Malik wrenched his eyes away from the puzzle in his hand to Altaïr, who stood in the doorway looking gaunt.
“You have been with it again, haven't you?” He replied, eyes immediately focussing on the bags beneath Altaïr's eyes and the unkempt hair that stuck to his chin. The Apple, no doubt, had interrupted his sleep once more.
“It is of no matter. I bear gifts.” Altaïr shook the present in his hands, calling forth a rustling noise.
“It is a robe.” Malik said as he stared at the dark fabric wrapped in twine and caught a flash of silver embroidery at the hems.
“Your old one is ruined and not of much use any more.” Altaïr shrugged and sat cross-legged on the floor at Malik's side.
“That is true.”
They lapsed into a silence, Malik turning his attention back to the contraption in hand and sliding a few tiles within the frame. The aim seemed to be to create an image by moving mobile slats one at a time. So far it proved infuriating and addictive, and he had completed it three times already.
“How is it feeling?”
Altaïr was staring at his arm, at smooth, fresh skin free of any and all blemishes and hair from the point at which a huge scar banded tightly around his biceps to his fingertips, void of nails.
“Sensitive.” Malik answered truthfully, and flexed his fingers thoughtfully, as if to remind himself that it was actually there.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not yet. I seem to have earned a break.”
“It is well earned. Have you bathed yet?”
“I did so yesterday night. I couldn't sleep for itching.” Malik tinkered with the puzzle again, and then everything clicked, he made a small sound of triumph, and he quickly slid everything into place. A proverb stared back at him, embossed against the wood. Since his skin had started growing back, four days ago now, the regrowth of his arm had been much easier. The skin came in thicker layers each time and quicker, as well. He was left with a plump and whole limb comfortably resting on his left side – hypersensitive, but manageable.
“Would you like to try the robe on?”
Malik hid a smile in the swell of his lip where it was barely noticeable. “Perhaps later.”
“Mali-”
“I want to first wear it when I fuck you.”
Dead silence.
“I see.” There was definite strain in that voice.
A pinch of sharp pain. Malik's fingers bled just past the last knuckles. His fingernails had just split the skin open.
After cleaning the small wounds Altaïr had left again, a murmured goodbye to Maria who was moving in again
*
Two days passed. Malik stared at the stubby fingernails of his left hand, and then scratched at the back of his right. It was a magnificent feeling. For all too long had he been forced to use his incapable teeth – or worse, find a makeshift scratching post like some animal. But now he could use his own flesh to rid himself of it.
He could hold things. He could hold heavy things (well, not that heavy, the new arm was weak, after all). He could hold a book open with one hand and turn pages with the other. He could light fires and torches by bashing two pieces of flint together in each hand. He could reach spots on his back he had been unable to for years.
However he was more occupied with scratching with his right hand than his left.
Irritably, he snatched his right hand away from it's partner and violently scratched his left forearm. Reddened skin flaked to the floor; a product of his scratching rather than the cause. No, the cause was the thick, black hairs that were slowly inching their way through his skin. Unlike the nails they did not bleed. They itched.
It was a torture worse than a bit of blood.
At least, he thought cynically, he was acknowledging that he had his left arm. Then again, it was nigh on impossible not to.
Malik gave an irritated, teeth-gnashing snarl.
At this rate it would be days before he could finally fuck Altaïr the way he wanted to.
FILL [5/?]
Malik wrenched his eyes away from the puzzle in his hand to Altaïr, who stood in the doorway looking gaunt.
“You have been with it again, haven't you?” He replied, eyes immediately focussing on the bags beneath Altaïr's eyes and the unkempt hair that stuck to his chin. The Apple, no doubt, had interrupted his sleep once more.
“It is of no matter. I bear gifts.” Altaïr shook the present in his hands, calling forth a rustling noise.
“It is a robe.” Malik said as he stared at the dark fabric wrapped in twine and caught a flash of silver embroidery at the hems.
“Your old one is ruined and not of much use any more.” Altaïr shrugged and sat cross-legged on the floor at Malik's side.
“That is true.”
They lapsed into a silence, Malik turning his attention back to the contraption in hand and sliding a few tiles within the frame. The aim seemed to be to create an image by moving mobile slats one at a time. So far it proved infuriating and addictive, and he had completed it three times already.
“How is it feeling?”
Altaïr was staring at his arm, at smooth, fresh skin free of any and all blemishes and hair from the point at which a huge scar banded tightly around his biceps to his fingertips, void of nails.
“Sensitive.” Malik answered truthfully, and flexed his fingers thoughtfully, as if to remind himself that it was actually there.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not yet. I seem to have earned a break.”
“It is well earned. Have you bathed yet?”
“I did so yesterday night. I couldn't sleep for itching.” Malik tinkered with the puzzle again, and then everything clicked, he made a small sound of triumph, and he quickly slid everything into place. A proverb stared back at him, embossed against the wood. Since his skin had started growing back, four days ago now, the regrowth of his arm had been much easier. The skin came in thicker layers each time and quicker, as well. He was left with a plump and whole limb comfortably resting on his left side – hypersensitive, but manageable.
“Would you like to try the robe on?”
Malik hid a smile in the swell of his lip where it was barely noticeable. “Perhaps later.”
“Mali-”
“I want to first wear it when I fuck you.”
Dead silence.
“I see.” There was definite strain in that voice.
A pinch of sharp pain. Malik's fingers bled just past the last knuckles. His fingernails had just split the skin open.
After cleaning the small wounds Altaïr had left again, a murmured goodbye to Maria who was moving in again
Two days passed. Malik stared at the stubby fingernails of his left hand, and then scratched at the back of his right. It was a magnificent feeling. For all too long had he been forced to use his incapable teeth – or worse, find a makeshift scratching post like some animal. But now he could use his own flesh to rid himself of it.
He could hold things. He could hold heavy things (well, not that heavy, the new arm was weak, after all). He could hold a book open with one hand and turn pages with the other. He could light fires and torches by bashing two pieces of flint together in each hand. He could reach spots on his back he had been unable to for years.
However he was more occupied with scratching with his right hand than his left.
Irritably, he snatched his right hand away from it's partner and violently scratched his left forearm. Reddened skin flaked to the floor; a product of his scratching rather than the cause. No, the cause was the thick, black hairs that were slowly inching their way through his skin. Unlike the nails they did not bleed. They itched.
It was a torture worse than a bit of blood.
At least, he thought cynically, he was acknowledging that he had his left arm. Then again, it was nigh on impossible not to.
Malik gave an irritated, teeth-gnashing snarl.
At this rate it would be days before he could finally fuck Altaïr the way he wanted to.
Yusef cried next door.