CHAPTER, "Ezio is weak to Dezmund magic, and Desmond is weak to Ezio charm."


"Ah, Ezio! I'm glad to assure you that the status of the last city is in our favour…."

Ezio nodded along to Bartolomeo's report, eyes sliding from the man to the background as he considered his schedule for the day. He had political lessons with Machiavelli soon, however much he dreaded it, but the same man who voted for his status as Mentor would not settle for a full-grown man to have "only an average knowledge of the liberal arts," as Machiavelli put it; at this La Volpe rolled his eyes, always first to clash with or tease Machiavelli, heaven help Ezio, the Mentor to them both.

La Volpe entered the room, though only to pass. A flash of white was behind him, telling Ezio that the thief was showing new recruits around. Only one recruit so far, though the cut of the robes— no, even the gait of the man reflected deadly experience—!

Woah.

Ezio's eyes were glued on the following figure to enter the room who moved with a flow so familiar to Ezio that his chest ached, as if he was seeing the dead Auditore males again, as if a hollow part of his heart was singing to the stranger's presence, as if his body recognised the will that drove it to move when Ezio couldn't go on on those nights that were the hardest. Suddenly, before Ezio could wonder where it came from, a phantom name shot through him as if he was meeting a fairy tale character for the first time.

Desmond.

The brunette following La Volpe and the other recruit couldn't possibly be the ghost Minerva had spoken to — couldn't be the invisible comfort and company Ezio fell to when life's trials hit him — but while Ezio currently felt no such company — hadn't, for a while now — he felt a pull to the magnetising presence that was the stranger who was glancing around not at the novel sights of the Brotherhood's headquarters, but at the experience of seeing them on his own.

The subject of Ezio's blatant staring accidentally knocked over a stack of books in his looking around, and when said subject bent down to pick the books up, Ezio was already on his knees gathering up half of them. The stranger looked up at the sudden help. "Grazie," the man thanked with a smile. Up close, he was actually quite a sight. There was undoubtedly exotic blood in his veins, but there was enough Italian descent to allow him to blend in crowds when he needed to.

Ezio was still staring at the stranger, picking up the books without looking and eyes practically sparkling in infatuation. "Hello." Oh, smooth, Ezio, the Florentine berated himself in his head. Impress the attractive foreigner with one-worded sentences, why don't you? The brunette in front of him was only amusedly confused. "…Hello," the stranger returned. Ezio perked up. He wasn't weirded out by me…!

"Desi!"

…And Ezio's magical moment was ruined when a voice rough and sandy like the desert cut through the harmony and forced the stranger in front of Ezio to jolt up on his feet and nearly toss the gathered books back onto the table before speeding over to the experienced-looking recruit who had called him. La Volpe continued his tour, and Ezio dazedly stood up and stared after where the door closed on his view of "Desi's" back.

"Uh, Ezio?"

Oh, right. Bartolomeo.

Ezio turned back to the sword-loving man who was looking at Ezio with a raised brow. "What was that?" he gestured to Ezio's moment. Reminded of the books still in his arms, Ezio sighed and hugged them. "Bartolomeo…do you believe in love at first sight?"

Behind the door, Desmond noticed Altaïr had not moved from where he had called Desmond to move even though La Volpe and Desmond were now ahead of him a considerable distance. Desmond quickly came to the Levantine and tugged Altaïr to catch up to La Volpe before the thief noticed that they were lagging behind.

"What's wrong?" he asked in Arabic. Altaïr stared at the door a beat longer before looking away and moving to catch up with La Volpe. "It's nothing," he replied. Desmond gave him a look and then shrugged. Altaïr's eyes narrowed under his hood in thought.

That man was staring at Dezmund.


La Volpe blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"The two new recruits," Ezio repeated. "The ones who came in this morning." The Florentine seemed to be fidgeting, though his eyes were startlingly very focused on La Volpe and what he had to say. The thief decided he'd indulge his Mentor.

"They are not recruits, Ezio; they are what remain of the old Order based at Masyaf. Because of this, their education is a bit outdated when it comes to the way the Brotherhood functions — at least for the eldest of the pair." La Volpe's lips twitched in humour. "Just talk to him, and you'll understand how…traditional that man's upbringing was."

"Is his name Desi?" Ezio asked. "No, Desimondo is the youngest of the two. Artemio is the eldest." La Volpe frowned in thought. "How did you know of that nickname, Ezio?" But the Florentine's eyes were already staring off, and the assassin even unconsciously hugged himself. Machiavelli came in and whacked the daydreamer with a rolled up paper, and Ezio jumped, blinked, and sheepishly smiled before disappearing to who knew where. La Volpe stared after him, lost.

"He's been like that since this morning," Machiavelli huffed as he handed La Volpe the rolled up paper. It was intel that the politician managed to collect where La Volpe's thieves couldn't, but La Volpe's attention wasn't on it. "Any idea why?" "Heck if I know," Machiavelli muttered, "just wish it would stop. He was doodling on parchment instead of paying attention to my lessons." "What did he draw?" Machiavelli pulled out a crumpled parchment. La Volpe furrowed his brows.

"It looks like an oddly-shaped, upside-down pinecone," the thief said honestly. Machiavelli sighed. "I think we have a better chance asking da Vinci what these doodles are supposed to mean."

That was how the heart symbol came to be.


"Brothers."

"We look alike too much."

"You introduced us as brothers," Altaïr stressed, annoyed. "Now we can only do fun stuff in private." "Fun…?" Desmond echoed, before his face reddened in realisation. "No! We're not going to have fun anywhere — public or private—" Desmond jumped at the hand on his butt. "Is everything alright?" Claudia looked back from where she was showing them the porch-like walkways around the headquarters that could act like docks for boats. Desmond nodded. "Fine," he quickly assured, and when Claudia looked away, he glared at Altaïr from the corner of his eye.

"Stop it," he hissed, and he tried to covertly swat at Altaïr's hand moving for another feel. "The Fox interrupted our very important conversation. I'm just picking up where we left off," Altaïr said, and he victoriously squeezed a cheek. Desmond stepped on his foot. Altaïr jumped and let go in reflex. "Are you sure everything is alright?" Claudia looked back again. Desmond smiled. "I think my brother is not used to so many new things at once. If you'll excuse us, we'll be going to our rooms." He swiftly turned and pulled Altaïr aside at an empty area of the docks. "Must you prioritise groping over learning why the Apple sent us here?" he asked. At the look on Altaïr's face, he threw his hands up in the air in exasperation and turned to enter the headquarters' building.

"Hi!"

Desmond and Altaïr unleashed unmanly shrieks at the Florentine who practically materialised out of nowhere before tripping backwards. Desmond reflexively shut his eyes and prepared to soften his fall, but when he found his backwards descent suddenly cut short, he slowly opened his eyes, noting the sudden existence of spicy warmth pressing into his clothes and skin.

Ezio smirked. "For an assassin, you aren't very used to falling."

Oh my gosh Ezio has his arm around me in a salsa position and he's hitting on me what do I do— "I guess I still have much to learn," Desmond shakily laughed. When he moved to stand up, he realised his hands were on Ezio's chest. Before he could put them somewhere more innocent, Ezio pressed Desmond closer. "Then I guess I'll have to teach you," he said suavely, and lowered his voice, "tesoro."

Desmond was pretty sure the Italian could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Now as the damsel in Ezio's arms instead of the other way around, Desmond fully understood what past women had felt under Ezio's spell, and his mind was scrambling to work. Altaïr was nowhere near as intimate as the Florentine. Speaking of, where was Altaïr—?

Splash! Splash! "You airheaded Italian!" Splash! "Dumb cape-waving, flashy-looking peacock like you can't even realise someone is drowning here!"

Desmond laughed awkwardly at the angry Arabic speech. "I think my brother needs help." Ezio was already leaning in. "Hm?" the Florentine hummed distractedly, eyes on Desmond's lips. Water suddenly splashed on the back of Desmond's legs, followed by Altaïr's drenched form crawling onto the ground. Ezio jerked back and looked at his wet boots in distaste, and Altaïr immediately took the opportunity to separate Desmond from Ezio and unsheathe his hidden blade.

"What do you want?" Ezio glared at Altaïr, obviously annoyed that his kiss was cut off by some sopping wet assassin. "'What do I want?'" Altaïr echoed, ticked off. "His first kiss belongeth to me!" "Pfft," Ezio snickered. "Who says belongeth nowadays?" "Master assassins," Altaïr revealed his rank, offended. "Uh, Artemio," Desmond began, but was cut off by Ezio. "I'm the Mentor," the Florentine said smugly. Altaïr's eyes widened. "Ya ilahi, and the Brotherhood be not in shambles already!?" "Hey, I'm not hopeless!"

Before either could lunge at each other's throats with hidden blades, Desmond intervened.

"You two are master assassins — act like it, instead of getting blades involved in petty squabbles!" Altaïr and Ezio simultaneously gave Desmond a look. "This isn't petty," Ezio corrected. "We are fighting for thy hand," Altaïr finished. Desmond stared at their unintentional harmony. "Absolutely not," Desmond deadpanned. I'm not having two ancestors try to kill each other to marry me. Juno, if this is some sick joke, kill me for real now.

"He's right," Ezio agreed, and Desmond looked up in confusion. "Brothers cannot marry!" the Italian concluded triumphantly. Altaïr spared a glare at Desmond, who had made the cover story up. "We are but distant kin," Altaïr argued, "just as thou art to him—" Desmond clapped a hand on Altaïr's mouth before Altaïr could elaborate. Fortunately, it seemed that Ezio hadn't been able to fully translate Altaïr's quick, old Italian, if the lack of confusion over Desmond's blood relation to Ezio was any sign. Desmond turned to berate Altaïr in Arabic when he noted Altaïr's drowned cat look and felt torn between sympathy and amusement. Geez, he reminds me of the younger kids I used to take care of back at the Farm.

"Now, Artemio, you're going to catch a cold like this," Desmond scolded and slid out of his hoodie to put it around Altaïr's shoulders. Altaïr shot a victorious smirk at Ezio when Desmond wasn't looking. The Florentine retaliated by detaching his cape and draping it around Desmond's shoulders. Ezio made sure to be closer than necessary. "An exotic flower should be protected from the cold," he murmured in Desmond's ear with a low, warm tone. The Italian then jumped back from a swipe of Altaïr's hidden blade, but smirked when he noted the red of Desmond's ears. Mission accomplished.

"Artemio!" Desmond interjected, and he grabbed Altaïr's wrist and quickly ran into the building, furiously trying to fight the blush on his cheeks and failing. Something ugly stirred in Altaïr's chest at the sight of it, and when they arrived at their rooms, Altaïr wrenched his hand free of Desmond's grip and threw the Auditore's cape from Desmond's shoulders to the ground. Desmond frowned.

"That's not even yours to wrinkle," Desmond gestured to the cape, but was cut off when Altaïr stepped into Desmond's face. The ex-bartender reflexively backed up and met the side of his bed with the back of his legs. "You even smell like him," Altaïr growled, and at the voiced thought, Desmond wondered if he was supposed to have heard it. "Because of the cape," Altaïr finished. Desmond blushed and tried scrubbing the scent from his neck. "Not my fault," Desmond mumbled. His damp hoodie was thrown at his face, and Desmond squawked in protest. "Next time you're cold, just keep your hoodie," Altaïr muttered. When Desmond finally took his hoodie away from his face, he only managed to see Altaïr's back disappearing to his own room before the door shut. "Did he just…speak boyfriend?" Desmond wondered aloud.

His hoodie smelled like Altaïr.


"Dezmund."

Desmond whipped his head back and dropped his drink in shock. Ezio didn't even react to the splash of water and rolling of the wooden cup beside Desmond, his eyes instead trained on the ex-bartender.

"Um, what?"

"Dezmund," Ezio repeated, and he stepped closer, crossed arms unfolding in excitement. "I'm right, aren't I?" "I don't know what you're talking about, Ezio," Desmond backed away, but Ezio persisted. "You were there when my father and brothers died, when I began reassembling the Codex — you even spoke to Minerva!" "It was more of a one-sided conversation, and I didn't get to say anything…" Desmond mumbled in Arabic so that Ezio wouldn't understand. "You think Machiavelli would let me know how to say only the creed in Arabic, habibi?" Ezio countered. Desmond blanched.

"Please don't do that," Desmond pleaded, "ever." It was weird hearing Altaïr from Ezio's mouth! "So, why did the Apple send you here?" Ezio revealed he had caught the tail end of Altaïr and Desmond's conversation before he had greeted them at the docks. Desmond stared hard at his ancestor. Ezio didn't even blink. Desmond wanted to pull his hair.

Gah! I give up!

"The piece of Precursor junk probably reacted to Altaïr's raging hormones. I mean, it reacts well to certain bloodlines, so why not?" He was ranting, he knew, but considering his weeks of undergoing — verbal and, with Ezio, not so verbal — sexual harassment in two different eras, Desmond thought his moment of ranting was well deserved. "Next thing you know, it's going to spazz again because it will try calling Altaïr back to his time, and we will all end up playing Assassin with Connor in the 18th century!"

"You're not making much sense," Ezio said, and suddenly looked up in revelation. "You," he said with wide eyes. Altaïr stepped up from behind Desmond. "I thought I heard Arabic besides my own and Dezmund's, and what do I get?" Altaïr frowned. "Not a fellow assassin from Masyaf, but the dumb peacock calling Dezmund habibi!" "You're Altaïr," Ezio realised. "And both of you are my ancestors," Desmond added, and sighed in relief. "You know what this means for your — for a lack of a better word — pursuit of me, then?" Desmond asked Ezio. The Italian nodded, serious.

"I have to step up my game."

Altaïr smirked. "You may try, novice."

Palm. Meet. Forehead. "This is not happening!" Desmond took his hand away from his forehead in the world's first ever facepalm centuries too early in arrival. "Do you two hear yourselves?" "Tell us," Ezio wrapped an arm around Desmond's shoulders. "Do you hear us?" Altaïr mirrored the action with Desmond's waist, and the two Mentors leaned in. "Ti amo," "Ana b'hebbak," And then, simultaneously,

"—Dezmund."


A/N: This was partly written under deliriousness caused by cough medicine and lack of proper sleep; most of my better writing self is working on altdeseziocon, and I promise you that you're going to love it! (I know I did.)

About the heart symbol's origin — totally made up; the earliest examples of the heart symbol we are familiar with today date back to the 1250s. Its "birthplace" according to artworks including it seems to be Italy, though, so I thought, "why not?" and made an artist out of Ezio. Xp

I tied in the written-on-a-whim title with something actually in the story! Anyone proud of me?

Next chapter: altdeseziocon~!