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The air between them is redolent of sex and sweat and olives, heated and humid with desire, and the single, flickering candle on the bedside table has burned down nearly to its base in the time since they began. This sort of drawn out, unhurried play is a rare indulgence of the highest order; they are too often limited by time and inclination to hasty, clandestine encounters and the brief satisfaction of hands and mouths in empty corridors.
This is not something Malik regrets, as both he and Altair have other concerns, other priorities; the Brotherhood comes first for them both, always. But he relishes every one of those stolen moments in all their briefness, as they make nights like this even sweeter. It is nothing short of decadent for Malik to drag his fingers through the bowl of oil beside the bed, and then to dip them into the recesses of Altaïr's body, that opens so easily to two fingers, then three. It was his cock that made Altaïr this slick and hot, this open and ready for his touch, and that thought makes his breath quicken and his balls tighten, for all that he had come not moments before.
Altaïr moans as Malik's fingers delve deeper into his body; his cock still stands nearly perpendicular, flushed and leaking copiously. Malik presses his fingers deeper still, and Altaïr arches his spine and makes a needy sound. His fingers clench in the sheets beside his hips, white knuckled and trembling. The flickering candle throws incomprehensible shadows on the wall as Malik leans over him.
"More." Altair's voice is steady and commanding, but when Malik culris his palm and pushes the tip of his little finger in alongside the rest, his breath hitches and he moans like a whore. His eyes have turned glassy, the pupils dilated to huge pools of black, limned with gold. "More."
Malik frowns, and raises an eyebrow. "More?" He flexes his fingers, driving his hand deeper, four fingers to the center of his palm, until his thumb presses up against the underside of Altaïr's balls. He strokes the fragile skin there with the tip of his thumb, teasing. Altaïr squirms and gasps and bucks his hips, and clenches so tightly around Malik's fingers he has to bite back a gasp of his own. "How much more do you intend to take?"
"Just- keep going." Altaïr groans, and reaches to pull Malik down, until they are face to face. "Until I tell you to stop." The kiss is deep and wet, their tongues tangling, sucking. When it ends, they are both struggling for breath. "Until it is enough."
Malik rests his forehead against Altaïr's and considers what Altaïr is asking. "You've gone mad. I could kill you like this."
Altaïr laughs, and Malik can feel that, feel Altaïr's pulse quickening in the clench and spasm of muscle around his fingers. "I've given you far better opportunities to do so in the past-- do you mean to tell me you've simply been biding your time?"
"Of course not, I--" He stops. His mouth is dry, and he can feel his skin prickling with cooling sweat. There is a look in Altaïr's eyes beneath the mirth that he does not recognize, and does not know how to trust. Malik shakes his head, but he pulls his hand away slowly, shivering at the feel of Altaïr's flesh sliding over his fingers. He reaches for the oil again and coats his hand in it, scooping up more of it in his palm; despite Altaïr's laughter, he cannot shake the gravity of this request. This is unlike anything they have done before, and he is careful-- so careful-- as he presses four fingers back inside the impossible heat of Altaïr's body, twisting and stretching.
Altaïr manages to form words around the harsh noise of pleasure that rises from deep within his chest, a long, drawn out "Yes," that turns into a hiss of pain (or pleasure, god, he is still hard even as Malik's thumb breaches the straining muscle clenched so tight and slick around his fingers). Altaïr's face is nothing but stark angles and shadows, but his eyes reflect the candlelight like two suns, impossibly bright.
Malik pauses-- he has to, for his own sake, if not for Altaïr's-- because he is suddenly dizzy with the scent of olives. Lines of oil thread down his forearm and drip from his elbow to stain the sheets. He bends forward to mouth kisses along the jutting lines of Altaïr's hipbones, allowing his breath to ghost over the rigid length of Altaïr's cock. Altaïr makes more of those jagged, painpleasurepleading noises and twists, hooking his leg over Malik's shoulder (the empty one, the incomplete one), bringing them closer together.
"You are mad," Malik says again, because it bears repeating.
"Haa-ah." Altaïr's laughter turns into a moan halfway through before he collects himself. "Mad? No. This is just another-- ah--" He draws a ragged breath and tilts his head back, eyes fluttering shut. As he exhales, it is like watching the passage of wind over water-- a slow ripple of motion, of muscles tensing and relaxing in a wave. When it is over, Malik is surprised to see that Altaïr has taken him to the knuckles, flesh stretched tight around the broadest part of his hand. "Just another way in which I choose to live the Creed."
"I think--" God, he is so tight, this is impossible-- but Altaïr's foot digs into his shoulder, pulling him nearer still, making him lean into that clenching heat. "I think that you are, as usual, misinterpreting those words."
"You have always been too literal in your interpretations, brother." A faint smirk plays about the corners of Altaïr's mouth, but he bites his lip when Malik leans down to tongue his cock, and his voice is strained as he continues. "The laws of man and god are illusion; so, too, are the limits of the mind, of the body." He opens his eyes, and they are nothing but pupil now, a darkness so deep that Malik is lost in it.
"Boundaries exist to be overcome; limitations, to be surpassed." His eyes close again, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and Malik cannot look away, cannot move but to give in to the inexorable pull of Altaïr's body. "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted." There is another rippleshiver of breath across Altaïr's skin, and he feels tense muscles giving way; his knuckles breach that final barrier of skin and they both cry out in wordless unison as his hand is swallowed whole to the wrist.
He is hard again and Malik has no idea when that happened; he has been too caught up in the nuances of Altaïr's body to notice the condition of his own. He has no free hand to tend to himself and so he ruts against the sheets, moaning as he bows down to press his cheek to Altaïr's hip. He lets his tongue curl around the base of Altaïr's cock and tastes sweat and musk and sex and olives, always olives. He can feel Altaïr's heartbeat shuddering around the pulse point in his wrist, and his hand feels like it is burning, as though Altaïr were not made of flesh and blood, but fire.
"More, more, please, Malik," Altaïr is babbling, all words of creeds and philosophy forgotten; he pulls at Malik's hair, tugging insistently. Malik's hand is caught, but he levers himself up on the remains of his left arm and Altaïr bends to meet him, tangling his arms around Malik's shoulders. His movements are clumsy, overwhelmed, but he supports them both as their mouths meet in a kiss that is more voice and breath than lips and tongue. They are breathing in sync, matching every inhale and exhale, and Malik echoes every moan that rises from Altaïr's throat with a sigh of his own.
"Is this not enough?" His fingers have curled of their own accord, and he twists his hand, pressing his knuckles upwards against a place that makes Altaïr writhe and grasp at his arm and sob harshly into Malik's shoulder (the empty one, the incomplete one, always).
"No. Please."
Malik wonders if he will ever tire of hearing that word on Altaïr's lips; he does not think so. He twists his hand again, and moans as Altaïr does; for all that he cannot touch his own cock, he feels a sympathetic ache in his own body. Malik's shoulders heave in time with the rising and falling of Altaïr's chest, and when he pulls his hand back-- slowly, carefully, oh god, he is just as tight, and if there is less resistance around the breadth of his hand, he cannot countenance it-- Altaïr curses and winds his hands in the sheets and thrashes, his heels drumming against the bedframe.
"Shh." He makes soothing noises, though he isn't sure which of them he is trying to comfort. Malik reaches for the oil with a trembling hand, and leaves a trail of it on the sheets; it is everywhere, slathered across both their bodies, but he coats his hand in it once more, and this time it is easier when he stretches his fingers inside, thrusting deep, deeper, until he can rotate his wrist and slide deeper still. And then he thrusts, slowly, in and out, watching the strip of his wrist disappear into the depths of Altaïr's body and then reappear, gleaming slickly in the candlelight. Altaïr convulses, spasming around Malik's hand, and he pushes back, into that slow and steady thrust, but to no avail; it seems that some limits are absolute.
Malik glances up, and swallows heavily. "Tell me this is enough." His voice cracks; his mouth is still too dry. "Say it." He thrusts again, and strokes with his fingers, and watches Altaïr's mouth fall open around a moan-- a scream?-- that breaks in half, trailing into a voiceless hiss of pleasure.
When Altaïr regains his voice, there is something terrible and pained and desperate in its broken edges. "No. It isn't-- I--" He shudders, and reaches to stroke Malik's jaw with a surprisingly steady hand. "More, god, it isn't enough, you must--"
"Altaïr." Malik kisses the searching fingertips that touch his mouth. "I am sorry--" and he is, because Altaïr has made him complicit in this madness, and Malik finds that he wants to see it through to the end, whatever that might be. "I cannot. This is everything, I have nothing more to give you." He flexes his fingers and pulls, gently, swallowing heavily as his hand slides free. His cock twitches at the sound Altaïr makes.
"Not everything." Altaïr's hand drops to his shoulder (the empty one, the incomplete one, always).
For a moment he stares into Altaïr's blown puipils, uncomprehending, as even the hammering of his pulse seems to grind to a halt. He cannot breathe. There is a ringing in his ears, and he shakes his head, eyes clenched shut. Altaïr's hand tightens around his shoulder.
"Malik--"
"No," he chokes on the word, feeling it tear from his throat like broken glass. "You can't--"
"I know," Altaïr says softly, touching Malik's face, "I know, forgive me, but-- please."
He doesn't know, Malik thinks; Altaïr has no idea what he is asking, could not possibly understand. Malik isn't sure he even has the words to explain it- but Altaïr's hand on his shoulder is not asking for an explanation, it is making a demand. Malik can deny him nothing. He nods once, and opens his eyes to see Altaïr watching him with a look of raw need sketched across his features. He cannot lie and tell himself he does not hear the words that go unsaid after every entreaty- I need this, I need you. Altaïr's trust is devastating. But his skin itches, with anger and resentment and desire and resignation, and he cannot move; this time, it is Altaïr who reaches for the oil.
He spreads kisses along the line of Malik's throat and jaw as he pours the oil across Malik's shoulder. The reek of olives is inescapable, thick enough to taste, and it stirs him back to life. He turns his head to capture Altaïr's mouth with his own, and concentrates on Altaïr's lips and tongue and teeth, on the heat of Altaïr's sweat-and-oil slick hip beneath his hand, on everything save the feel of oil as Altaïr rubs it into the hypersensitive skin of his stump. It is a futile effort; his other scars are all deadened flesh, dull to pain and pleasure, but not there. He feels everything tenfold, as if his body is compensating for the loss of function with nerves gone out of control.
Altaïr strokes his cock with his other hand, and Malik moans into his mouth and thrusts into that grip in spite of himself; he cannot stop the way he leans into Altaïr's touch as he massages oil into Malik's scarred and broken flesh. He does not want to admit to himself that he wants this, that perhaps he has always wanted this; the thought is almost unbearable. It is easier to think that he is doing this for Altaïr (who trusts him with this, who needs this-- and how can Malik refuse that?), and not for himself; easier still to stop thinking entirely, and thrust into Altaïr's tight, oil-slick hand and concentrate on the way every touch and caress to his left arm sends a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock.
When he cannot stand the feeling of Altaïr's hand on his arm any longer, he pushes the other man away and slides to the floor. The layer of faded carpet under his knees does little to soften the cold stone beneath it as he settles between Altaïr's legs.
He uses his hand to guide his stump into place; he keeps his eyes on Altaïr's as he does so, because he cannot watch this. The surgeon had amputated the shattered remains of his left arm halfway to the shoulder, and though it sees far less use than his whole arm, there is still strength left in the limb; the muscle has not atrophied as much as it could have, and he must put the whole weight of his body behind his shoulder to advance against the tight, slick confines of Altaïr's body. And if Altaïr was tight around his hand, his wrist, he is tighter still around Malik's stump, and hotter, and more-- everything is heightened a thousand times over, and he can feel the pressure around his arm as though it were his cock, as though his body between the two points existed solely as a conduit of whitehot pleasure.
Altaïr is quiet and wordless, though his breathing is harsh and labored. His eyes are fixed on Malik's, and the openness of his gaze is too much-- it is all too much, he should not have agreed to this, should not have allowed this, this is wrong. Nothing that feels this good should hurt so much.
He makes the mistake of glancing down, of seeing Altaïr stretched wide around the diameter of his arm, stretched and filled- and for a moment he forgets that there is barely a handspan of flesh and bone left to his arm. His mind refuses to reconcile what his eyes see with what he knows to be true-- and he buries his face in Altaïr's thigh, biting down to stifle a cry of comingled agony and confusion. His cock throbs, but he ignores it, digging the fingers of his right hand into Altaïr's leg hard enough that Altaïr moans and curls his toes against the edge of the bed.
Malik knows too well the exact point at which his arm truncates; he has learned to be acutely aware of the boundaries of his own body, even when phantom pains from long-gone nerve endings try to tell him otherwise. But he feels now, not ghostly pain but real pleasure, from the tips of his fingers (fingers that do not exist, so he cannot feel them, cannot move them to thrust deeper) (but he does) to just below his shoulder, where the last of the scarring ends. It isn't real, but Altaïr groans his name when Malik flexes his hand (the hand he does not have, the hand that has been gone for years) to reach some imagined depth.
He loses track of where he ends and where Altaïr begins; there is nothing but heat and pleasure and the wet slide of skin on skin, and when Malik braces himself to thrust his arm (what arm, there is no arm, fuck--) Altaïr rolls his hips and bears down and his nerves (all of them) sing with fire. He does it again, and Altaïr cries out, pleading and demanding until Malik stretches awkwardly to wrap his fingers around the base of Altaïr's cock. He jerks his hand awkwardly once, twice-- and the same scream tears from both their throats as Altaïr comes, shaking like an earthquake and spilling himself over Malik's fingers.
He is utterly lost, trembling and blind in the aftershocks of Altaïr's pleasure. The candle has snuffed out, finally, leaving the little room in darkness so that he cannot see as Altaïr joins him on the floor in a tangle of limbs. His feels brittle, as though there were worlds beneath his skin, vast and expansive, that threaten to shatter him from within. He can barely remember his own name, save that Altaïr is whispering it against his shoulder. Altaïr is holding him, one hand tracing the curve of his spine and the other on Malik's cock, and it doesn't take more than the gentlest touch to send him over the edge. When he comes it's as an afterthought; he cannot stop shaking, can hardly breathe in the heavy, still air.
Altaïr leans against him, his breath unsteady, and murmurs quietly meaningless apologies in his ear. Malik shakes his head; there is nothing Altaïr can say that he hasn't heard, no apology that will ever truly mean what Altaïr wants it to. It seems it has become their custom for Altaïr to offer contrition that Malik cannot accept. He turns to silence Altaïr with a kiss, and finds that both their faces are wet; beneath the bitter salt of tears, he can taste the sweetness of olives.