Work Text:
Ezio is not spying.
True, he's a silent shadow in the darkest recess of the studio's upper floor. But he is not spying, not intentionally. It was simply the easiest way into the building without being spotted, before sunset. He thinks Leonardo might call it spying. Leonardo knows the honesty of words, when stripped of all their flowery pretensions. But it's become a habit for Ezio, to watch people unseen. He likes to observe their behaviour, their intentions, there's a quietness to it.
He likes to watch Leonardo most of all. Leonardo's work makes him happy. Painting makes him happy, and Ezio cannot be anything other than content watching him. There is an artistry to him, everything fluid and graceful, and Ezio can see why people seek out his skills. Why people gift him expensive equipment. Why the loveliest models come to his studio, and undress for him, stand, or sit, or lay wherever he puts them, until he has finished with them.
The one he's working with now is young, slim and strong. An ideal of masculine beauty, carved in flesh. Leonardo grasps his waist, hands easy on his skin. He pulls him closer to the table, arranges him just so. There are words, and Leonardo laughs in response. The model smiles as if he had wanted that, and nothing else.
Ezio goes very still, wrist flexing instinctively. He makes it stop. He reminds himself that there's no danger.
It takes little time at all for Leonardo to sketch him in the position, charcoal making his fingers, and the side of his hand dark. He smiles for the man, teases him, as he obediently adjusts his feet, and expression, to Leonardo's whims.
Ezio watches, discontent in a way he does not entirely understand. He decides he does not like this boy. Leonardo trusts too easily, sometimes. He should be more careful, people will take advantage of his generosity, of his affection.
When the model retrieves his clothes, Ezio moves down through the studio, as quietly as he's able. He knows he won't be seen until he wishes it.
Ezio scowls at the youth when he reaches the door, feels a guilty satisfaction in the way he pales, and stumbles into the wood on his way out. He hurries across the street, with the speed of the guilty. Ezio will remember his face.
"Stop scaring away my models," Leonardo says, carefully cleaning his brushes, but there's a laugh hiding under there somewhere. "My influence is not so great that the youth of Venezia will risk their necks for fame."
Ezio meets him in the middle of the studio, leans into the table.
"I've harmed none of them," he protests, irritated that someone might have insinuated otherwise.
"Which changes nothing." Leonardo shakes his head, laughs a little. "People in Venezia gossip terribly, and they already think I'm -" Leonardo stops abruptly, as if his mouth as run away from him. He turns away from him, squeezes his brush a little harder than necessary.
Ezio has never seen him look so uncomfortable. Though he can read no hurt in his face, or his body language.
"They think you are what?" Ezio demands, because if someone has spoken ill of Leonardo, then he shall make it stop. It is as simple as that.
Leonardo looks at him, sighs, yet still seems unwilling to finish.
"Leonardo?" Ezio presses.
"They think I'm your lover," Leonardo says quietly, rolling a wet brush between his fingers.
Ezio's not expecting that. He has been spoken of often, as a night time visitor of women's bedrooms, some of them are true, some of them are not, some of them are fanciful. But he has never visited a man. At least not for reasons suited to romance. Though he realises, as he thinks it, that isn't true. He has come to Leonardo often, at night. With Codex pages, and broken equipment, and sometimes bottles of wine, when it's late and he cannot sleep. Leonardo paints long into the night, and Ezio has never regretted seeking his company. He had never considered what it would look like to the outside. What people say about them. Did people speak of them together in hushed whispers. Ezio is not prepared for the unexpected twist inside his chest. Or for the spread of warmth, curious and new.
"They talk about us?" he asks.
Leonardo looks briefly confused, as if he had expected Ezio to take offence, and not to meet the accusation with curiousity. Do they believe there is affection between them? Or do they think Ezio comes to Leonardo's studio at night, purely for his own selfish desires. He already knows that women do not feature in Leonardo's desires. Which he has never tried to hide.
"Do they at least say good things about me?" he wonders.
"Ezio."
Ezio smiles at the thought. "Do they? I would not like rumours to do me an injustice."
Leonardo looks much like he's fighting a reluctant smile himself. "You would have to ask Venezia."
"All of Venezia?" Ezio says, more than a little stunned. He considers himself a master of information gathering, and this seems a large thing to miss. All of Venezia believes that Leonardo is his, and Leonardo has done nothing to dissuade people from their fanciful ideas.
Ezio finds he has little enthusiasm for correcting their assumptions.
"Leonardo, do you -"
"Do not ask me, Ezio, please," Leonardo says, sounding suddenly tired. "I will not lie to you."
Ezio knows it's true. Leonardo will always tell him the truth, no matter what the cost to himself. Because they are friends. Leonardo has always been willing to help him, his affection and creativity given freely. Though Ezio has done little to deserve it.
Ezio watches Leonardo soak his brushes, paint-spotted fingers careful but practised.
"No more pretty, young boys in your studio," Ezio says quietly.
Leonardo turns his head to look at him, and his face, Ezio thinks, is very handsome.
"Do you think they will make the rumours worse?" Leonardo asks cautiously.
"No, I think they make me jealous," Ezio admits, and he stays just long enough to see the startled look on Leonardo's face, before his courage deserts him.