Work Text:
Trust
The weather was unusually mild for that time of the day and Malik was grateful for that. Enough of the suffocating heat already. The sun was shining pleasantly through the high windows of the Bureau, providing good conditions for an afternoon of studying, one which would prove exciting, he could tell. He’d recently received a prototype of an extraordinary device that the scholars thought could be of great help in his work.
He turned the complicated device in his hand, tilting it towards the light for a better view. It was composed of several circular concentric structures that combined with each other to aid calculations and measurements in three scales: horizon, equatorial and ecliptic. He glanced at the parchment in his desk and read the strange name again: torquetum. It was a recent invention of which the scholars in Jerusalem weren’t sure yet, so they’d sent him the intriguing machine for an extra opinion.
Settling the strange structure in his desk where it wouldn’t be a hindrance, he tried to operate it, still unfamiliar with the scientific notations in the wheels. It would take him no less than two days to fully understand it and another week to properly test it. Nowadays knowledge could no longer be based on mere logic. There had to be proof, experimentation, physical evidence that theory applied to practice. It was a new way of comprehending the world, one deemed necess—
Three hard, metallic stomps sounded above his head, making his hand jerk away from the wooden instrument and shoot automatically for his dagger. He held his breath, sharpening his hearing. There was another metallic noise somewhere to the left, followed by a soft thump, clear indication of a landing on the outer room’s cushions. He’d been unexpectedly absorbed in his thoughts to be so surprised by something so trivial. He exhaled softly and left his desk to approach the entrance to the next room.
Crouching next to the fountain right under the opening there was an assassin, absolutely motionless.
Putting the knife away at the sight of a brother, Malik looked up, listening for signs of immediate danger. There were shouts of “he’s hiding!” and “after him!” but after a few brief moments one of the guards gave the order to pull back and the voices mingled with those from the throng.
“Safety and peace, Malik”, said a familiar voice and Malik knew who it was even before the man rose and turned to face him.
“Altaïr”, Malik saluted, with a smile. He was about to make one of his good humored remarks when Altaïr pulled back his hood to reveal a much paler face than his natural skin tone. The smile disappeared to be replaced by a frown. “What happened?”
Altaïr shook his head, waving a hand in dismissal. “Not a matter of concern, Malik. I need something to eat and some rest, that’s all. The last few days have been harsh”.
Malik considered the words, observing the assassin’s face carefully. No, there was something else. But Altaïr was not one to be pressured or rushed, so he didn’t insist. And as he did look like he could eat something, the Dai signaled for him to sit down while he fetched something to eat.
Handling him a plate with some bread and a hot cup of tea, Malik took a sit to Altaïr’s side, just close enough to observe his face in detail.
“Are you trying to find flaws in the way I eat as well?” Altaïr asked, not without a smile, chewing slowly and cradling the tea cup in both hands.
“Oh I would never dare criticize the manners of a Dai,” Malik replied, somewhat relieved as the food returned some color to the Assassin’s cheeks. “However, I’d expect a Dai to be more selective of the place to eat. Jerusalem’s Bureau has no choice, plus the servant is incredibly incompetent”.
Despite himself, Altair gave a short laugh, eyes still on the tea cup. “Well, it’s not possible for a man’s choices to be always right”.
Malik let the silence stretch for a second. And then, “Was that the case just now?”
Altaïr sighed silently at the realization that he’d laid himself a trap. He’d obviously been hoping to avoid the topic. Eyes set on his tea, he shrugged.
“Someone has decided to pick up where The Doctor left off,” he said, without preamble.
“You mean, Garnier de Naplouse? The Doctor who tortured innocent people?” Malik asked, surprised. He had gathered no information on such a thing.
“Yes. Apparently, an admirer of his work is operating not far from Jerusalem, in an abandoned warehouse,” Altaïr replied, voice gone flat and detached. “I’ve been doing surveillance. He’s holding very few people at a time but experiments extensively on each one. I’ve seen a child being taken for his death. No eyes, no ears, no hands. A pregnant woman was taken in the next day. I saw her corpse exiting the day after, mutilated as if by wild animals”.
“I haven’t heard a single word about this from my informants,” Malik said, feeling both horrified and humiliated that he’d been oblivious to such atrocities being undertaken in his own town. “Who is he? I can arrange for a novice to investigate him tomorrow”.
“Malik,” Altaïr interrupted, urgency in his voice, “this man is related by blood to a Rafiq from Acre. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s how he’s kept undetected for so long. For this reason, no one else must know his identity and I have to go on this mission alone. ” There was intent in his voice, something that had crept from under the tight self-control. What he’d witnessed had not been easy to digest.
Malik nodded, understanding. “Tell me his name then and I’ll see if I have any other records here that might assist you”.
Altaïr made a pause, eyes inscrutable. “His identity must remain unknown to all but me.”
Malik stared at him, disbelieving his own hears. “You refuse to reveal his identity to me? You distrust me?“ He stood up, too offended to stay seated. “Who the hell do you take me for, some filthy traitor?”
The assassin looked straight ahead at the wall, watching how the bright sun colored the room so beautifully. But he couldn’t appreciate it now. No soul could rest while such a beast was still having its wicked ways. “This is a private endeavor, I cannot involve the Order. I cannot take any risks.”
Malik turned around, blood rushing to his head. Altaïr’s words felt like betrayal themselves. “As you wish. I won’t question the judgment of an Assassin that became Dai twice,” he retorted, furious that Altaïr could still be so self-centered after all that had happened.
He turned to leave. “Feel free to stay the night. That is, if you trust I won’t slit your throat in your sleep.”
He entered his office, not even bothering to look back when Altaïr called his name. Then he heard the faint click of metal.
“You self-righteous, conniving bastard”, he muttered under his breath, not caring about his work anymore. One glance through the archway confirmed an empty room and for once, he was glad Altaïr was gone.
*
Despite his resentfulness, after the third day without any news Malik started to get preoccupied. Although he strongly disagreed with the way Altaïr had devised the mission, it was not his place to dismiss his concerns and act differently from his explicit orders. He had been tempted to send a trusted rafiq to confirm Altaïr’s appalling information, but if the assassin was right and the target had an accomplice inside the Order, such a maneuver would only endanger him more. So, instead, Malik waited.
His work on the torquertum was not going well either, suffering the consequences of his constant agitation. He now understood all the notations and symbols, but more than once he’d do calculations by himself that did not match those of the instrument. In some cases, the error had been in his calculations, but not all. Frustrated with the device and himself both, he threw all the parchments within his reach to the ground.
Curse that arrogant, conceited bastard.
*
The sun had just begun its slow progression across the sky when Altaïr leapt up the stairs to the Bureau’s roof. There was barely enough light for him to step silently across the grid and pick the lock. Malik would be mad at him for that later. But right now he wanted inside as fast as possible.
He didn’t want to make more noise than necessary. Slowly, he eased himself into the room, careful to lock the grid again as if it had never been touched.
He took a deep breath, taking in the familiar scents. He was safe now. He could finally let go of his tight control over himself and his surroundings. The fountain burbling by his knees reminded him of how thirsty he was. And starving. He drank greedily, hoping to satiate both for the moment.
It hadn’t been a particularly difficult mission, but it had been strenuous. The problem was with the warehouse itself. It had guards all around it and no blind spots for him to take advantage of. He’d had to wait under the guarding shadow of a nearby tree for three days until he had the opportunity to take The New Doctor out. Three days watching maimed corpses being carried to be disposed of and three days hearing the screams of those still living, horribly deformed. And by the end of the third day he finally had his chance. One of the women had managed to escape and as the guards chased after her, he could finally sink his hidden blade in the New Doctor’s neck.
He was glad to find only two young women, yet untouched. Terrified, yes, but unharmed. He urged them to escape, glad they would live to enjoy the bliss of ignorance he wish he still had. Returning to his watching post, high on the tree, he waited for the four guards to return, the woman secure in tight ropes. He killed them swiftly, throwing knives robbing them of their lives in a matter of seconds. He left immediately after that, leaving a very confused woman to find her own way out of her bindings.
He rearranged the cushions in the corner of the room, enjoying the feeling of serenity that invaded him each time he returned to the Bureau with one less evil soul causing mayhem in this already rough world. He sat, taking his time observing the room, the frail light of early morning painting it in colors and shades he never got tired of. He couldn’t think of a place he’d rather be than right there, at that very moment.
There was one thing missing, though.
Malik was not in the next room, attending to his duties as the Bureau leader. He was either out running errands or still sleeping. Altaïr had to resist the strong impulse to seek him beyond the drape to his bedchamber. He would likely be met with fury at best, with disdain at worst. He hadn’t been able to manage their last meeting well, that much he understood. But how else was he supposed to carry out his mission without taking any risks? He didn’t know who was providing The New Doctor with protection from the Order. It could be anyone.
Even Malik.
Altaïr pulled the hood lower over his eyes, upset at his own thoughts. No, not Malik. He had taken every precaution, covering even that inconceivable possibility. But he had to be honest with himself, he’d never suspected Malik. He relied on him in ways that left him no choice but to admit that he trusted Malik with everything he had. Perhaps more than he should.
He lay down at last, his feelings of placidity somewhat disquieted by newborn uneasiness. But after some moments he let his battered body claim sleep from his troubled mind.
*
An entire morning spent collecting information from his informants on some religious instigator left Malik close to exasperation. Not because the job required utmost discretion, that much he could handle even with his eyes closed. But his mind kept wandering off, torn between begrudging Altaïr and wanting to send someone after him. It had affected his intellectual work before and was now interfering with the most menial tasks. That was all Altaïr’s fault.
So it was with bittersweet relief that he entered the Bureau to find him fast asleep just beside one of the fountains. He took a deep breath, very tempted to kick him in the legs in retribution for the last four days of affliction. But after a few seconds he crouched, observing the assassin’s features. He looked terrible, deep dark circles under his eyes and lips dry, likely from dehydration. He considered lifting the assassin’s hood further to check for any injuries but then he’d certainly wake up and frankly, that was way more concern on his part than the bastard deserved.
He dropped himself on the cushions on the opposite side of the room, feeling drained. Still, he should use the time to do something useful. After considering all his alternatives, he decided to fetch the torquetum and work on it some more. Perhaps the refreshing sound of the fountains would help him see something that had escaped him before.
The torquetum was not overly complicated once one made sense out of the scientific symbols. The reason why its calculations didn’t match up with his own remained a mystery though. He arranged a place for the heavy device at his feet and manipulated it for some time. But he quickly came to the same dead ends as before, so he reclined on the pillows, willing himself to be patient.
The distant sounds of the city and the few minutes of pointless intellectual effort made him drowsy. He was considering closing his eyes for a while when Altaïr shifted, eyes suddenly open and surprised to find him there. He knew he was slouching but didn’t bother sitting upright.
“Look, it’s a miracle! You were sleeping like a rock for hours and I didn’t invite all your enemies for a feast,” Malik said, drawing an arch with his hand to indicate the impressiveness of the situation.
Altaïr blinked slowly and pushed himself up to sit against the wall. Tired still.
“Malik,” he said, pausing like he was trying to find a way to explain something else. Then, unable to find better words, he simply added, “It’s done. Jerusalem will not lose any more of its citizens to the hands of that beast”.
“Outstanding. But as you made perfectly clear, that does not concern me,” Malik replied, his voice gaining a sharper edge.
“This mission did not involve the Order,” Altaïr said, trying to resonate with the Bureau leader. “It would be unwise to involve you”.
“I am not the Order,” Malik interrupted firmly, “I am in the Order. Same as you”. It was the best way Malik had found to say he was more than a mere Bureau leader, he was a friend, someone Altaïr could confide in. Someone in whom Altaïr could trust as much as in himself.
There was a long silence, in which Altaïr stared at the ground, leaving Malik unsure if he had even listened to what he’d said. But then the assassin got up and sat to his left side, away from the torquetum, resting his elbows on his knees, dropping his head between them, eyes trained on the exquisite rug.
“You are right. I’m sorry. I was wrong to deny your advice and expertise. It was a poor decision and I don’t want you to think that I lack trust in you. If one day you did decide to slit my throat in my sleep, you’d find no resistance from me”.
That left Malik speechless. Altaïr never spoke like that. He’d rather leave things unsaid than saying too much and remotely hint at any weaknesses on his part. He tried to think of some smartass retort but nothing came to mind. Sighing, he opted for a small concession.
“I’d rather lose my other arm than make use of it to bring you harm.” On a second thought, perhaps that was too big of a concession. “Never compromise the brotherhood and all that.”
More to occupy himself than anything else, he grabbed the torquetum and repositioned it to his right, closer to the wall, where there wasn’t any danger of knocking it over by accident. While leaning to do precisely that, he felt Altaïr touch his ribs, carefully, like he wasn’t sure how much he’d been forgiven. He settled back into place, leaving the straying hand be.
“I need to run some errands,” he finally said, closing his eyes. He could feel the warmth of Altaïr’s fingers seeping through the fabric of his shirt. “You should get a decent meal as well. The lock has a key and you can find it on my desk. Just try and pick the lock again,” he threatened, although there was no real menace behind the words.
He got up, finally meeting Altaïr’s eyes. He should say something more but for someone so smart mouthed, words failed him when they mattered most.
He sighed and turned to leave. “And when you come back, don’t fall asleep here. You look like hell already, don’t need to freeze to death as well”.
“I’ll heed your warnings this time, rest assured,” Altaïr said, his voice lighter already.
“I’ll rest assured when I’m dead, until then I just hope for the best,” he stated, already up on the grid. He looked down at the assassin, meeting amber eyes made two shades lighter by the strong sunlight. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could stay.
“Behave while I’m gone,” he warned, already devising his way through the streets to his next destination, “You’ve given me enough trouble for a whole month”.
*
He was unable to return before sunset. There were rumors of a doctor having been killed running around the city already. Two women had escaped unharmed and were spreading stories of a good hearted doctor that wanted to help them with their infertility problems having been brutally murdered by an assassin. A third woman, who had also escaped with minor injuries, told a very different story. She claimed the doctor was planning to torture and kill her and a miracle had saved her from his guards. She was now going to devote her life to God, the streets assured.
A small key sitting in a piece of parchment right next to the torquetum, both returned to their rightful places on his desk, forced a smile out of him. Altaïr had heeded his warnings, after all. Lifting the drape to his bedchamber and stepping in, he waited for a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. His surroundings gradually gained shape.
He walked silently to the corner where Altaïr slept, on his side and half-curled up on himself. It was like he was trying to hide himself from the world, even in his sleep. He had shed his belt and weapons but they were still within easy reach. One particular item amongst the pile caught his eye.
Altaïr’s red sash.
He crouched to pick it up. It was not as soft as silk, but the material had a pleasant feeling to his fingers. It was softer than his own sash, which also made sense. All of an assassin’s clothing had to be comfortable and flexible enough for a man to spend many days in it, in very uncomfortable situations.
He turned back to Altaïr, half-extending his arm to return the sash to the pile of discarded items. But Altaïr was staring back, intently.
“It’s disturbing when you do that, waking up suddenly when I’m not looking,” Malik said, caught off guard.
“You think so?” Altaïr asked in a low voice, rough from lack of recent use. “Then what would you think of waking up to someone holding a sash in their hand while you’re sleeping?”
For a second, Malik wondered if Altaïr was seriously implying that he was going to use the sash in any treacherous way. But then he looked closer and his eyes, even darkened by the shadow of his hood, didn’t let on any animosity.
“I would…” he started, and then stopped, not really sure of what to say. His thoughts were somewhere else, somewhere they’d never been before. Altaïr had been absent for too long. Or perhaps he was a weaker man than he thought. Either way, both his mind and his body were asking him for things he wasn’t sure they should be asking.
“I would start by taking off my hood, to get a better assessment of the situation,” he finally said, tentatively. His heart was pounding with uncertainty. He quickly thought of a witty follow up, should his words prove unwelcome.
But Altaïr considered it only for a second before complying. He sat up and pulled the hood from under the collar of his robes and over his head, settling it on top of his weapons. Malik took a deep breath, stilling the array of contradicting thoughts racing through his mind. He would not backtrack now.
“And then,” he continued, leaning towards the disheveled figure only half illuminated by the moon, “I’d realize that things are not always what they seem.” He then proceeded to tie the sash over Altaïr’s eyes as a makeshift blindfold, using his hand and his teeth. He’d done it enough times for sutures, so there was no fumbling, no hesitation, just a quick, precise move that ended up in a neat knot.
He sat back on his shins, waiting for a reaction. Altaïr was not one to give up the ability to monitor his surroundings. Sure enough, Altaïr tensed, hands hovering in front of his face as if he wanted nothing else than to rip off the piece of fabric. Still, Malik waited. And it didn’t take long for Altaïr to clench his teeth and recoil his hands, resting them on his thighs, squeezed closed. He tipped his head forward, shifting his focus to his hearing.
Malik let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Now more confident of what he was doing, Malik inched closer. He touched his face, fingers first, then the whole hand. He noticed Altaïr’s surprised flinch before leaning somewhat into the touch, one hand touching his arm.
“Do you want to take it off?” Malik asked, thumbing the outline of Altaïr’s lower lip.
“Yes,” he breathed against his finger, straightforward. Yet, there was no movement to make good of his words.
Malik withdraw his hand, fairly sure he wasn’t supposed to be this hard from something so insignificant. But he was, so hard he wasn’t even sure of what to do next, although they had gone through this plenty of times. All he could do was stare at Altaïr’s face, his expression betraying slight insecurity, head canted to one side, trying to understand the unfamiliar situation. Malik could never tell what exactly was going through his mind. But this? This was as a rare opportunity to watch without being watched. This he couldn’t pass.
“You have plenty to take off, as far as I can see,” he said, his hand already busy getting rid of his robes.
“Yes,” Altaïr agreed, hesitating again only momentarily before proceeding to shed his own robes. Malik enjoyed watching him patting himself, trying to find the laces’ exact place, undoing them dexterously nevertheless. He took his hand to the assassin’s naked chest. It had new scars, but none of concern. He let his hand explore familiar territory, tracing lean muscle and soft skin.
“Malik,” Altaïr said, after a while, hand clasping his shoulder firmly, “I can’t see but I can still feel.”
He couldn’t help but smirk, even as his hand trailed lower to palm Altaïr’s obvious erection through the fabric of his breeches. He squeezed it briefly before freeing it from confinement, stroking it twice before pressing his lips to the side, fingers clasped firmly around the base. Altaïr whimpered softly, anticipation heightened by the lack of sight.
Malik just hoped he could make this last.
He gifted Altaïr’s length with a long, lazy lick from the base to the top before wrapping his lips around the head and sucking softly. Altaïr’s suppressed shudder told him he was on the right track; he knew what to do well enough to make that admirable self-control crumble. He sucked just on the tip once more and then took in as much as he could, building a slow, steady pressure with lips and tongue that left no inch uncared for.
Hearing Altaïr’s breath become shallower was all he needed to let his hand venture lower, to fondle the sensitive skin of his sack. He made sure his caress was firm, neither too light and ticklish nor too rough and unpleasant. Through the corner of his eye, he saw Altaïr’s grip on the cushion become white-knuckled. He would have grinned if he could. Instead, he just let his eyes drift close to better concentrate on what he was doing, mouth and fingers working together in maddening synchronicity.
A low, strangled groan was all the warning he had. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, Altaïr pinning down his good shoulder while freeing him of his breaches with an urgency he’d never seen before.
“Where is it,” he demanded, breath ragged, cheeks flushed almost down to his neck. Malik just stared, stupefied at how flustered he had gotten with something that would usually have granted him nothing more than soft words of encouragement, if at all. It was a strong, heady feeling, to have such power over someone, to drive them out of their minds like this.
He couldn’t help but wonder how far he could take it.
“Where is what?” he asked with feigned ignorance, making use of his hand once more to stroke Altaïr’s length, eyes fixed on the great eagle going from bravely stoic to downright rogue in a matter of minutes. It was enticing.
Altaïr all but growled, teeth bare in a feral warning. “Where is it, Malik,” he repeated, hand clasping around his cock almost painfully for emphasis.
Far enough, Malik thought, gasping sharply at the rough hold. He wished it to stop and continue at the same time. Rummaging through the pile of clothes that he’d shed earlier, he revolved his robe’s pockets until he found the small jar of oil he’d brought from his desk. He pressed it into Altaïr’s hand, the one that wasn’t busy making sure he obeyed.
Altaïr knew what to do well enough to do it with the minimum fuss, a frown of deep concentration on his face as he tried to read Malik through sound alone. By the time Altaïr was two fingers deep inside him, Malik was breathless and writhing, unable to stop the embarrassing whimpers that escaped his throat.
“Enough,” he panted, digging his fingers into Altaïr’s arm to get his attention. He raised one knee to grant him better access and drew his arm around his neck, bracing himself for what came next.
Despite his earlier impulsiveness, Altaïr was as careful and patient as always, stopping whenever he was told and moving again when his leg on the back of his thigh urged him on encouragingly. After a few moments of inevitable tension, Malik relaxed enough to for him to start a slow, torturing rhythm that was both too pleasurable and yet, not enough. “Harder,” he groaned into Altaïr’s shoulder, where his fingernails had already left half-moon shaped marks. Bracing himself with one hand on the floor beside his head and another on his hip, securing him in place, Altaïr complied, pace quickening into short, hard thrusts. Shifting his hips, Malik angled just right and he couldn’t help but cry out from the rush of lightening that wrung through his veins.
That stilled Altaïr completely. “I’m hurting you,” he half-asked as his hand searched Malik’s face blindly, concern evident in his face.
Malik took a steadying breath, cursing inwardly. “You’re not hurting me,” he said, legs pulling just below his buttocks to get him moving again, “but if you stop again, I’ll hurt you.”
He got a growl of frustration in return and the assassin sped up again, the tendons in his neck standing out with the effort and his hold on his hip tightening, almost bruising. “I just,” he mumbled, voice tight, “How can I know? I want…” but then he trailed off, teeth clenching like he always did when he felt he was saying too much.
“You really want to take it off, don’t you?” Malik asked softly, hand touching the red fabric just above his ear.
“Yes,” came the immediate admission, almost pleading, and Malik could tell he really meant it.
He was tempted to tell Altaïr to take it off, then. The need in his voice was as evident in his body language, in the way he tried to see through his touch, hands roaming through his skin like a lost ronin, head titled to the side to better assess if his sounds were those of pleasure or not, face flushed deep red, almost matching the shade of the sash. He was like a lake in the most dazzling summer day, the waters clear enough to reveal all the life and commotion going on under the surface.
It was just so beautiful, Malik thought, and his cock throbbed, his hand speeding up to bring him relief from pent-up tension. It’d been too long, it was the only explanation for such embarrassing thoughts. But he was past being embarrassed, he just wanted release. He moaned for Altaïr to move faster, to not hold back, to do his best or his worst, it didn’t matter, as long as it was over before he could venture too deep into the abyss of unexplored emotion.
Altaïr was making small, desperate sounds, arousal getting the best of him and making his thrusts erratic. He moaned his name, so quietly that he would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching his lips intently. He was done then, limbs shaking as he came, a helpless noise of completion escaping his lips. Altaïr held him close, his own orgasm washing over him, any noise he might have made silenced on Malik’s shoulder.
They lay there for a while, dazed and exhausted, waiting for their heart-rates to even out and bodies cooling slowly. It took him all the effort in the world, but eventually Malik found the courage to push Altaïr off him, hissing as he slipped out of him, and got up to fetch a wet cloth to clean them both. Altaïr didn’t even move, only murmured an acknowledgement and waited for him to lie down.
Settling back on his place, Malik sighed, feeling the full weight of a very tough day. He was only vaguely aware of Altaïr pressing his lips to his bad shoulder before fatigue won and sleep claimed him.
*
Dawn came slowly, the sun stretching over the horizon like a cat in a beam of light. Malik sighed and threw his arm over his eyes. He hated this time of the day. It was neither night, the pitch black pit of nothingness in which he trusted his most compromising secrets; nor day, the augur of the unforgiving struggle of an assassin made Bureau leader. He just wished this transitioning part of the day never existed or just went by unnoticed, like the wind.
He opened his eyes, knowing he had more important things to do than dwell in useless wishful thinking. He turned to his right, intending to make sure Altaïr was asleep before leaving, and his breath froze in his chest.
Altaïr was sleeping silently, like always, on his side and curled up on himself, making himself invisible to the world.
And he was still blindfolded.
He looked so peaceful and so vulnerable at the same time. The deep red color of the fabric contrasted with the white of his skin, it made him look like an ancient Greek sculpture. A vulnerable, exquisite, submissive Greek sculpture.
He turned to lie on his back again, away from the unexpectedly arousing vision, and rubbed hard at his eyes. He hated, hated this time of the day. He hated it so much. With it came a wave of violent, animalistic, embarrassing emotions that he had no control of. Possessiveness. Desperation. Anger. Caring. Selfishness. Desire. Frustration. Hope.
His chest felt too tight, his lungs burned. He hated to deal with this.
He hated to let go.
Why did he have to let go? Why did he have to endure this endless void in the center of his being, this hunger that never seemed to end, only grow, persistently, into something massive and crushing and overwhelming and excruciating and… he was just too incipient to bear with it all.
He wanted to indulge it just for once, to try and appease the unbearable smothering pressure that threatened to swallow him whole.
He wanted to stop wanting.
He pushed Altaïr onto his back, waking him with a start, and stretched on top of him in one single movement, feeling as much skin as physically possible, absorbing the heat that seemed to emanate from his very soul, and as Altaïr tried to move, he framed his hips with his knees, keeping him there.
“Malik?” Altaïr asked, disoriented with the sudden assault, hands finding purchase on his shoulders.
But he didn’t want to explain, he just wanted to feel. Feel something that would last. He snatched the band of red fabric off, threw it towards the wall and braced himself with the one arm on the cushions, looking straight into Altaïr’s unfocused eyes, still trying to adjust to the light.
“It’s already morning,” Altaïr said, looking past his shoulder to the high windows, confusion evident on his features.
“I know,” he replied simply. Altaïr seemed to be about to say something else, but he just closed the distance, feeling the softness of his lips first and then exploring, caressing the inside of his upper lip and sucking on his tongue; biting his lower lip when Altaïr had to pull away, gasping for air. Balanced on his elbow, he grabbed a handful of short hair and stilled him, claiming a harsher, rougher kiss, demanding everything, everything he’d been denied and everything he’d denied himself, feeding whatever it was that lived inside him and made him feel starved, lost, neglected.
The little sounds of need, low in Altaïr’s throat, brought him inexplicable satisfaction. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, he wanted to go deeper, go as far as he could go. He growled at Altaïr to make use of his hands. This time Altaïr didn’t hesitate, hands sliding between them to get a hold of them both together. Malik gasped aloud, his already firm grip on Altaïr’s hair sharpening reflexively, drawing a pained whine from the assassin. But the sound didn’t even register in his mind. All he could feel was Altaïr’s solid presence, his hands making them both pant with strain and barely enough friction, his compliance in breaking the unspoken rule of parting ways when the sun rose making him dizzy, inebriated.
He shut his eyes and hid his face in the crook of Altaïr’s neck, raising his hips to give space for Altaïr’s knowing hands to work faster. He was shaking, he dimly realized, they both were. Altaïr was whispering something; gentle, soothing words that just fed his hunger even further. It was just too much, too much of everything, and as he felt himself getting closer he forced his eyes open, just enough to see Altaïr stifle his moan of ultimate pleasure, amber eyes watching back as if witnessing the most brilliant feat of nature. He had no choice but to let himself go then, not bothering to quiet the feeble sound of release that escaped his lips.
He rested his weight on top of Altaïr, his chest heaving sharply as if fighting for the briefest waft of air. He was vaguely aware of Altaïr cleaning them both with a piece of cloth and then closing his arms around him. He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt home.
There was no dawn any more, just the sun blazing in the sky in its punishing intensity. His chest felt light now, as if filled with ether; his mind was silent, his soul quieted. He should feel guilty or ashamed, yet he didn’t.
“You should have stopped me,” he complained nonetheless, enjoying Altaïr’s fingers idly stroking the nape of his neck.
“I should,” Altaïr agreed. He sounded serene. “But I decided to trust your judgment.”
Malik snorted, despite himself. “You fool. You decide to trust my judgment precisely when you shouldn’t.”
Altaïr gave a short laugh, a sated smile lingering on his lips. “Yes, well… it’s complicated. I’m still learning.”
“Still?” Malik repeated, finding it impossible not to laugh, “You’re a slow learner. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you become a Dai for the third time.”