had told him this multiple times, but there was something about seeing it on paper that made it seem all the more real. It was something physical that he could see and touch, and Leonardo thought with an almost protective glance: it was something that he could own.

There was no more to the letter; Ezio didn't sign them for fear that someone may discover Leonardo was associating with him. With a contented sigh, the artist stuck the letter back in its envelope and walked to a bookcase, removing a small chest from its current position as a bookend.

He opened the chest and stuck the letter inside, the envelope lying on a bed of many other yellowed, wrinkled letters with that same greeting in that same scratchy, scribbled penmanship:

Salve Leonardo.

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