Chapter 10 of 'The judgement of Maat'!
Someone was asking when the romantic stuff was coming up,
and I realized I had postponed it enough. So enjoy, and remember to comment and review! :D

''Leo, is that you?'' Ezio mumbled, looking at the figure sitting beside him on the edge of the bed from under half-closed eyelids.
''Bene! You're awake.''

A large smile appeared on the artist's face. In his lap was a large wooden bowl, in which he was mixing some herbs and water to an unappetizing brownish soup.
''I really hope that this is going on my wounds.'' The assassin said, eyeing the mixture in disapproval.
''Sorry Ezio.''
''Lucky me.''

Helping his friend up a bit, Leonardo brought the bowl to the assassin's lips. Ezio swallowed the medicine with a grimace and grunted:
''Merda... Chewing my own socks would taste better.''

Leonardo grinned wider. The fact that his friend had not been out for long was reassuring. He reached out to take a new bowl and a couple of bottles from the bedside table and began to prepare another medicine that would heal Ezio's wounds while avoiding an infection. He helped the assassin taking off the ridiculously long red sash around his waist, then helped him ridding himself of the many layers of shirt, the hood and the cape. Ezio lay still as his friend wiped away the blood and cleaned the wounds from the arrows with a wet cloth, but winced in pain when Leo put on the medicine. The tension of his muscles caused the wounds to bleed again.
''Try to stay still.'' The artist said, wiping off the blood.

Digging his fingers into the mattress and holding his breath, Ezio managed not to budge while Leonardo tended to him. He was thankful when the artist finished bandaging his abdomen and allowed himself to relax only then. The blonde man stood up and spread a thin but warm blanket over his friend and straightened up the pillow.
''You're so good to me, Leo. Grazie.''
''Don't mention it. We are friends, and friends take care of eachother.''

The artist patted the assassin's shoulder before leaving to let him rest.

In a corner of the hallway he found Altair, who had slept off on the floor, face to the wall. The Arab had taken off the few weapons the Templars had not confiscated, and he had rolled his long, sleeveless robes and hood into a ball he now used to rest his head on. He seemed to be just as much in need of sleep as Ezio, and Leonardo stood beside him, wondering if he should wake him or not. He felt cruel to even consider it but he did not have much of a choice: the deadline for one of his paintings was coming up and Ezio needed to be watched.

While he made up his mind, he looked at the sleeping man. Leonardo had always thought that Ezio's exeptional good looks were unique, unmatched even by the effeminated beauty of the artist's assistants, but the italian assassin seemed to have met a worthy opponent this time. Although they were different in so many ways, both assassins had fine but manly features, and it was difficult to prefer one or the other, Ezio with his long, dark brown hair, fair skin and warm, brown eyes or Altair with his short, lighter hair, tan skin and cold, grey eyes. The only impefection Leonardo could see was the scars they both had on the same side of the mouth.

Altair shifted in his sleep to lay on his back. An assassin's sleep was never deep and he opened his eyes slightly:
''Leonardo.. how is Ezio?''

Still in his own thoughts, the artist did not answer immediately.

Frédérique Lacroix brought his horse to a halt and jumped down from the saddle, his boots landing heavily in a puddle and splashing mud everywhere. A gloved hand on the handle of his broadsword, he took a few steps on the road, holding his horse by the reins. The house by the Vatican seemed empty, which was strange. He had expected to see the flames of a few candles through the many windows. Two other Templars rode up beside him, also watching the house, in search for what seemed to trouble their boss. Brow furrowed, the Knight of the Cross gave the reins to the one on his left and pushed open the front door. As expected, the house was plunged in absolute darkness. Lacroix held out his hand in a silent order for the second rider to give him the torch he carried.

The floorboards creaked under the Knight's weight as he came in, followed by one of his men while the other stayed in the street to watch the horses. His heart skipped a beat as the light from the torch hit a shape lying on the floor a few strides in front of him.
''Wait for me outside.'' He ordered.

The Templar craned his neck in an attempt to see what Lacroix's cape-clad form hid from his view, asking:
''Are you sure?''
''Do as I say.''

The man obeyed and the Frenchman waited until he had vanished out the door before crouching by his mistress' twisted body. She was on her stomach, face down, the beautiful blonde hair fanned out. Hand shaking, Lacroix touched her shoulder, unsure if he should allow the sight of her pale, lifeless face replace the memories of how beautiful she had been. Nevertheless, he rolled her over. The rigor mortis had already kicked in and her skin was white, dark, matt eyes staring emptily at the ceiling. The blood from her broken nose and cracked lip had coagulated, but the fatal wound to her head was still bleeding, soiling the golden hair.

At first, the Frenchman fought back the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes, but what he saw next did it for him. The string closing the decolletage of her blue dress was undone, uncovering a dangerously low-cut petticoat and showing a much larger portion of her breasts than what was considered decent. Her skin bore the marks of kisses and teasing bites, and at the sight of those, the Knight's gaze and features suddenly hardened.

He stood up from the body, looking down at it in scorn. Lacroix was a proud man, too proud to let himself be mocked, no matter who it was. He may have loved the woman at his feet, but from the second he saw the signs of her unfaithfulness he felt nothing but disgust for her. The assassins had never bothered with any kind of peace ritual and had not closed her eyes, and neither did he as he simply stepped over her, the brushing of his cape being the only caress he had left for her.

He descended the stairs to the cave, where the multiple torches at the walls still burned. Again his heart skipped a beat, although this time, he had been expecting the sight that met him. In silence, he calmly kneeled by the corpse of Jaques Lefevre and joined his hands on top of the Templar's chest. Finding some consolation in the fact that the assassins had closed the red-haired giant's eyes, Lacroix bowed his head in a last payement of respect for his fallen friend and brother-in-arms.

Altair came into the room where Ezio rested, closed the door silently, threw his robes, hood and weapons in a corner and sat himself on a chair by the bed to watch over his partner. From what he could tell, whatever it was Leonardo had given Ezio seemed to work. His breath was now peaceful and steady and he sweated a lot less. He slept out of exhaustion, not because the poison was killing him. The hours passed and Leonardo came by from time to time to clean Ezio's wounds, and the assassin slept through everything. It was close to sunset when he woke up all by himself, looking weak but stable. He cracked a smile at Altair:
''You are watching over little old me. How cute.''
''Someone had to.''
''Just because you had to? That's cold.''

Altair shrugged.
''I've been wanting to ask you something, you know.'' The Italian said, changing the subject. ''What do you remember about the life you had before Maat sent you here?

The Arab crossed his arms over his chest. He had never thought about his life between the moment when Maat took his soul and the moment she had brought him back to his youth to offer him a second chance. Now that he thought about it, he realized that the few memories she had allowed him to keep were distant and seemed unimportant, as if he had not been the one living them but rather had seen someone else do it. He felt no emotional attachment, even less now than when his life had been on the right track.
''Very little.'' He answered. ''And it does not even feel like what I remember are memories. They are just images in my head and I do not feel bound to them.''
''But you had children. And how about their mother? You must have loved them, no?''
''If I ever did. I can't recall.''

Ezio narrowed his eyes.
''What exactly happened with Maat, Altair?''
''Meeting her is the only thing I remember clearly. The first time, she weighed my soul and saw what I was. She took it and told me I would have to earn it back.''

Ezio snorted.
''That seems a bit dramatic.''
''You don't know what this means, do you?'' Altair asked in a suddenly cold voice. ''Taking my soul away means that I will not die before she decides to give it back. No matter how many times I live, she is going to make me live again and again until I learn the lesson she tries to teach.''
''Well, she wants you to become a better person.'' Ezio shrugged. ''From where I stand, it's not a bad thing.''
''Of course not, I just hate having to live my life over again.''
''But you said that the memories you have feel unpersonal.''

Altair was losing his patience.
''You really don't get it. Believe me when I say that not being in control of your own fate because a goddess has it all decided for you is unpleasant, even if she erases your weariness and makes you young again.''
''You better do as she says, then.'' Ezio grinned. ''Let me help you. Come here.''
''What for?''
''I need to sit up a bit, but the headboard is too hard.''
''Really? How are you going to survive? Put the pillow behind your back.''

Ezio pouted.
''I don't care much for the pillow. Come here.''
''Maat did not want me to care more about others by becoming your headrest.''
''No, but I am pretty sure that caring about a wounded partner was something she had in mind.''

The Arab sighed in annoyance and stood up.
''Fine, just shut up.''
''Splendid.'' Ezio grinned, making room for him.

Altair sat himself diagonally on the mattress, back against the headboard, feet out of the bed.
''Take off your boots and sit correctly.'' Ezio protested.
''I'm not staying for long.''
''Someone doesn't want their soul back!''
''Shut up, will you?''

Giving up making the other take his boots off and sit straight, Ezio sat himself up too, back against the Arab's chest and resting his head on his shoulder. Soon after he dozed off, the warmth of their bodies and that of the blanket he had dragged all the way up under his chin plunging him into sleep. During the time he rested, Altair tried to move as little as possible to avoid waking him. But after a while, the weight of the muscular Italian was pressing him flat against the headboard, making his back uncomfortably numb. He shifted when the pressure of the wood into his shoulder blades became hurtful, unvoluntarily tearing the other assassin out of his sleep in the process.

Ezio groaned lazily and turned around so that their bodies faced eachother, head still resting on the Arab's shoulder and passed his right arm around Altair's waist. Altair sank harder against the wooden panel, as if he was trying to put some distance between himself and Ezio. The latter chuckled:
''Am I making you uneasy?''

A snort was the only answer he got. The Italian grinned softly and brought his face against the side of the other's neck, so that the bridge of his nose came up under the Arab's jaw and ran his hand up and down his back, the tips of his fingers digging into the thin fabric of the other's tunic. Altair's jaw tightened and Ezio asked again:
''Answer me. Am I making you uneasy?''
''That goes without saying.''
''And it scares you.''

The Italian began nuzzling his partner's neck while bringing his left hand up his arm, feeling the muscles tense under his fingers.
''Are you afraid you are going to like what I do to you?''
''What the hell is there to like? You are a man.''
''I don't think it really matters, as long as I know how to touch you.''
''You don't.''
''Not yet. But I am very good at guessing.''

His arm around Altair's waist suddenly pulled the other closer, causing Altair to slam his hands flat against Ezio's chest to keep some distance between them. The Italian took his wrists and dragged his hands away before sinking his face to the Arab's throat. The skin was warm under his lips when he started to kiss it and Altair tried to shake his wrists out of the Italian's firm grip but in vain, his movement making the loose collar of his tunic slide to the edge of his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut and snapped his breath when Ezio's teeth scraped the sensitive skin just above his collarbone.
''What the hell do you think you're doing?'' He hissed as the other slid his tongue all the way up his throat.
''Oh, I just owe you for pushing me and the chair.''
''Let go of me.''
''That depends.''
''On what?''

Ezio left Altair's skin to look at his face, which bore signs of pure, controlled, cold rage. The younger assassin grinned:
''It depends on how compliant you are.''

He brought his lips to his partner's, but before they touched, Altair mumbled:
''I should just hit your wounds.''
''Unfortunately, you can't. And it would not earn you your soul back any faster, amico mio.''

He let his mouth ghost over the other man's before leaning forward and taking his lips with his own.
''None of this gets me my soul back.'' Altair managed to grumble between kisses.
''No, but it will make me let go of you.''

Ezio started by kissing him slowly, and little by little Altair began to answer, his lips going from unresponsive to firm against the other's. He gasped when the Italian picked up the pace and let go of his wrists to pass his arms under his and behind his back, pushing him hard against the headboard and taking advantage of his surprise to deepen the kisses. Feeling stupid for having nothing to do of his hands, he simply put them on Ezio's arms. The younger assassin groaned at his touch and continued moving his lips over his hungrily. Even though Altair played along he was still reluctant, Ezio both felt and tasted it. But it did not matter.

Doing this with his partner was something entirely different than doing it with any woman he had ever held, Christina included. Knowing that the one he kissed was just as powerful as him in any way and only let himself being dominated because Ezio had been lucky enough to take him by surprise, created a feeling that could not be compared to when he could dominate the person in his arms whenever he wanted. Altair was like an animal that could tear Ezio's throat out if he got the chance, and playing a game that could go so wrong made everything else seem boring. The feeling of lips that were stronger and rougher than usual against his own was strangely arousing, and the assassin found himself taking pleasure in this. Altair's scent was also completely different. There was no sweet perfume to sicken the Italian, just the scent of his skin and those of leather and metal, the scent of an assassin.

Altair pulled away slightly, bringing Ezio back to earth and said, out of breath:
''Time to let go.''
''You did not touch me much.''
''Don't push your luck.''

The Arab's face was serious and Ezio decided that it probably was the best idea, not to push his luck indeed. He let go of his partner, not without sliding his hands down his back a little slower than necessary.

Italian and latin words:
Bene - good
Merda - shit
Grazie - thanks
Rigor mortis - stiffness of death
Amico mio - my friend