A/N: Okay so I'm reposting this after it was pointed out to me (months after my original upload) that this fic was a glitchfest and had no actual story in it, merely a veritable fucktonne of coding errors. That is a technical term. Alas, I hadn't actually checked it and so never realised my fatal mistake until someone drew my attention to it. The moral of this story is that if everything went well, check again, because life is a disaster and this website is functionally useless sometimes. Thank you to the individual who informed me of this mistake, and I'm so sorry to everyone who saw the original fic and thought it was an alien transmission please excuse my technological ineptitude. Here is the actual thing, in readable format, and I hope you enjoy it because I did not enjoy uploading it. This is why I use AO3, guys. Also I don't know how to make page breaks on here so I'm going to announce the end of A/N in words and then use a weird character to split this off from the actual fic. End of A/N.

‡

After the boy's father had left, Andrea found himself in a state of near terror, an uncertain confusion, watching the strange child's every move, the way he studied the contents of the workshop with awe. The minute he realised he was being observed, however, the boy dropped his gaze and stared intently at his feet, as if he had been caught misbehaving. Out of courtesy, Andrea looked away and immediately felt those intense dark eyes, far older than their age, boring into the back of his head, and he sighed. What could he possibly do with this exceptional, miraculous child? How could he challenge Leonardo's inquiring, probing mind? Even at a glance you could see the spark of genius flickering, noting every detail with quiet focus. Like no other boy he had encountered - and it was not as if he were Verrocchio's first apprentice: why, even now, he had several young pupils studying under his tutelage. None of them, however, could transfix you with a sharp look that left you feeling entirely transparent, cut you to the bone with their eyes. No, thus far only young Leonardo had managed that.

Not for the first time, Andrea cursed Piero da Vinci's vague description of the boy's intellect and artistic prowess. Exactly how gifted was he? And why did his talents seem to scare his father, so much that the man seemed pleased to be rid of his son? Gritting his teeth, Andrea resolved to treat his new apprentice like any of the others, until any new information presented itself. He was, after all, an untrained amateur. When his alleged gifts presented themselves, his maestro would adjust accordingly. Actually, he got the feeling even Piero was uncertain of the full extent of his son's abilities, hence the piss-poor explanation.

"So," Andrea began, breaking the silence, turning to look at the boy who once again, looked to the floor with guilt. "How are you finding Florence? Different to Vinci, isn't it?"

The child shrugged, with all the usual apathy of youth. "It's a fascinating city. Beautiful architecture." He didn't talk like a child, that was for sure.

"Have you seen the Duomo yet?"

Leonardo nodded. "I would have very much liked to sketch it, only Father wouldn't allow it," the bitterly disdainful, vehement tone with which Leonardo spoke that word, 'father', indicated there was no love lost at their parting. No surprises there.

"There will be plenty of time for that later," Andrea said reassuringly and the boy's eyes lit up. It was good to see Leonardo had a real passion for art, unlike some of the boys, who treated simple drawing tasks as something akin to chores. "Right now, a simple copying task will suffice. All of my pupils have to complete such an endeavour. Remember, this is only a rough sketch, nobody expects perfection," The boy scoffed, as if anything less would be laughable. Searching through several portraits, Andrea selected one at random, of a lady dressed in blue, reminiscent of a traditional Madonna then set it in front of his young apprentice, who turned his attention to the painting, sitting down at one of the desks and taking up a pencil in his right hand, while the fingers of his left danced erratically, his interest piqued. His mentor felt a rush of pride; he had managed to stir the genius from his nervous silence, to bring him out of his shell and raise his confidence. Suddenly the boy looked up, self-conscious, and Andrea took a step back, turning to work on some commission he had been entrusted with, feigning extreme interest in his work, all the while glancing over his shoulder to see what Leonardo was doing.

Several things stood out to him: first of all, the casual, almost unconscious way Leonardo swapped hands, passing the charcoal from left to right, while the digits of whichever hand was currently empty tapped out an imperceptible rhythm on thin air; then the way he barely looked up once, referring to the original piece barely two or three times. Of course, there were also the little things, like the tics, movements of the head, various mannerism and idiosyncratic, unusual behaviours. Finally - and perhaps most frightening - there was the alarmingly short time in which the boy took before he looked up and said: 'Maestro, I'm finished'.

"Already?" Andrea quelled his surprised. "May I see?"

With some trepidation, the boy offered his sketch to his tutor, who took it, examining it critically, amazed. Every line, every slight scribble, had a clear, recognisable, beautiful purpose, so that the drawing was near exact. Precise. There were aspects where the technique was rough, amateurish, but on balance the drawing was astonishing, strengths by far outweighing weaknesses. Andrea's jaw dropped.

"Did- Did you draw this from memory?" he inquired and Leonardo seemed to panic.

"Why? Are there mistakes?" the boy asked frantically and Andrea remembered how scornful, how mocking he had been of error, how afraid of imperfections. Now where could that fear have come from, who could possibly have instilled it in him? Andrea wondered, he really did: that is to say, he already knew and it disgusted him.

"No, no, any mistakes present are most likely due to faults in technique rather than lapses of memory, and such flaws are easily rectified." Rather than encouraging the boy, it seemed to have an adverse effect on him, his expression becoming angry, irritation and self-hatred festering within. "Leonardo," Andrea sat down opposite the sullen child "What you have produced here is remarkable. Truly exquisite. There are young men here who could study for years and never achieve your level of natural skill. You...drew this from memory?" the boy nodded. "Well then, let me tell you this: most people, myself included, would struggle to recall such intricate detail without referring to the original. How good is your memory?"

The boy shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I remember everything. Everything I see and hear, I just...know it. I'm telling the truth, 'swear on the Virgin, I am!"

"I believe you," Verrocchio replied, a little taken aback at the urgency with which the child blurted his insistent promise.

"Father didn't," muttered Leonardo darkly and Andrea felt his blood rise. Yes, he could imagine Piero's chilly tone as he called his bastard son a liar. It was not a foreign concept for men to behave coldly to their illegitimate offspring, reject them outright, but somehow this was most annoying, the wilful neglect of a young genius. "It's not usual, is it, being like me? Is it?"

Andrea looked at his young pupil's face, a feeling of sinking hopelessness washing over him. What did you say to that? How did you reassure a prodigy, make him feel normal, when in actuality, there was nothing stranger? A young boy, afraid of being thought unusual. For a moment, Andrea worried what the other apprentices would make of him: the wonderful, brilliant child, whose distance made him seem aloof, arrogant. How they would hate him. He would be a living target. Struggling for the right words, he placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder.

"No. But Leonardo, you should not consider this a difference but a gift. Likewise, the fact you are ambidextrous-" the boy looked confused. "That you use both hands equally well, that too is atypical but for an artist, a distinct advantage."

"Really?" Leonardo looked sceptical "I thought everyone was as strong with their left as their right and just chose a hand they preferred out of laziness...or something, but if you say so."

Nobody had ever told Leonardo he was remarkable. Nobody had ever praised him, referred to him as special. And so he had not known there was anything setting himself apart from anyone else. Yet he had always found himself separate and had not known why. Part of Andrea really, really wanted to give Piero da Vinci a piece of his mind - or a punch to the face - but no, he dare not. It would be no small risk to his own person.

Anyway, he needed to help Leonardo. The boy needed him. He was a true artista, or at least one in the making, and it was Verrocchio's duty to assist where needed.

"Leonardo, your potential is limitless. With hard work and effort, one day you could be among the best there are. It will not be easy, but one day even your father will be able to see your greatness."

An incredulous snort; so cynical for one so young. But then again, he had to be.

An idea entered Andrea's head, and he decided to follow it through. "If you wish, you may have the rest of the afternoon to sketch the Duomo, so long as you return by dinner at seven."

Never before had Andrea seen a child quite so excited, as Leonardo rushed out of the door in a flurry of 'thank you Maestro's that brought a smile to his teacher's face and tears to his eyes.

One day he thought one day they will call you Maestro. They will venerate and revere you. My name will pass into obscurity, but they will adore you, Leonardo da Vinci.

‡

After he left the boy with the artista, he felt a mixture of guilt and wistfulness. He missed her. And he missed the way that his son reminded him of her, the same dark eyes, the same watchfulness...the same frightening, explosive memory. When his child had mentioned his gift, Piero da Vinci had panicked, lying to himself and to Leonardo, burning the first bridge of many. No, not the first. The first bridge he had burnt that night, when the boy had been six months old and his mother had vanished without a was when he'd first drawn up the boundaries between himself and his progeny: in fact, since that night, he had never even held his own infant child, couldn't bring himself to see her eyes staring out at him.

Why did she have to leave? Imagine it, had she stayed, the three of them living as a proper family. Leonardo could have, in time, been legitimized. Instead, she was gone, leaving behind an increasingly difficult child, who Piero simultaneously regretted and appreciated foisting off on the artista Andrea del Verrocchio. Part of him was glad to be rid of that reminder to a past he wished all too strongly to forget. And part of him missed the irksome way the child used to pester and bother his father, bringing him strange, bizarre gifts, some of them which he'd made himself. Used to. Until Piero put a stop to was, of course, improper, and entirely ridiculous.

Several weeks went by, turning to months, letters and drawings from the boy coming in on infrequent but regular occasions. The letters were inane babble most of them, trivial stuff, but the pictures...they frightened him more than anything else. He wrote to Verrocchio once, asking as stiffly, as formally as he could, how Leonardo was faring. Verrocchio wrote back in an equally detached manner, though he was of course an artista and it showed, some excitement seeping through. Yes, Leonardo was doing admirably, progressing swifter than even he anticipated. Did Piero want to come and visit?

No.

He did not.

That bridge was burnt to cinders all those years ago.

Perhaps the worst part was the way he remembered her in all too vivid detail; he didn't want to know what it felt like for her, the intricacies of it in painful, torturous colour. During summer, when the evenings were long, they would stay out late under the crimson sky. Her laugh was music, clear as a bell, her smile enchanting. There was a stubborn set to her features, which came with matching temperament. Far from the innocent nymph type of woman he should have married, she had been simply the most obstinate, argumentative, unfeminine creature and in his frustration he had loved her all the more. When she had announced her pregnancy, he had been overjoyed, scandal little interesting him. Many men sired bastards after all. Though few of them fell as deeply in love as he did, with that impossible, wonderful woman.

"Come, hold your son," she had said after the birth, Italian heavily accented. At that moment, all had been right. Piero had taken Leonardo in his arms and smiled, noting with pride how much the infant took after his mother. He couldn't have predicted how he would come to curse those same features. Especially the obstinacy.

After Leonardo's birth, she had withdrawn, become quiet and distant, started behaving in ways utterly foreign to her lover. Some of these new eccentricities he had excused as result of the childbirth, others had been cause for concern, concerns he had not raised with her because God's death that woman could argue! If he confessed to being worried about her, she would deny anything being the matte loudly and vehemently until Piero gave up. It was her nature.

So when she left - the nights leading up to her departure had been hell. Had he been able to stop her...she would not have been the woman he loved. Slowly, he hardened his heart against her and against the brat, who had inherited his mother's spirit: and more worryingly, her intellect, worse perhaps. A mind like that was dangerous. Some things were best left unknown.

He pushed Leonardo away and he hated himself for it. It was easier to hate her that way, leaving him to marry and produce legitimate heirs.

Forget Leonardo, or at least pay minimal attention to him.

Forget her.

‡

Over the years, Andrea del Verrocchio had come to understand one thing: Leonardo da Vinci might have been a prodigy but he was also an increasingly troublesome fool whose reckless, wild behaviour was, frankly, a waste, threatening to destroy one of the greatest, stupidest minds ever to grace Italy. As anticipated, the other apprentices were not fond of their fellow, taking an instant green-eyed dislike to Leo, whom they saw as cozying up to the Maestro, favoured student that he was. Only one boy had made an effort to get to know Leo, and as it turned out he had an ulterior motive, as Andrea was all too unsurprised to discover when he found the two of them in a state of undress, embracing. While the other boy had been been surly but apologetic, if a little insolent, Leo had shrugged it off, grinning sheepishly as though nothing had happened. When he was not behaving defiantly or otherwise with a devilish air, he was capable of great charisma, a likable young man whose capacity for genius could easily overawe. You almost wanted to excuse him, to forgive him of all ills, and Verrocchio almost did.

At first, Andrea had thought it must have been the other boy who incited the relationship - which according to some of the others, had been going on behind the Maestro's back for some time - until the selfsame informants pointed the finger right at Leonardo: presumably out of jealousy, yes, that was it. Leo ignored the rumours and, apparently in a suicidal attempt to destroy both his own, his father's and his teacher's reputation, took up with some urchin-thief type calling himself Zoroaster.

First bastardy, limiting his place in the world. Now sodomy. Andrea needed to have serious words with the boy. For sure, this was Florence, more allowing than other cities, and artistas were the type, more often than other professions, it was almost expected of them, but still, all they needed was one overzealous magistrate making a conservative decision, and Leo would be in danger. Andrea couldn't help but worry.

"Have you seen Leonardo?" he asked one of the other boys, a small, skinny thing who had arrived only recently. The boy nodded, pointing off into one of the other workshops, then got back to work on the carving task he had been set that morning. An older apprentice snorted and Andrea shot him a look, rushing him back to work. The Maestro headed around the corner into the smaller workshop where Leo was sat, talking away, arm around his admittedly handsome friend. Upon hearing the Maestro enter, the two separated, shifting slightly, then without hesitation, continued their conversation as if nothing had happened, playing off the whole scene as if it had an innocent explanation and those two weren't-

"Maestro?" Leo smiled, cutting into Andrea's thoughts "What is it?"

"If we could talk without the company present, my boy, that would be most appreciated."

Leo shrugged dismissively, and waved his companion off. "Bye Zo."

The affectionate nickname stuck out, causing words to stick in the older man's throat, making it hard for him to think reasonable thoughts. Why did he have to be like this, why was Leo so frustrating to work with? He was like a son to Andrea, but if this was what being a parent was, he wasn't sure he wanted to care anymore. Care he did, he cared deeply for the lad. Which was why the conversation he was about to have was stuck in his head, unable to be spoken out loud.

"He's just a friend, Maestro, I swear," Leo began it for him instead.

"Oh? And that explains your blatant flirtation, I suppose? Leo, this is serious. You can't risk everything so carelessly." the young man opened his mouth to interrupt, but his mentor wasn't done. "For my health, please, don't drive me into an early grave. I don't want to have to worry about you. If you're going to bed men, please, for your own sake, be more private about it."

At first, Leo seemed taken aback, then he hung his head "I understand. Thank you, Maestro." he looked at the floor sadly, then laughed. "I finished that commission you gave me the other day."

"The other day? Leo, that was last month!" Verrocchio shook his head, but couldn't help smiling "Still, at least you've finished something. How many projects are you attempting again?"

"I'm not attempting any of them," Leo insisted "I'm making real progress this time." Andrea raised his eyebrows and Leo coughed "Forty-seven."

Shaking his head in despair Andrea left his apprentice, glad that they were still on good terms. Leo was, after all, the closest thing he would ever have to a child, the way things seemed. And with the notable absence and callousness of Piero da Vinci, Andrea was idolised as a father. He wasn't arguing with that. But he knew that there would come a time when Leo would get himself into trouble he couldn't talk his way out of with a mischievous grin.

And heaven help them.

‡

"Piero, isn't that your bastard over there? Looks like he's finally gone mad."

He turned around and saw a stranger, stood completely still in the middle of a roiling, irritable crowd, watching birds fly, taking notes as he did so. Nothing else seemed to be of consequence, no, he was sketching birds and laughing for no apparent reason, while members of the crowd pushed and elbowed him, furious. Meanwhile, his father was utterly humiliated by the public display of eccentricity. Insanity, even.

It had been years. Abandoning his child had freed Piero from any and all guilt he felt, he was able to disregard her and marry, at last. In fact, he had almost forgotten he had a son at all, contact between them having been whittled down to the occasional rumour of some dark, sordid scandal. So that when he turned, if he had not recognised aspects of her in the artista's face, he would never have known the young man standing before him. How that familiarity stung, how the strangeness ached, a dull pain in his chest that brought all his regrets washing back. Worst of all, perhaps, was how at peace he looked, how content he was in that moment, blissfully unaware of the man watching him.

The thieving mongrel with him wasn't, though, managing to extract Leonardo from his reverie by snatching the notebook from his hands and pointing over at the exact place where Piero was stood. His words were inaudible, but Piero could guess at their rough outline, and he saw his son look up, met his eyes across the busy street. The shock in Leonardo's eyes turned to defiant anger, his face taking on the expression all too frequently worn by his mother. Then he was pushing his way through the river of people, followed by his disreputable friend, whose attempts to restrain him proved futile. Father and son stood face to face for the first time in years, silence saying more than words ever could in those long, gruelling moments before Leonardo's companion spoke.

"Well, this is fun, isn't it? Nice to meet you sir, I don't believe we've had the pleasure. Zoroaster," At this absurd pseudonym, he offered a hand, which Piero took great pride in refusing. This 'Zoroaster' fellow snorted. "Very well then, I-"

"Leave it, Zo," Leonardo murmured, then glared at his father. "What are you doing here?"

"I happen to live here," replied Piero, through gritted teeth. "The more apt question would be what are you doing here, making a nuisance of yourself as ever, and what the meaning of this company you keep is? People talk-"

"Yes, I find they do little else," muttered his son, to snickers from Zoroaster standing behind him "As for what I'm doing, the anatomy and propulsion of avian forms through the air is a subject I find exquisitely fascinating. At least my work might be of use to future generations, whereas yours is nothing more than dusty, tedious history."

"Of course, because the law is something we should disregard, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, with your forays into-" he looked around nervously, to make sure no-one of note could here, then lowered his voice "Sodomy. Yes, the rumours reached my ears. I'm surprised you aren't in more trouble."

"No-one gets tried for sodomy," Leonardo scoffered. "Not in Florence anyway. And besides," he pointed a finger in mock warning "That's slander."

"Nevertheless, you are an embarrassment to me-"

"Ladies, ladies, break it up," Zoroaster began, but the elder da Vinci was not done.

"And you'd be an embarrassment to your mother too." It was a blatant lie, in fact she would have been proud of his creativity, and the way he refused to conform to any one mold. But Piero was not looking to be honest, he was looking to hurt, and he saw those words hit home, the fire leaving Leonardo's eyes, turning to hopeless dismay. "Sort yourself out, Leonardo."

As he was leaving, he heard his son laugh bitterly. "It's never good enough, is it?"

"Leo-" Zoroaster interrupted, trying to console his friend: presuming they were not lovers, which was always a possibility with Leonardo's inescapable stupidity on the loose.

"Whatever I do," the young man continued, almost on the point of tears. "It's never going to be good enough for you. Fuck you."

"Do not speak to me with such insolence, boy!" Piero stopped and turned to spit verbal poison at his son again.

"Yes, well, don't speak to me at all!" retorted Leonardo. "Come on Zo. We've got places to be." he looked his father up and down with disgusted eyes. "Wherever he isn't."

The two left then, Zoroaster making a lewd gesture as they passed out of sight. Piero's head sank, and he felt shame - not for his son this time, but for himself. Why did he have to say such things? Why did he have to behave cruelly to his only child? Because of her he thought, instinctively, then realised that was an excuse. Because it is my nature he realised, and returned home, attempting to repair the work he had undertaken to put his bastard son out of mind, undone in seconds. His wife, Maguerite, attempted to soothe him, but some things were beyond healing.

Some wounds hurt too badly.

"Why don't you disinherit him?" Maguerite asked, late that night.

Because that would be one injustice too many. Because he saw him and thought of the woman he had loved so long ago. Because he couldn't bear the thought of such absolute separation. Part of him still dreamt of a world in which she had stayed, and Leonardo had grown up respectably, a world where Piero could have been proud of him, rather than whatever it was he felt in the here and now.

Instead, he had foisted his son off on Verrocchio, let him act as father to the motherless boy. He had shunned and avoided him, so any reckless, irresponsible behaviour on Leonardo's part was not a fault of his Maestro's training of him, but a fault of his father's avoidance. Piero couldn't disinherit his son, nor could he explain to his wife why he still cared about the irksome, trying, vexatious young man, despite all the scandal, all the insults he had heaped upon his father today alone, despite everything.

"Because he is my son - and until you produce one, woman, he's the only one I've got," Piero spat, then sighed.

There could be no reconciliation between father and son, it was too far gone now. Words had passed, and the damage had been done. Leonardo was better off with Verrocchio now, at least the other man actually seemed to treat him well. How happy he had been before his father had intruded, the expression of pure elation that had been visible on his face sticking in Piero's mind. Leonardo was better off without his father.

And once again, his father would be better off without him.

Better off without her.

‡

"Leo...you should go and tell your father about this." Andrea said.

"There's no need," his former pupil murmured "He just told me."