He doesn't, he knows, but likes to. There is something about words, whispered in Italian in moments like these that just adds to the experience. So Takeshi hums as Ezio grants him leave and slowly, sets about making his lover drown in lazy, languorous pleasure.

He slides fingers through his hair and applies gentle pressure to his scalp, petting, massaging slowly, encouraging him to unwind. They brush down his neck, callused fingertips just barely skimming the fine, sensitive hairs there. They fan out, trace light over the edges of collarbone where his shirt doesn't quite cover.

He undresses him slowly, buttons and laces and ties coming apart under his fingers easily now. He kisses him over and over, just soft brushes of lips to warm skin, hums and sighs and smiles as they're returned. His clothes join Ezio's, relegated to an idle pattern on the rooftop floor as he steps and circles and slowly dances his lover to their small sanctuary of pillows.

Takeshi tumbles there with him, props up on his elbow and runs fingertips along the lines of Ezio's ribs. "I want to map every inch of you. Commit you to memory with my fingers, with my lips."