Nuclear Explosion.

When he's angry he's so very angry and there's little Leonardo can do about it but shelter himself somewhere inobtrusive and wait for the storms to pass; he's not as young as he once was and his fortifications against Cesare's temper are not nearly as strong as they could be.

Spirits.

He can't help but find Cesare charming when they're both drunk, and after he's begun to realize he won't be harmed, they drink frequently together- and then, Cesare's fingers are on the fastenings of his doublet and he's certainly not about to say no, because damn it he needs this.

Ice.

It was almost funny how nervous he was to be taken, momentarily frozen before tentatively nodding his consent- some fearless leader he is, and Leonardo can't help but smile because he knows everyone's a coward if you catch them at the right time.

Smiled Shyly.

How young he is, Leonardo thinks, watching as the General sleeps, naked and draped in sheets, placid and quiet for a rare moment and dreaming of something that gently lifts the corners of his mouth.

Focus.

He's sexy when he pays rapt attention to something, his lips pressed together and his eyes narrowed slightly, his fingers stained with dark smudges; Cesare enjoys breaking his concentration at just the wrong time.

Exotic.

He smells expensive, like spices from lands he's never even visited, and when he's sweating and musky with the smell of sex, straddling Leonardo's hips and gasping in pained pleasure, it almost feels as if Cesare's the one who's being kept.

Severed.

As he thinks it over he's somewhat fascinated, then rather bewildered, and then much more than mildly unnerved when he finds a clipped and bound ringlet of long, pale blond hair on Cesare's bedside table.

Unrepentant./Prophetic.

There was no plea for forgiveness, no admission of fault, no remorse as Cesare told him that Ezio was dead.

He suspected that Cesare was lying, but it ate away at him, clawing at his insides, and so he had to seek Ezio out to prove him a liar once and for all.

Crash.

What a horrible sound is the splintering of wood as a jealous young man throws an expensive chair against a heavy door and snaps and snarls like a wounded dog, and finally he turns on Leonardo and every step he takes toward him seems to echo to the heavens- or to hell.

Unbridled Fury.

He's never been so angry, never destroyed so many sketches; he regrets every moment spent memorizing the gentle curves of Cesare's body and tries to forget the sound of helpless, submissive sounds breathed against his ear.

Pomegranate.

It's almost a peace offering when he holds out for Leonardo a cut half of fruit and smiles, slightly weakly; the artist declines, staring in disgust at the spatters of juice, bright red on Cesare's palms.