Chapter Text
There’s a crash and Malik immediately feels a headache pulsing between his brows when he closes his eyes. He sighs heavily, setting down the small stack of parchments he had been shelving, and putters out past his desk to go take a look. Considering his luck, he’s expecting-
Exactly what he sees. His nostrils flare. His eyes narrow with disdain. Altair lies face-down on the tiles directly below the opening in the pergola in a spreading crimson puddle. There’s more blood on his hidden blade, the dark, deep red of drying arterial blood, but Malik is a learned man and it’s immediately obvious to him that there’s too much here for it to be coming from Altair’s clothes. The idiot is bleeding out.
“I should let you die,” Malik grumbles to himself. But the man is visible from the rooftops, which the guards are known to run now and then searching for the World’s Most Irritating, Pig-Headed Assassin, and if they drop down to check the body Malik is likely in far more trouble than he can handle, so. What choice does he have, really?
His boots scuff against tile as he comes closer, squatting down by the body. Altair must’ve passed out as he was falling. “You held on just long enough to get here, hm?” he asks the lax body gruffly. “Do you feel safe now?” He wouldn’t have hidden the bitterness in his voice, even if Altair were awake. “You’re lucky I’m still strong, you mongrel.”
Sighing heavily to himself, Malik grabs the back of Altair’s robes and hefts him up and onto his chest. He struggles to stand again with one arm wrapped around the dead weight; Altair’s feet drag on the floor as he walks them inside. His front quickly soaks through, and he’s left hoping that it's more sweat than blood. He’s not in the mood to scrub assassin blood out of his white robes.
There’s only one cot in the Jerusalem Bureau. Malik’s. Unfortunately. He stares down at the unmade bed for several moments, frustrated and uncomfortable, before he dumps Altair on the thin mattress. He doesn’t have anywhere else to put the man. He can’t just let him bleed all over the archives, or the message scrolls, or the maps, after all. The bureau isn’t exactly big- that’s how they stay hidden, crammed between the walls of others’ homes. That’s how he lives- in three cramped rooms and one near-empty courtyard. And it’s fucking Altair’s fault.
Why did they put him here? It’s unfair.
Malik scoffs at himself, wiping his hand off on his ribs and shrugging off his coat, leaving it a soggy pile by the bedroom’s entrance. He grabs a small knife from behind the counter, shoving it under his sash, and slips back into the sunshine. He scrubs the blood out from the tile grout.
He works until his back cramps from keeping him balanced. His knees crack as he stands. Malik dunks his head briefly in the fountain, soaking away the grime and sweat from his face. Good enough. He clicks his tongue sharply as he turns away, rolling his shoulders back. He strips off his sash as he walks in, leaving it and the knife on the counter. He pulls off his white tunic. As he expected, it is stained with red down the front.
Malik growls to himself as he steps past the counter and back into the bedroom, bundling up the white linen and tossing it on the floor. He pulls a clean cloth from his drawers, slinging it over his bare shoulder, and turns to head back outside.
A sharp gasp draws his attention. He stops. Debates, for a moment, just leaving. He thinks of what his elders would say, whether he’d still be trusted with this post. He gnashes his teeth and turns around. Altair has shoved himself into the corner of the room, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, his shaking hands raised defensively before him. He looks terrible, certainly not lucid, his skin sallow and shining with sweat.
“Were you poisoned as well?” Malik asks Altair snidely. The assassin doesn’t answer him, his attention fixed above them. Malik frowns. His eyes flick to the ceiling, and narrow as he focuses. The room shifts into a dull, staticky gray, and above it two flickering red blobs with indistinct limbs slowly move closer. Malik goes fully still as they step right over them, now clearly human-shaped, and the beams creak above them. Altair struggles to sit up; Malik crosses the small room in second, flattening his hand over Altair’s breast and holding the man down against the wall.
It doesn’t take much effort. Altair grunts and slumps in place, slowly sliding down until only his head and shoulders are propped up. Still, he doesn’t take his eyes away from the shapes above them, hardly blinking and breathing less. Malik clicks his tongue at the man.
Altair’s always had the elders’ attention. Part of that had been due to his innate and powerful Eagle Vision, one that put even the eyes of trained and practiced assassins to shame; he could certainly ‘see’ far more clearly than Malik, always had been able to. Just another thing that had come naturally to him, that had made him the arrogant and imprudent assassin who ignored everyone’s directions and permanently ended-
Malik’s jaw clenches. He stops the thought dead before it can spark heat under his skin he can’t afford to have. ‘His skill is a blessing to the whole clan,’ the elders used to tell the other fledglings, when they complained that Altair received special lessons. A blessing my ass. Malik glances down at Altair, shivering and tense, half-off his mattress and readying to fight despite not being able to even stand. “Calm yourself,” he grounds out, squatting next to Altair.
Perhaps he should actually take care of the man. He grabs the hem of Altair’s robe, lifting it to see where it actually sticks to skin. It’s soaked halfway through, and sticks everywhere. Malik rolls his eyes. How typical of Altair to destroy his day so thoroughly like this. “This may hurt,” he warns with a placid disinterest. Then he shoves Altair over onto his side with a rough hand. He hears a tiny whimper, a hiss of breath, and then nothing further. At least the man knows how to be quiet.
Malik works on the knot of Altair’s sash. It’s tight, a pain to undo with one hand. Of course it is. He thinks of his knife under the counter, of the other stashed between the mattress and the bed slats, but in the end he settles for his nails, and uses one of his feet for leverage, stepping on the sash’s tail. He won’t use his teeth. He’s not debasing himself like an animal simply because Altair got himself stabbed.
It takes him too long to work it off, the space between his thumb and forefinger cramping, and he swears softly under his breath as he works off the leather and fabric and slowly lowers it to the floor so that the knives don’t clink and clatter as they fall. He shoves it under his bedframe with his toe so he doesn’t trip on it later, and sets on Altair’s pauldron and quiver next, then his bracers and greaves. He huffs quietly at the accumulation of armor under his bed- once upon a time that armor would’ve been his own. Altair is the one that took that away from him- away from Kadar in a far more permanent way. Malik’s nostrils flare and he clenches his teeth as he curves one finger into the hem of Altair’s robe, pulling it up an inch. The man shivers beneath his touch, his teeth clattering. Why is he sweating so much?
There’s so much blood. Malik is sure most of it isn’t Altair’s. The man has an outrageous tendency to kill en masse instead of subtly, as he’s meant to, provoking a gaggle of guards into following him into an alley and wiping them out to prevent any report. He’s kept his anonymity, but put the whole guild in danger doing it- the entire city guard is on alert at nearly all times of the day.
Malik clicks his tongue, pulling off Altair’s cowl and tossing it into the corner. The man’s shorn dark hair sticks out in wet dark clumps, but there’s too little blood for a head wound. Malik pulls away his tunic next, grimacing at the network of slashes and scars littering the man’s flesh. There are many bleeding wounds, but they seem too shallow to be causing this much trouble to a man well used to being in pain. He’d seen worse when they were still in training. He’ll clean those later, maybe. If he has to. He’d rather not. He’d rather none of this. He’d rather Altair be in an entirely different city, far from him.
And yet here they are. Again.
Altair sits up suddenly. He tilts to the side to reach for his knives under the bed and nearly falls off, saved only by Malik’s sharp instincts kicking in, grabbing his shoulder and roughly shoving him back onto the mattress. Moments later, clattering footsteps pass over them. Malik lifts his eyes as they pass, threads of red through the grey overhead; he can hear their shouts drifting in through the courtyard. Altair watches them too, until they move to the next building, trembling and tense under Malik’s hand.
“They wouldn’t be so active if you weren’t constantly provoking them,” Malik reminds him testily, peeling away Altair’s sweat-blood-and-water soaked pants. He doesn’t much care about nudity, there’s no reason either of them should- they were raised communally after all, and body shame was a meaningless waste of time in their world. Beyond that, most of the adults had been proud of their hard and scarred bodies, and made the children desire that pride for themselves too. And Altair, well- he’d always been the best of them. Physically. (The asshole.)
Malik sighs a long, deep, aggravated sigh as the fabric peels away to reveal a deep, jagged wound in Altair’s thigh that is already turning a strange dark color, deep purple edging on black. The skin looks swollen, and when he presses a single finger against it a white-red foam oozes out of it instead of blood. Malik clicks his tongue and turns to the cabinet affixed to his wall, opening both doors and looking through the assortment of small glass bottles. Most of these medicines had been stored by the bureau’s previous caretaker, and Malik has to squint and lean closer to make out the man’s scrawling handwriting.
The bottle he finds with the correct antivenom holds a liquid that is nearly clear, though slightly yellow, dark particles sitting on the bottom. He rubs his tongue over the back of his teeth as he shakes it hard, and holds it up to the light to see how well the parts have mixed. It looks more green than yellow now, but the particles haven’t completely dissolved, and he sighs again. He could only hope that it hasn’t denatured; Malik finds it extremely unlikely that he’ll be able to source more quickly enough.
If he had more time, more tools, another hand, maybe he’d administer this through a reed into Altair’s bloodstream. He doesn’t. Instead, he shakes the bottle again as he shuffles back to the bed, squinting down at the wounded assassin. “Hm.” Altair’s eyes feverishly flicker back and forth over the ceiling. Malik settles the bottle against the foot of the bed and pulls a dagger from the pile of Altair’s things. “Hold still.”
Altair keeps his daggers sharp, as he should, and so it only takes a few practiced swipes for Malik to cut away the most damaged of the flesh. He wipes the dagger clean on his pants before tossing it back on top of Altair’s gear, and the slices of Altair’s thigh go into the bucket he has in the corner. He grimaces as he watches the man’s blood soak more deeply into his mattress. Altair will owe him a new one.
“Pray this works,” he mutters under his breath, uncorking the antivenom with his teeth. It has a slightly sour smell, and he grimaces- a bad sign. Nothing to be done for it. Malik pours out half the remaining portion onto the wound. A thin, high-pitched sound escapes Altair, and when Malik’s dark eyes flick to the man’s face he finds him tense from pain, his lips pulled back and spittle seething through his teeth, Altair’s eyes opened wide, white showing all around the iris. The flesh where the liquid has poured hissed, and Malik watches it turn pale and hard. He is… pretty sure that is supposed to happen- that it is the correct sign. “Open your mouth,” he instructs curtly, and is almost surprised when Altair forces his teeth apart. Malik dumps the rest of the antivenom down Altair’s throat and turns away as the man seizes up, coughing harshly. He recaps the bottle and settles it on the top of his dresser. Better not to put it away empty.
Malik slides out of the room, grimacing as Altair’s cough degrades into a painful sounding wheeze. He fetches a jug of water, pouring some into the porcelain cup he keeps by his bedside. “Quiet down,” he tells Altair, pursing his lips as he sets the jug down and picks up the cup. “Drink this.” Without giving the man time to argue, Malik presses the cup to his bottom lip and tilts it, pouring lukewarm water into the assassin’s mouth.
A bead rolls down Altair’s chin, and his eyes half-focus on Malik for a moment as he wipes it away with his wrist. Malik scoffs, turning away. “I have work to do, so keep it down.”
There is some satisfaction in the silence that follows, even though Malik knows it is because Altair is likely too sick to respond with any measure of intelligence.
At last, peace and quiet.
…
……
Peace and quiet moderately ruined by the awareness that Altair is currently soaking Malik’s thin mattress with blood. Peace and quiet moderately ruined by Malik’s ear tuning into every small sound that leaves his bedroom. Peace and quiet snatched away by the growing tension in his chest and between his shoulders as he thinks of what their elders would say if Altair dies in Malik’s offices. Peace and quiet destroyed by the pained gasp that follows each time the guards pass close enough to ping Altair’s Eagle Sense, often several long moments before Malik senses them himself. Peace and quiet torn to shreds by the sound of his water jug shattering on the floor.
Malik growls to himself. He sets his quill down with a clatter as he stands back up, blowing on the still-wet ink of his parchment before rolling it back up with a flick of his finger. A little smudge won’t hurt anyone. (Although hurting someone right now might be a little fun, actually.)
Altair is sitting- technically- flopped over his own legs and breathing with difficulty. His arms hang, his fingers still loosely curled around the handle of the broken jug. His skin is sallow and wet with sweat, and Malik notices that the man has somehow fetched both his bandolier of knives and his hidden blade from the pile in the corner, and they’re now laying on the pillow. There’s blood smeared on the straps and all over Altair’s hands that make it obvious he tried to put his weapons back on. His head is tilted to the side, and he’s staring at something with wide eyes.
Malik’s sigh is the heaviest yet. His boots skate against the floor as he slides shards of ceramic out of the way. He flattens his hand over Altair’s eyes and shoves the man back into the bed.
Altair- settles immediately. His breath slides out of him without a wheeze or a choke. His fingers go slack, the handle falling and cracking into three pieces. The tension in his muscles disappears, and he sinks into place. After a moment, as if restarting, Altair takes a deep, full breath, then another.
There, finally. Malik pulls away to fetch his broom.
Altair immediately tenses again, trying to sit up, the muscles in his abdomen flexing. His fingers skitter over the sheets, looking for his weapons. Malik growls and slaps his hand over Altair’s eyes. He calms instantly. What? What.
Adrenaline floods through Malik’s chest, hot and cold and deeply uncomfortable. His nostrils flare. His fingertips press hard against Altair’s temple, and his spine is rigid.
Malik isn’t stupid. Malik knows how Eagle Sense works, he has it himself. The pieces fit together so sublimely there’s no other picture they can make. “Am I fucking safe to you?” he growls at the favored assassin- the one that cost him his brother and his arm, and whom he gladly would’ve sunk a knife into had he not been told otherwise. “Am I still fucking safe, after everything you’ve done?”
Altair’s mouth forms into shapes, and when sound finally passes his lips it is thin and effortful and slurred so thoroughly that Malik can’t understand a word of it. Altair’s trembling fingers curl around Malik’s wrist, heavy, holding him in place. Malik bares his teeth, but of course Altair doesn’t see.
“You bastard,” Malik spits out, but he doesn’t pull away.
–
It’s been four days. Altair’s only gone deeper into delirium as Malik waits for his fever to break. The problem is- one of the problems is- Altair does not rest unless Malik actively makes it so. Malik has other work to do. Despite what the other assassin might think, his life does not revolve around Altair.
He’s already sourced a replacement mattress, since his is ruined. He tried to sleep on it the first night he received it, out in the courtyard with the late summer breeze drifting around him and the vine leaves shifting in the wind but the niggling guilt that bit at him every time he heard a crash or a sharp intake of air drove him back inside. His life has effectively reduced from three rooms to one, to a singular, infuriating man on a bloody mattress.
He’s reading now. At least, he’s trying to. He keeps a small pyramid of scrolls on the rickety side table. It’s meant to hold a cup of water and maybe a small volume, and now it is his entire workspace. He only has one hand to use, and he’s not going to waste that hand on covering Altair’s eyes, so he’s adjusted. Not that he’s happy about it.
The man shifts, squirming, and Malik tenses. He’s sat sideways at the head of the bed, his shoulder leaning on the wall. One leg is flat along the headboard, Malik’s sweat-sodden pillow pushed against it. The other is bent, his heel resting on the edge of the bed, ostensibly so the scrolls can unroll along his thigh and make it easier to read. Altair’s head is wedged under it so that the meat of Malik’s leg blocks his vision, and when he turns he presses his face wholly into Malik’s thigh, long agile fingers curling just below his hip. Malik grits his teeth and pushes out a slow, deliberate breath, but it does nothing to calm the thundering frustration in his chest. He swears he can feel Altair’s lashes through the fabric of his pants, jolting his already thinly-stretched nerves with every blink.
“Aliki, water.” Altair’s voice is dry as desert, a cracking whisper, barely there, and yet Malik goes completely still. Heat and cold rush through him at once. Anguish scratches at his throat and makes his eyes sting, but he covers it quickly with the rushing power of injured fury. Aliki. A nickname he hasn’t heard in a long time, certainly not since his brother died, from one of two mouths that ever spoke it.
“Aliki, Aliki,” Kadar screamed between bouts of breathless laughter, trapped between Altair’s folded legs. “Altair has caught me! Brother, help!” And Malik would crouch in front of him, grinning, while Altair held the boy from behind, tickling him mercilessly.
“Now, now. If you wish to be a powerful assassin, Darti, surely you can escape a single boy.”
“Not if that boy is Altai—ahhhhh! Stop!” Kadar was maybe eight, then, Malik and Altair barely twelve, slapping and scratching at Altair’s legs as fingers dug into his sides.
“What kind of assassin is ticklish anyway?”
“No fair, no fair! You’re a terrible brother, Aliki!”
“Yes, Aliki,” Altair grinned over the boy’s shoulder, “what a terrible brother you make.”
And Malik leapt forward, crashing into the pair, ostensibly to aid Kadar. But of course by the time they were done wrestling, collapsing the one beside the other on the sand, half in shadow, Kadar had long gone, and Altair had hidden his sweaty face against Malik’s shoulder.
“Do not call me that,” he snarls, kicking his heel off the mattress to press his leg down hard on Altair’s stupid face. The man’s grip on him tightens, but he doesn’t fight; if anything he relaxes incrementally. Malik is of a mind to pour the water onto him instead.
That, unfortunately, will just make Altair sicker as his body struggles to eliminate the poison likely still coursing through his veins. It’s been a day since Malik checked on his thigh; last he looked, it was a good color, no pus or distension around the thick stitches he had made. The wound will certainly scar, but no assassin counts their marks. It would be foolish to do so. Scars mean nothing except that a job had not been done perfectly. Besides, Altair had already been littered with scars by the time his finger had been cut off.
“‘Liki,” Altair groans again. Malik flinches; he contorts himself up and to his feet, ignoring the way Altair immediately curls up on himself, clenching the wet pillow against his face. Malik grabs the ceramic jug sitting on the floor beside the bed, and grimaces as he looks inside and finds barely a mouthful of water left.
On the other hand, it is an excuse to be by himself for a moment. He pads silently out of the room, the floorboards slightly warped under his bare feet, and treads into the courtyard. Malik sits on the edge of the fountain, dipping his jug into it. He stares into the glittering water, his eyes unfocused. He can vaguely see blue shapes moving through it, the activity of the people downstairs. When he tilts his head more towards the street he spots a large splotch of red, a patrol moving through. They will never come here, of that he is certain. Even if they decided to drop into his courtyard and question him, they would only see a man with one arm, too crippled to be a threat. Of course, they would leave in bags. But the point remains; they will not come. There is no need for Altair to always be on alert. No need for his body to slow its recovery by wasting precious energy on these matters. There should be no need for Malik to be present for the whole ordeal.
And yet. He has never once managed to truly avoid Altair, as much as he wishes it so.
Damnably, Malik looks through the wall of his bedroom and sees green.
He hates it. Altair will never know how much he took away.
“Pathetic,” Malik snarls under his breath, and he knows he will not be brave enough to admit to himself which of them he means.
Altair is halfway to sitting when he reappears, one elbow on the mattress and one hand on the wall. He squints as his eyes rove the room, his eyebrow bent in confusion; his breaths are gasping ragged things. Malik lowers his gaze as he pours fresh water into the glass beside his scrolls, and he sits on the edge of the bed as he sets the jug back down, halfway under the side table. His bedframe creaks as Altair moves, a warm wet heat pressing against Malik’s back. An arm reaches past him, and he stares at the tremor in Altair’s hand for a long, silent moment before he picks up the glass and holds it up high, out of reach.
“You’ll spill all over yourself,” he spits through gritted teeth, “just sit up.”
The arm drops. Altair slowly, miserably rolls onto his back again, pushing himself up on his elbows. Malik holds the glass to his mouth, tips it slowly, says nothing as a thin rivulet rolls down Altair’s chin as the man sips. “More.” Malik clicks his tongue and refuses to tilt the glass further- gulping it down will only make the man sicker.
“No. Slowly.” Altair huffs through his nose, the absolute child, but there’s little he can do. He keeps at it until the glass has been fully drained, and exhales a long, satisfied breath as Malik sets it back on the table.
Altair slowly collapses back down. He stares at the ceiling with more clarity than Malik has seen from him these past few days, his eyes roving the painted tiles instead of staring out at moving shapes. Malik’s gaze flicks to them, then away. He painted some of them himself, when the old ones broke or fell loose. He can point out which they were, because none quite match the originals- the wrong blue or a misshapen point. His shoulders slump up and forward as he bends down. Malik sets the glass on the floor, then picks the jug up to fill it, then takes his glass again, draining it empty. He feels… exhausted. Worn. Has he really rested in the last four days?
An arm slides around his waist. He lifts his own arm from his lap to stare at it, aghast, blinking and disbelieving. A feverish forehead presses against his lower back, a nose. Altair’s breath is moist and hot through his thin shirt.
Altair used to do this, long ago- when he was recovering from one of his Special Training Sessions that had gone on too long, too hard, covered in welts and dark bruises. He’d crawl onto the mattress Malik and Kadar shared, pressing himself up against Malik’s back, an arm tight around his waist, like Malik could anchor him down to their world before he disappeared like so much dust. Malik never said anything about it, but he’d lie awake staring at Kadar’s sleep-soft face, a death-grip on Altair’s wrist, and ask himself how he could soothe away some of that pain.
He doesn’t like being reminded.
It’s not fair that Altair had depended on him for comfort, but hadn’t listened to Malik on the mission that had taken Kadar’s life. It’s not fair of Altair to continue depending on him now, when he’s already shown that he considers himself far above Malik. It’s not fair to ask this of him when he’s already thrown Malik away.
It’s not fair that his hand twitches with the urge to wrap around Altair’s wrist, to feel those familiar bones under his fingers.
It’s not fair.
“Let go.” His voice is rough, his words thick and sticky. He drags his sleeve over his face, scrubbing away the moisture stuck in the corners of his eyes. Altair’s arm only tightens, his fingers gripping Malik’s tunic so hard he can feel the fabric pulling taut against stomach.
“You keep giving me orders,” Altair complains. His tone is far flung from his usual, childish. Outwardly sulking, even, something he hardly heard even when they were children.
“What else should I give you,” Malik snaps, ashamed of his own vulnerability. Altair always twists everything up, makes it complicated. Malik’s life would be so much easier without him.
“You used to read to me.”
That much is true. They also used to be children. Kadar used to be alive. He used to have two hands. Malik used to think that Altair thought himself his equal, no matter how the elders acted. They used to belong to each other, in a way nobody else understood.
He used to love Altair.
“If you have the strength to talk,” he tells the man waspishly, the anger in his tone hotter for the wound it covers, “you have the strength to sleep.”
“Does it take strength to sleep?”
“Altair.”
The man falls silent for a moment. His fingers unfold from Malik’s tunic, stroking over the twisted fabric and smoothing it back into place. He curls up into himself, into Malik, his knees pressing against the man’s thigh. Altair’s other arm emerges from under the sodden pillow, dangling off the edge of the mattress for a moment before it coils in to rest, cupped, against Malik’s knee. It’s not fair.
“Read to me.”
“Fine.” And because Altair is needling him, because he has no intention of being kind, because it’s the only thing on hand, because he wants to be petty, because his frustration and anguish shimmers hot in his chest and threatens to bubble up his throat, he reads the most boring thing he has on hand. “This mission should only be assigned to a member of novice or higher rank. The following must be obtained: a golden clasp in which a large ruby and several small lapis lazuli stones have been inset. It depicts a sun over a sea.” Altair sighs, a tickle of hot air against his spine. “Make an impression of the inscription on the back of the clasp before melting it. The inscription need not be translated, though its script must be delivered to headquarters.” Altair shifts; both of his arms are now curled around Malik’s waist, though his overall grip has relaxed. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat. “The sword and shield of the Templar officer wearing the clasp must also be obtained. Assassinate this officer, and ensure that no witnesses exist. His retinue will be traveling through Jerusalem on the third week of the sixth moon. They are as follows.”
Malik feels himself grow bored, droning through the list of strange, foreign names, and by the time he reaches the end of it there’s a pressure behind his eyes and his throat feels raw. Certainly, it’s the reading. That must be it.
And Altair is a sleeping weight against his back.
His throat tightens, stings. It’s too late to say ‘don’t.’ It’s too late to leave. It’s too late.
The parchment rolls back up, and he tosses it down on the table. His hand sits limp in his lap, fingers curled. He catches himself staring at Altair’s wrist.
He’s tired. He’s too tired for this. With a heavy sigh, he tilts onto his side. He shoves his weight backwards to move Altair, to give himself more room. Altair snuffles and makes a soft, confused noise of complaint, squirming away, but the moment Malik settles he presses himself all along Malik’s line, his top arm looping once more around his waist.
“Finish healing so you can leave,” Malik mumbles into his sour-smelling pillow. Altair doesn’t answer.
–
It’s been a week since he finally ousted Altair from his bureau. The place is spotless. He even cleaned the pigeon’s house, as well as anyone could, scrubbed the grout between the tiles in the fountain and the dust under his counter. He replaced his mattress and burned the old one before sweeping away the ashes and rewashing the floors. He’s been cursed with an incessant drive to keep moving, to complete, to achieve. To keep the maelstrom of incompatible feelings at bay with tireless toil.
It doesn’t work. And how could it? It never works, no matter how many times he tries to drown out his own thoughts. It never had worked. He can hide from nearly anyone, but he can’t hide from himself.
He wants to. He’s not ready to forgive Altair yet. Not for everything he’s done. Not for-
He’s been gone a week. That’s all.
Malik takes a deep breath and turns away from his freshly reorganized mission scrolls, wiping his sweat-wet temple with his sleeve.
There’s a soft thud in the courtyard. He straightens his expression, blurs it into a neutral as he turns to face his guest.
And who else would it be. Altair blinks soft dark eyes at him, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet the line of his scar. Malik’s sigh is irritated. “Back already?”
Altair’s head tilts slightly. His eyes flick to Malik’s chest, and then back up. Malik, frowning, drops his gaze and tugs at his tunic. There’s a red spot there he must’ve missed. He clears his throat and flattens the fabric. “Well?”
Altair holds up a golden disk, a moving pin on its side and an inscription in the northerners’ blocky script. He sets it down on the counter exactly between them. There’s a large empty space in the front, the tines that once held a large stone twisted back, and a wave of lapis lazuli. Malik stares at it, then lifts his head up to stare at Altair. The man meets his eyes with an innocent blink, and dumps a shining sword and shield onto the counter next.
“You didn’t think that job was under you?” Malik snipes, heat crawling up the back of his neck. Easy to hide behind bitterness, behind insult. He reaches out to pick up the large, round shield and remove it from his counter.
Altair’s hand settles on his. He stills immediately, narrowing his eyes suspiciously on the other assassin. Altair meets and holds his gaze, and presses something cool and sharp into Malik’s palm. The corner of his mouth twitches in a there-and-gone smile that makes Malik’s throat tighten painfully.
Altair takes a smooth step back, his dry, calloused palms sliding against Malik’s overwarm skin. When Malik turns his hand over he finds a ruby, its facets beautifully cut so that the light slicing through it turns his palm red as blood.
Malik’s nostrils flare. A shiver skirts down his spine. “I don’t forgive you,” he grinds out. He’s afraid of what might come out instead, if he lets it. He doesn’t want to know.
Altair’s head sinks. He flips on his hood as he nods courteously. His gaze drags along the freshly-cleaned tiles as he slips away silently.
If the ruby finds a home on Malik’s windowsill, just above his bed, casting a puddle of red on his mattress, well. There’s no one else to see it.
For now.