You're the love of my life...so I fuck men

 A new, 10,000 word rarepair has been posted to AO3. This author is Anonymous, so I don't know how long they've been at this or how long they've been writing, but no matter the case, this story was interesting enough to warrant a post. This rarepair includes Arno/Connor, and it's got leaves, treasure hunting, and shaving. 

And rain. Here is the glorious post.

Please see the end of the post for what the author said.

It was raining and it had been all morning since he'd woken up, which Arno thinks more or less set the tone for their relationship as a whole.

Let this be an allegory for the whole fic, because there are at least five paragraphs dedicated to describing the rain. Yes, five.  

And as if that wasn't more than enough already, he knew the maids at the Café-Théâtre were getting rather sick of his habits.

Why? Wet leaves are the least of their worries. Blood, missing limbs and being ransacked at night by raging mobs should be at the top of their priorities. But that's just me.

He wasn't actually thinking about Élise when they met that rainy autumn day, though. He wasn't thinking about M. de la Serre or the Templar Order or even the leaves stuck to his boots - he wasn't thinking about very much of anything at all apart from how grey the sky looked and how wet his coat was probably getting and how if he stayed there much longer he'd probably get cramp in his calves.

Why is he up there though? Later on in this paragraph it's said he does it for some form of mental solace, but why do it in the rain?  

It wasn't pouring or he'd probably have climbed down onto the terrace over the main entrance and sat there on the floor until it eased off a bit, or maybe he'd have gone inside and perched himself on one of the high-up window sills. 

It's not mist, and it isn't a downfall, but steady rain is steady rain. If he's complaining about cramped calves he needs to go inside. 

Perhaps he didn't feel much closer to God there but it did make him feel warmer inside, at least. Sometimes warmer was good, but that particular day he was content to be cold. 

Is that why you just wrote he was internally complaining his coat was getting wet and his calves were cramping up?

He was perching on the rail where once upon a time he'd fought Pierre Bellec when a sound behind him made him push up and turn abruptly. And perhaps he wasn't thinking about Élise, or the Templars, or the leaves stuck to his boots, but not thinking about the leaves really didn't seem to help him 

 You just wrote he wasn't actually thinking about Élise. And mental high or not, how come he didn't hear Connor approaching? He really is a shitty Assassin.

He'd well and truly lost his footing and he could almost see the epitaph as he started to fall: here lies Arno Dorian: slayer of Templars; ended by a leaf. But the ground didn't rise up to meet him. A hand met him instead, catching him by the wrist and wrenching him up to safety. He supposes if the rain set the tone then so did the fact that Connor Kenway saved his life.

That's no one's fault but your own. Going off into La La Land doesn't excuse you not knowing that rain makes parkour dangerous. Just imagine how it is in the dead of winter, with flash freezing. 

"Arno Dorian?" his sudden saviour said, once he'd deposited Arno back onto the walkway, in a distinctly not-French accent.

This is going to be one of the biggest issues of the story - aside from the ring-around-the-rosie catacomb subplot - is that Arno doesn't know who Connor is. I don't know if this author ever played the games, because Connor is mentioned by Bellec when the two have their titular fight. Connor was known to Arno's father, Charles. He would have been known among the Parisian Brotherhood for destroying the Colonial Templars and rescuing the Brotherhood. He would also have been known for undoing everything Shay Cormac did. How on Earth does Arno not know?

 He still had Arno's wrist in his hand and Arno's hand clasped his in return, and though both of them were wearing rather thick gloves, Arno could have sworn he felt the heat of his fingers through the leather. He definitely felt the way he squeezed just a fraction too tightly, though whether that was intentional or not he wasn't sure. These days he'd say it was definitely intentional.

Uh huh, because you invite the biggest and baddest cock in your bed despite saying Élise was the love of your life, right?

"Who's asking?" he replied. He might conceivably have narrowed his eyes just slightly, too.

Did the height and accent not give it away? 

The man said something that made no sense at all in any language Arno understood. He made a confused face in response and the man sighed and shook his hooded head. He stepped back and he took back his large hand.

"You can call me Connor," he said, switching to English, like a man exasperatedly used to people being completely incapable of saying his actual name without making the same confused face that Arno just had.

Going back to what I said before, Arno hasn't a clue as to who Connor is. He also doesn't know what a Native American is despite the French having a large impact in North America. He's a bookworm, so chances are he read up on the French-Indian wars. Would he not deduce that Connor wasn't even European?

"You don't sound like a Connor," Arno replied, also making a swift switch to English.

"Do you know many Connors?"

Arno wrinkled his nose. "No, I don't suppose I do," he said.

Some French aristocrats learned and spoke English, but given the fierce hatred they had of the English it wasn't widely spoken. It's hypothesized Arno knows German, and might speak some French dialects, but English likely wouldn't be one emphasized. Plus, Connor is an English name so he'd know it wasn't Connor's actual Mohawk name. 

Connor, or at least the man who'd said his name was Connor even though it very likely wasn't Connor at all, shrugged at him. The movement was wide, and open, and showed off a hidden blade strapped there to the inside of both his wrists, which Arno supposed might have been at least half the point of him doing it. The other half was probably to say, thank you for making my point for me to succinctly.

  Can you say...duh?

"Well, then," the man said, as he brought his arms back in and crossed them over his chest. "You should call me Connor. I'm an Assassin."

Arno had to admit that he looked the part: even aside from the blades, he wore a very familiar style of hood pulled up against the rain and the Assassin symbol buckling his belt was, while not particularly discreet, at least well-worn and comfortable-seeming enough to look like it might have belonged to the man wearing it. And, of course, if Connor had wanted him dead, all he'd have had to do was let him fall instead of catching him.

OK, don't play the ignoramus here. You know what an Assassin hood is; you know what a hidden blade is. Why would a Templar wear their symbol out in the open? Why would an Assassin? Did they forget Shay Cormac? 

Did you not just answer your own question as to who Connor was? 

"How did you find me?" Arno asked.

You're on the balcony of a basilica, staring off into the rain...how obvious do you have to be? 

Connor shrugged again. This time the motion seemed more natural than deliberate and he gestured vaguely to the roof area they were standing on, or perhaps to all the secrets that were hidden neatly under it.

"They said I'd find you here," he said.

"And why were you looking for me?"

"I came to Paris looking for assistance, not for you in particular. Your brothers pointed me to you."

So Connor went to the Parisian Brotherhood asking Arno for help and Arno wasted his time staring off into the gray abyss above without asking anyone if the Brotherhood got any visitors. OK...? 

As to the 'why are you looking for me' thing...that is never actually answered. You'll see why.

"So, what can I assist you with?"

"We should go inside."

"You should tell me now."

Yes, you should actually go inside because you've been wasting your time out in the rain for no reason other than to uphold a degree of poignancy. You know Connor is an Assassin; if not, why didn't you use Eagle Vision? 

So they stood there in the rain as it finally did start to pour and Connor told him - albeit in rather broad strokes - what he was doing in France. He told him as water started dripping from the peaks of their hoods and Arno felt his shoulders getting damp from it where the fabric of his coat stretched tightest. They should have gone inside, but Arno was maybe a bit too stubborn to admit it.

Not stubborn, but stupid. Arno wasn't away on any missions, so how come he wasn't informed Connor had arrived in Paris? You don't think it's important to let one of your 'loose cannons' know the guy who smashed the Templars in America is there looking for you?

Connor, it turned out, really hadn't been looking for him in particular; he'd told the Paris Brotherhood about what he intended to do and, from what Arno could tell, the elders had shared a look and told him that the only man they knew who might go running off to almost certain death with a total stranger - even a stranger with verifiable Brotherhood credentials - was Arno Victor Dorian. He couldn't miss him, they'd said: he was the fool currently sitting on the rooftop in the rain. Apparently they'd said he did that a lot. Arno really couldn't argue with that, though he supposed it did make him look a bit eccentric.

 I'll say. But that doesn't answer the question of why Connor is there - only that he's looking for Arno to go on a mission no one else would do. And why not inform Arno of this? He is standing there acting as if Connor is a total stranger. 

I'll ask this again: did the author even play the games?

"Do you always leave your doors wide open?" Connor asked, as Arno was busy closing said doors behind them so the roaring fire could warm the rather chilly space back up. He waved at the closed doors and gave Connor a rather pointed look like well, they seem to be closed now, and Connor held up both his hands in acknowledgement as he dripped onto the polished parquetry. 

Connor isn't really one to judge, because he does that all the time in America. Many American manors have French style doors and architecture, so this wouldn't be out of the loop for him. 

"I'm not going to kill you while you're in my bath," Arno told Connor as he eyed the tub with some degree of skepticism. He'd spent the intervening time peering at Arno's book and trying not to look like he was reading the papers on his desk but Arno had actually been trained rather well after all, it seemed; it was hard to miss the way Connor's gaze had flickered down even as he was ostensibly eyeing the painting on the wall. 

This is stupid to write. Connor knows Arno is an Assassin and vice versa (?). Why would he follow him if he was threatened? This implication of Connor being suspicious of a bathtub means that he has never seen one before. Again, that's impossible because the Davenport manor had to have had one and wooden or copper tubs were used.  

At that moment, however, Connor was eyeing the tub like it might be full of acid instead of steaming hot water, though apparently he decided that Arno had a point - there would have been a number of simpler ways to kill him should he have wanted to, most of which wouldn't have involved having the café's staff ferry multiple buckets of water up the stairs. 

I gotta admit: though I don't use this word very often, it's also somewhat racist to suggest Native Americans don't know what bathtubs are. Connor has been around Europeans, and has interacted with wealthy ones who could afford copper or wooden tubs. Why would he think they were filled with acid?

"So, you're looking for an Apple," Arno said, at length, and briefly wandered away to his fruit bowl. 

He was barefoot and bare-chested with his long hair hanging loose to dry around his shoulders and the towel clung low down on his hips, and as he returned to the fire with another apple of his own, he caught Connor's eyes on his precarious state of mostly-undress. He perhaps didn't trust the man, at least not yet or not completely, and perhaps the lack of clothes had been a bit of a ploy to prove they were both unarmed if not completely defenceless, but he had to admit he enjoyed the attention.

Of course! He likes the big men, you know? 😉 

"It's not this kind of apple," Connor replied, holding his fruit up with a large bite taken out of it. "It's made of gold. Or something that looks like it. From what I understand, there are several of them, but most have been lost. I've tracked this one to France."

"To where in France?" Arno asked.

"To Franciade."

OK, now I doubt this author ever played the games. Later in the story, the author does indeed write that Arno knows what the Apple and Pieces of Eden are, but here he likes to act as if he doesn't know what an Apple is. Let's cut the shit: at this point, both of them know what the Pieces of Eden are. Arno gave the Apple from the Head of St. Denis to a messenger for it to be taken to Egypt. This whole trip is going to be a wild goose chase. 

Arno tried to make sure his face didn't give him away, given he'd already made a trip to Franciade, and the simplest way he could think of to do that was to whip the towel off from around his waist and use it to rub at his hair instead.

Isn't it rather pointless to do that, as it's later revealed Connor already knows the Apple went to Egypt?

It might not have been his most intelligent moment as it did leave him rather nude in front of his guest - then again, his guest was the one currently lounging naked in his bathtub, all dark hair and broad shoulders and scars a lot like Arno had - if he was some kind of an impostor instead of an Assassin, at least he hadn't been fooled easily. 

...You already know Connor was sent to you by the Brotherhood. Why would he wear an Assassin hood, insignia, and be granted permission to enter the Café if he was a Templar? C'mon, man!

"Not his most intelligent moment" is an understatement.

"Will you still come?" Connor asked, which frankly seemed like a faintly ludicrous question for a man standing naked in a virtual stranger's bathtub. "Maybe I could do this alone, but I would prefer not to."

 You are a Native American in the Old World. You have no idea where to go, and you are definitely going to be seen as an outsider. You're going to need all the help you can get. 

As for 'coming', Arno is going to do that and much more.

Connor was a big man. He was tall, taller than Arno was and he wouldn't have called himself short, bigger through the shoulders and bulkier with muscle. His wet hair clung to his skin and Arno followed the lines of water running from the ends of it and over his broad chest, over his abdomen that shifted tantalisingly as he breathed, and down between his thighs. It dripped from the tip of his cock and Arno stopped only very short of rolling his eyes at himself for the thought that he'd have quite liked to have stepped in and leaned down and licked it away. He dragged said eyes back up to his face instead. He bit the inside of his cheek again.

 Well, yeah. He's 6'3, 6'4. He's a monster. It figures Arno is already fantasizing about giving him head in the bathtub - you don't trust the guy yet you're willing to get on your knees and blow him. 

"Why not," he said, as Connor stepped out of the bath onto the stone floor by the hearth. "It's not as if I'm otherwise engaged."

"Tonight?"

"It's raining and I'm tired." Arno raised his eyebrows, still standing there naked with his hands on his hips, and gave Connor a rather pointed look up and down at his own state of wet undress. "And neither of us is dressed for it. We'll take a carriage in the morning."

No point in going out in the middle of the night while it's downpouring. Your carriage will get stuck in the mud, and you'll likely get lost along the way.  

Connor snorted in a kind of rough amusement and continued towelling himself down. Arno went to put on some dry clothes, because he thought that might distract himself from the fact there was an attractive man of semi-dubious intent standing naked in his bedroom. 

You had no issue dreaming about sucking him off while water was dripping off his dick. Not sure what you mean about 'dubious intent', buddy.

 And he definitely didn't mention the fact that he'd already been to Franciade, and been down into the catacombs, and opened up the temple somewhere underneath the Basilica of Saint Denis, and taken the lantern. He definitely didn't mention that he'd already found the Apple and sent it away to be kept somewhere safe - safer than the remains of the lantern was, at least, since it currently resided underneath his bed. But the fact was, he didn't know Connor from Adam, and he wasn't about to tell him what he'd been and done in Franciade without knowing more about him. He certainly wasn't going to tell him what he'd done with the Apple.

This was already mentioned, but it doesn't matter anyways because it is a Red Herring. Connor knows beforehand that Arno sent the Apple away, and chances are it would be mentioned to the Brotherhood when Napoleon marched on Egypt. There are a lot of things that are not logically consistent in this story. 

The fact Connor doesn't know Arno possesses the Sword of Eden, and has had it in his possession for years, is mystifying. There's no point in being coy when talking to another Assassin, and the Head Mentor of the American Brotherhood no less. 

Additionally, Arno still doesn't know who Connor is. That is shameful and a lack of foresight on the author's part.  

They talked a little, wary but without their blades strapped to their wrists, and Arno was grateful that M. de la Serre had insisted that he and Élise both learn English in their youth; it turned out during the conversation that it wasn't Connor's first language, either, so in that respect they were even. Connor spoke without revealing very much about himself, but it seemed that he was at least ten years Arno's senior and originally from the colonies, though Arno supposed he could have worked out both of those things himself given the way he looked and the way he spoke.

How do you not know you are talking to a Native American?! Holy fuck you are dumb.

Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. There is no way in Hell Arno does not know who the Hell Connor is, because Bellec told him who he was.  

You need a rolling pin to the side of the head, buddy.

Additional note: Connor is 12 years Arno's senior. I'll be bringing this age gap up later.

 They'd had a drink each, just one, which they'd watched each other linger over for the best part of an hour, though the small amount left in the bottle probably said something about Arno's usual disposition toward alcohol.

I don't think the author is aware Native Americans cannot handle alcohol well. Connor would be absolutely hammered, because wine has on average 11.6% alcohol content, whereas beer usually has 5%. Whisky is 40-50%.  

The fact they didn't drink more than that probably said something about their current levels of trust in each other, too.

If Arno is drinking more than Connor is, it's indicative he trusts him well enough to get drunk. You don't drink the entire bottle when you distrust someone. He sat down and had dinner with you without attacking you once, so he has some sense of honour. 

I'm still amazed Arno does not know who Connor is. That is amazing.  

He didn't bother Connor, either, though he lay on his rather improvised bed - better than he'd had in the Bastille, he supposed - and considered bothering him. He considered bothering him with his hands and his mouth, underneath the blankets on his familiar bed though the man lying on it really wasn't familiar at all and might conceivably have been attempting to kill him.

You have to love this logic: Arno does not trust Connor, but is ready to give him a handjob, blowjob, and all the jobs because his lust-addled mind is taking over. In effect, he is your one dimensional gay man. Not really the result you want to go for.

But he'd seen just enough of Connor's body to imagine his bare skin against the sheets in the lamplight, how the faint stubble he'd seen over his abdomen might feel against his own not particularly clean-shaven cheek, and...other things.

 I really don't think this author knows a lot about Native Americans. They do not grow facial hair or chest hair, and Connor is famously hairless in 'The Tyranny of King Washington'. Even though he's half white through Haytham, he is never seen shaving and he did not develop facial hair during puberty. It is safe to conclude he has more Native American DNA through his mother and as such did not get the facial hair trait. 

He thought about a lot, lying there not so very far away. And he clamped one hand down hard over his own mouth to keep from making any telltale noises as he wrapped the other one around his cock. No sense in denying himself, he thought - it wasn't like Connor would be there for long, after all, and it wasn't like he'd know.

Didn't take long for Arno to start pleasuring himself to Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome. What happened to the 'I don't trust you' motto?

 In the morning, they left Paris proper for the suburbs - it wasn't a long trip by any stretch of the imagination, really just a short trip outside the city walls, but it was far enough that he wouldn't have wanted to walk. 

OK, no. Franciade AKA St. Denis is a 12 hour trip outside of Paris - full procession and on slow days. If you were riding a horse, full speed, you'd get there in a few hours. With a modern day car, it'd take 22 minutes. Obviously, the author doesn't know much about 18th century Paris.

 It had been four years or more, maybe five or six, but he couldn't see that it was worth taking that risk just so they wouldn't have to share the one room that was available above the daytime drinkers. When he thought about the Bastille again, sharing a room with Connor didn't seem like all that much of a hardship.

So, we're in 1798-1800 territory. This is during the year of Napoleon's conquests overseas, and the beginning of the French Consulate where Napoleon took power. This is not mentioned in this story, simply because it is deemed unimportant. 

Connor, as it turned out, had even less with him - he had his weapons, too, and the clothes he stood up in, and a notebook he kept tucked into his jacket's inside pocket just over his heart, and a very small bag that basically contained equipment enough to shave his face and brush his teeth and comb his hair.

Again - Native Americans do not grow facial hair. You'd know this if you actually did research. Hell, even looking at pictures shows that even Native Chiefs do not have a speck or a whisker on their face.  

 He'd told Arno he'd come directly from the Americas, and that he'd once upon a time had a ship of his own, but he'd been forced to travel by passenger vessel at rather short notice. He supposed that explained why his clothes looked shabby and quite like the rain had actually done them something of a service.

He already told Arno he was from the Colonies. Arno already knows he is not English. How hard is it for him to know he's Native American? 

The room was small and sparse, just a double bed and a square table with two mismatched chairs at it, and a small cabinet by one side of the bed that looked like it had seen a number of lamp-related accidents over the years, and a chest of drawers that might have been better broken down for firewood considering every one of its handles had been broken off to a different level of completeness. 

Whether you mean oil lamp or electric lamp, I am not sure but if you sincerely are using the latter you really need your head checked. 

They took their weapons - Arno's pistols and sword, Connor's axe and bow - and made their way through the streets to the basilica; it wasn't hard to pretend he didn't know those streets, since the church's tower was a visible landmark to head towards almost everywhere they went, and when they arrived it was more or less the same as Arno had left it some time ago - in a similar state of disrepair though less teeming with soldiers and, in places, some faint attempt at restoration had begun. 

Why are you pretending? You're a Frenchman, you know where it is. You've been there. Why would Connor ask you to come along if you didn't know the streets? Jeez.

 Connor, as it happened, had his own brand of the Assassins' second sight that Arno had himself. Arno passed an interesting few hours pretending he unfortunately possessed no such talent and letting Connor guide them wherever he thought they should go next; it was really for the best, he thought, since he was fairly sure he remembered the way and leading him to the temple wasn't high on his list of priorities.

Again, why? Eagle Vision is an amazing gift. There's no point in denying you have it when at that point the Mentorship knows you possess it. Connor would likely already know.

He didn't actually want to lead him anywhere at all except maybe, as the day wore slowly on, back to the tavern for a drink and something hot to eat.

Native Americans can't handle their drink. I don't know how many times I am going to say this.

Connor kept glancing at him sideways as they meandered. He was a bit too close for either of them to really focus and he'd frown again and again, though Arno supposed that could have been a function of the odd light from his rather oddly-shaped lantern. Perhaps bringing the Head of Saint Denis back to Franciade with him hadn't been his most stunningly intellectual moment,

I'll say. You're holding the channel for the Piece of Eden and it just so happens to look like a Greek tragedy mask. You don't have a lick of intelligence because you're dumb as a sack of rocks. 

even divested of its Apple as it was, but he'd known they'd be taking a trip into the catacombs and while yes, on his previous visit the raiders had left out conveniently located vats of oil, he couldn't guarantee that would be the case this time. There were no vats of oil, as it happened. It almost surprised him that Connor didn't ask him what exactly the head-shaped lantern was burning that it didn't need replenishment.

 Why did you go into the caverns if you didn't bring lamp oil? You can't use your Eagle Vision indefinitely. Talk about being unprepared.

They spend hours in the catacombs, wandering around doing nothing, and solve nothing. Since Connor knows the Apple isn't there, the reason why they're there are going to be revealed later and it is as ridiculous as you can expect. 

Arno frowned and swirled his glass as he held it in both hands - both the glass and the brandy in it were a little fancier than he'd expected the inn might be able to provide, at least based on the establishment's appearance - and he wondered how much more he should say, but Connor didn't seem to be in the mood to talk much more than that. They sipped their brandy slowly, sitting there quietly as the tavern's boozy occupants did indeed begin to sing. 

  I'm going to need brandy after this shitshow. And what did I say about Native Americans and alcohol? The alcohol content of brandy is 35-60%. Connor is getting smashed. 

They were both half dressed but with their hidden blades still very much in place; so much for gestures of trust, Arno really couldn't help but think, but he was frankly too tired to think much else besides. Eventually, while wondering what the hell he was doing there in Franciade, he drifted off to sleep.

Le sigh. No point in repeating the obvious. But there's a nice lampshade, at least.

Bellec had taught him that not all of them had the skill - they were born with it, he'd said, which he supposed meant some Templars also had it. Bellec had said a lot of things, though, some of which had turned out to be very strange reflections of the truth, like looking at it through the somewhat murky surface of the Seine. 

Arno also forgot Bellec told him who Connor was. 

He watched him, wondering if his skin would feel cold to the touch if he put his own still bed-warm hands on him. He wondered if Connor would stop him if he did, but he didn't try it. After all, he didn't know the man - he'd only met him two days earlier and for all he knew, this was just how men in the Americas were.

...Learned man, and doesn't know a lick about the Colonies. Ho hum. Guess the author doesn't know France helped America during the Revolutionary War? 

I still like how Arno doesn't trust Connor yet wants to fuck him anyways.

He watched him shave next, soaping his face first and shaving that clean with great precision, then soaping his chest, then the stubble that had grown in leading down from his navel to the root of his cock. Arno really couldn't help but watch him do it - he'd never seen any man shave more than his face, at least not in his presence, but the way that Connor held the razor in his hand, with the sharp edge of the blade against his balls as he stood there with one bare foot propped up on a chair, spoke of practice. 

 Once AGAIN...Native Americans do not have chest hair. I'm not too sure about pubic hair, but I can gather it's not as coarse as European hair. Good to know he shaves there while it's unclean. 

He would have liked to have touched him there even more so, feeling his freshly-shaved skin against his calloused fingertips, rubbing it with his own prickly jaw. He couldn't help but wonder if Connor might have liked that, too. He couldn't help but wonder if he was doing it all entirely on purpose and that wasn't how men in the Americas were at all.

"I don't trust you, but can I grind against your balls?"

They went back to the catacombs for four extremely long days in a row and wandered there in almost total silence. Arno had never been a particularly silence kind of man, he had to admit, so it wasn't the most pleasant of experiences he'd had in his life, and not only because he'd have preferred to be up on the rooftop of the Sainte-Chapelle or reading his odd book in the armchair by his bedroom window.

 ...That's called being a 'silence' kind of man. Arno is an introvert. While he's witty and charming he likes to hide his deep emotions. So, too, does Connor. 

Four days for a goose chase? Damn, that's dedication.

De Sade would probably come by the café at some point, or at least send him an elaborately scrawled letter with some gaudily-dressed courier, asking if he'd enjoyed the book, though he'd probably put it a lot more crudely than that. But the fact was he was enjoying his nights with Connor much more than reading about things he really couldn't talk about in polite society. Then again, he supposed it had been quite some time since he'd been anywhere particularly polite.

 de Sade really shouldn't be anywhere near the Café because he was a wanted man by then. He was imprisoned in 1801 by Napoleon. Can't have a criminal of his calibre near an Assassin intel base. 

They went back to the catacombs for four days and then returned to the tavern in the evening. They talked a little while they sat together, about where they were each from - Kanatahséton didn't exactly seem much like Versailles had been in Arno's youth. 

Uh, yeah? It's frontier territory. 

And when they went up to their room, once the rowdy singing started, Connor would write in his notebook at the table or read some of the pages that he'd already covered up with notes while Arno lounged on the bed with his rather lurid book. The more he read, the more he realised he was drawing Connor's face and Connor's body onto half the filthy situations that de Sade described. 

Of course! In the wake of a lack of intelligence and depth, at least you can masturbate! Always glad to read that Arno loves whacking off to strangers!

 When they lay down together at the end of each night, when they pulled up the scratchy blanket and put out the lamp, Arno turned his back and tried to pretend his cock wasn't half-hard as he listened to him breathe.

"I don't trust you but your breathe makes my cock hard"

By the fifth day, Arno has to admit he was starting to regret going back to Franciade. He missed his bed, and good food, and the possibility of getting falling-down drunk without too much concern that whoever happened to be lying beside him might stab him in the night. He watched from the bed with a familiar prickle of arousal as Connor shaved himself in the gloomy morning light, definitely regretting that he'd come to Franciade because very nearly all he felt like doing was taking the razor from Connor's hand and doing the job for him, so his fingers could graze all of his bare skin. Then, they went back into the catacombs. Again. 

Oh, so it only has been five days. In any case, you've spent five days looking for absolutely nothing and Connor rolls with it. Meanwhile, Arno still fantasizes about using the razor as an excuse to touch Connor's balls. Maybe get a sniff in there or two?

He has to admit he wasn't expecting the tunnel to cave in quite the way it did. He'd seen cracks forming there day by day with his eagle vision - which was, apparently, what Connor called it - but he hadn't expected that one false step and the prospect of lingering raiders seeking lost treasure would be the very least of their worries. 

Eagle Vision has been written about in Assassin records, be it 'The Sight', 'The Gift', or 'Odin's Sight'. Not sure why Arno doesn't know.

"You've been here before," Connor said, abruptly, as he snapped his notebook closed.

Arno looked back down from the out-of-reach tunnel then dropped into a crouch to try to free the lantern. "You know, I can honestly say I've not been here," he replied, while studiously not looking at him. Because that was, technically speaking, the truth of it.

"But you've been into these tunnels before."

No point in lying. I think it would've been obvious from the first day and the St. Denis head.  

Arno made a face that might have been obscured by the way he was tugging at the lantern that was still trapped between rocks. "Once or twice, maybe," he said. "Years ago."

"You failed to mention that."

"You failed to mention that you have a map."

"Does that make us even?"

No, it makes you both idiots that went on a wild goose chase. Because logic.

The situation did not look good. The rock was too hard for Arno to make much of a dent in it with his sword, at least not quickly and never mind carving handholds, and even if they'd had anything like rope to tie to an arrow for Connor to fire out of the pit with his slightly scuffed bow, there was nothing up there but rock so it wasn't like it could stick. 

You cannot use a sword to cut through rock, genius. You'll just damage the steel. 

Arno sighed. "You know, I already found the Apple," he said. "It's not here."

Connor paused and glanced at him over his shoulder. "I know," he replied after a moment. "You sent it to Egypt."

"Then why are we here?"

"To see how long it would take you to tell me." Connor shrugged, as if that were obvious somehow. "To see if you were someone I could trust." 

This doesn't make a lick of sense. You went to Arno to go on a mission, and because he doesn't know who you are, he decides to make it a test to see if there's trust. What in the fuck? Why? Why would you go on a goose chase for five days looking for a PoE you know is already gone? Why didn't you just tell Arno what you were there for? How come Arno doesn't know who the head of the American Brotherhood is? He's got a shorter memory than Joe Biden.  

"Then you were looking for me. In Paris. Me. By name. You knew all of this already."

"Yes."

"We've spent five days trying to fool each other?"

"Yes."

"You have another job, then? Something...not this?"

"Yes."

Yeah, it's called 'writing a stupid fucking plot so two idiots can fuck each other.' This could have been solved by Arno remembering that Bellec told him who Connor was. That's it. But since the author doesn't remember the games, this ends up being a shit heap I have to sift through. Ugh. 

They eyed each other. They really eyed each other, eagle vision brought to bear and all. And Arno had to admit it: in spite of everything, he really couldn't see a reason why he shouldn't trust him, and that wasn't just because he wanted to. That wasn't the only reason, at least.

This whole trust test is here because you don't know who the fuck Connor Kenway is, lol.

He'd been right the first time he'd thought of it: it was a terrible plan. He'd been right: he did hit the wall face-first, or at least he did the first time they tried it, and he did fall down straight on top of Connor and knock him down onto the ground in a haphazard heap. Arno pushed himself up just far enough to straddle Connor's hips and smiled at him, wide a maybe just a little cheeky, and Connor just snorted in amusement and shook his head against the dusty ground. Arno stood, offered his hand and pulled him up. For the first time in days, it actually felt pleasant to be working with him.

  There's that 'I don't trust you but let me grind against your crotch' thing.

there was a wide coil of rope he found a few rooms back, fraying at one end but he thought it would do. And there was nothing sensible that he could tie the rope to without sending Connor plunging straight back down into the hole, so he slung a length of it behind his back, wrapped it tight around his arms and braced himself as best he could. 

Good luck hauling a 6'3, 6'4 and 200 lb Native American, dude.  

 Connor splinted the first two fingers of Arno's left hand together, which seemed to help, and he brought a bottle of brandy up from the tavern, which definitely helped some more. And they sat there at the small table by the shuttered window and passed the bottle between them.

And Connor miraculously stays lucid.

"Still trying to figure out if you can trust me?" Arno asked, once he'd sat himself down on the edge of the bed. That was, at least, one thing he could do without assistance.

Connor came closer, hands and feet and chest all bare; he settled his hands at Arno's bare shoulders, ran his thumbs over his slightly prickly throat, then pushed him down onto his back.

"No," he replied. "I know I can trust you."

"So this is just for fun?" 

Trust test = run around a catacombs for literally nothing for five days, get trapped, get a hand sprained and bruised, and start fucking. Yay. 

Arno had slept with men before that. Perhaps he hadn't done so with any particular regularity, but he had - there'd been a few other not-quite-gentlemen and sons of other persuasions back in Versailles when he and Élise hadn't been quite on their usual good terms, and a few here and there after his arrival in Paris.

Now, Versailles wasn't infamous without reason. There were gay couriers and the like, but the fact Arno was having sex with men while having the gall to say Élise was the love of his life. That's deceptive and dishonest. 

He had something of a type, he realised, as he was propping himself up on his elbows to watch Connor strip the trousers off him - they'd all been bigger than him, and stronger than him, and apparently interested enough to strip him of his clothing. 

Of course! He always has to be the needy bottom, and what a catch it is that the men he gets are all over six feet tall with gigantic cocks.  

 He was eager, after all. He'd been eager since the bathtub back in his room in the Café-Théâtre. And besides which, Connor's cock hardened very nearly just as quickly.

What was that about trust?

Arno felt himself give. He felt his hole opened up by Connor's cock as he pushed against it, pushed into it, felt himself opening up around his length. His breath was short but so was Connor's as he felt him pushing deeper still. He was big; he was long and thick and hot and hard and maybe not the biggest Arno had ever had, but that really didn't matter.

 Always nice to see when the 'love of his life' was away, or when she was dead, Arno was playing the dick measuring contest with his ass. 

 His rim was taut and it pulled tighter as Connor touched him there, making him squeeze around the length inside him. Frankly, he could've come just like that without too much further intervention, but he supposed it might have seemed somewhat churlish.

Not bad considering he was playing the footlong game for a while.  

He supposed he'd understood that Connor was attracted to him or else chances were they wouldn't have ended up in bed in the first place, but that sound, and the way Connor's hips bucked forward and pressed his cock in just a fraction deeper...it made Arno's face flush warmly and his cock give a little kick. 

Oh? Last I checked, you were ready to go to town on the cock when Connor was in the bathtub. 

Arno had slept with men before that, yes. He'd had some extremely good sex with men before that, once he'd figured out that was something that he liked. And perhaps that time with Connor wasn't the best he'd ever had, no, but as Connor pushed into him, again and again, his hands tight and his cock thick and Arno's hole so tight around him, as Connor let one hand slip down to first press against Arno's stomach and then slide down to his cock, he thought it might have been in the top five. 

He did this while saying Élise was the love of his life. I can't imagine her discovering that the man who worshipped her was taking it up the backdoor and was doing it frequently, keeping notch counts and measuring the size of those sodomizing him. That's quite a red pill. 

Connor made a bitten off, half-muffled noise as bucked his hips and came inside him. Arno could feel the pulses of it as Connor emptied himself inside him, but he wasn't done; Connor urged Arno up off his hands and pulled him back against his slightly sweaty chest, buried his nose in the back of his hair and wrapped one big hand around Arno's cock. He was still hard inside him as he stroked him, holding his balls tight in his other hand, and all Arno could do was shift his hips in helpless little circles as his eyes closed and his pulse raced. He frankly hadn't felt so good in months and when he came, in five or six thick spurts over Connor's rough hand and the terrible blanket, that might actually have been the best he'd felt in the last year or more.

That's quite impressive: staying hard even after ejaculation. I guess most authors don't know even men need a break? Women can have multiple orgasms in succession, but men need at least twenty minutes - as they get older it's 12 hours.  

He craned his neck until it almost hurt and Connor seemed to take the hint; he kissed him on the mouth, not subtly or tenderly but as hard as he'd just fucked him. Arno nipped his bottom lip with his teeth and Connor chuckled. He liked that sound, he thought.

All raw, no rubber eh? 

He craned his neck until it almost hurt and Connor seemed to take the hint; he kissed him on the mouth, not subtly or tenderly but as hard as he'd just fucked him. Arno nipped his bottom lip with his teeth and Connor chuckled. He liked that sound, he thought.

That creampie is going to come out sooner or later.

And after that, they talked about the real reason Connor had made his little transatlantic trip. It wasn't the Apple that Arno had found there in Franciade that had brought him across the ocean; it was going to involve the sword Arno had taken from François-Thomas Germain that night he spent too much time remembering, and then a journey to a place he hadn't realised existed though with the things he'd seen over the years he didn't doubt it did. Connor seemed certain, after all, and for reasons that he's still not sure he could articulate, he trusted him. 

...Yet he already knew Arno had the Sword. This reasoning is ridiculous. Why would you waste all that time for a trust test when all Arno had to realize was that Connor Kenway was the American Brotherhood's leader? Arno has had the sword for years. Why didn't Connor approach him about it before? At that point, Connor had said 'fuck you' to white people and was raising his daughter. 

And so, after a leisurely night spent together in Arno's bed back at the Café-Théâtre, after Arno had ridden Connor's cock for all he was worth, they left France entirely. At the time, it seemed like an excellent idea, and even now he's not sure that it wasn't.

Great to know Arno turned his back on his people and Brotherhood to go treasure hunting! Surely, it's a wonderful character arc!

Over the years, they've met again and again. They went to Egypt once, though not to find the Apple Arno sent there; Napoleon, it turned out, had designs on something else there that they found buried underneath the sand.  

Napoleon already left Egypt by the time 1800 came around.

Now, Arno is forty-four years old and he's perching on the balustrade that lines the walkway by the roof of the Sainte-Chapelle. It's autumn, and it's raining, and he should know better than to do this yet again - one day he's really going to slip and fall, he thinks, and next time maybe Connor won't be there to catch him. But this time, he's ready when he hears Connor say his name. He doesn't need to be caught, but if he did then Connor would save him.

44 and he squandered his entire bloodline. He missed the disastrous Russian campaign from Napoleon, didn't witness the burning of Moscow, and didn't see Napoleon exiled. All for a Native Assassin he didn't even know.

He smiles. He stands. He turns and he steps down onto the walkway and the two of them meet in a rough, fond kiss that's as much about the younger men that they once were as the older ones that they are now. Neither of them's changed much. Arno doesn't think they want to. 

Connor would be 56 here, long past his prime in the gay community. At that age, you're lonely and not wanted. Good to see he squandered his genetic legacy too.

He knows Élise de la Serre was the love of his life, but it's been decades now. Connor Kenway - Ratonhnhaké:ton, though it took Arno at least five years to say his real name in a way that didn't make him frown and tell him just say Connor - is something else. He's as much Arno's friend as he's his lover, and sometimes Arno feels like friends might be in short supply for men like them, so he appreciates what they have all the more. They've both lost so much, but at least they've gained this. 

Here is the biggest issue I have with stories like these: they always stress that Arno loved Élise and mourns her death for years afterward, yet they will write him getting into affairs with other men while she was alive and shits on her memory by making her the quintessential woman who gets in the way of gay love. Arno honours her by measuring how big and thick the dicks he gets up his ass, and he 'loves her so much' as to ignore her impact on him completely. That is not love. You do not cheat on the love of your life with men or women. If you view them as your universe, you wouldn't do anything to destroy it. Don't bother leading readers on with this Red Herring. Just come right out and say you hate the ginger bitch. Women always get in the way. They're just disgusting little things. 

That set aside, what was the motive for this story? Trust? Let's start off with the fact Arno hasn't a clue who Connor is, despite Bellec telling him who he was when they fought in Saint Chapelle. The Parisian Brotherhood and the American Brotherhood kept in touch, so there is no way they would not have heard of his exploits. Amazingly, Arno doesn't know Connor is Native American and hands him bottles of brandy to drink. 

Connor knows Arno gave away the Apple to the Egyptian Brotherhood, yet wanted the Sword of Eden. Why wasn't this stressed? Instead, we got this 'do I trust you or don't I?' mind games that could have been easily solved with Arno learning who the fuck Connor Kenway was. There is also no way the Brotherhood wouldn't have known who Haytham Kenway was. This is an enormous plot hole that I do not think the author even considered.

Arno, in his glory and honour, decides to leave France during its most tumultuous period and misses the invasion of Russia and Napoleon's exile. That's just cowardly and dishonorable. It's the mark of a yellow-bellied weasel. So, too, does Connor leave behind his heritage by entering the land of people who see him as a savage and who committed genocide against his people. There is no sense to this.

One last thing: thanks to Ctrl + F, the word 'cock' was used thirty one times. 

You didn't just shoot the fish in the barrel, you used a gatling gun on the poor things.  

Addendum: here is what the author said before the story was deleted. 

This is what authors need to learn, now more than ever: if you post something to a public forum, you are going to get criticized. Don't even try becoming a published author if your attitude is like this to public comments. No foul language was used and no insults were hurled at the author, yet you get this entitled, 'you're criticizing me?!' passive-aggressiveness. 

Yes, Assassin's Creed does indeed have sci-fi elements. But it is set within historical eras. Research is an absolute must. If you sincerely don't know Native Americans don't grow facial hair and have alcohol problems, that's on you. If you aren't aware of the plot holes in your own work, that's on you. Don't blame the reader, especially when they spent time reading your work. Honesty is the best thing you can ask for. If all you're expecting is praise, writing isn't the right hobby for you. You will never last outside of your fandom bubble with an attitude like that, and even with coddling professors and employers, you can't stop public comment. 

It is your fault you don't know canon or history. It is your fault you couldn't question your own work. You telling me not to comment on something will make me comment on it even more. How does the saying go? 'Take the L, man'.