“Whatever it was we saw,” he said, as if it were something he needed to clarify, “does not mean it is going to happen.”
His jaw was set, stubborn and determined, and there was something in his expression that was new to Altair — solemn as ever, but there was a look of ease in his eyes, even as the color rose in his cheeks and the tension set his shoulders into a rigid line. For all of Malik’s disappointment and apprehension, maybe there were parts of that future that were not entirely disheartening. And it showed, in the way he frowned at Altair, thoughtful and searching, and tossed the sprig of jasmine away, not looking to see where it landed.
“It didn’t seem all that bad,” Altair said, lightly enough to withhold an argument for once.
Malik’s speculative gaze turned sour. “You would say that, being the grandmaster-”
“Yes, there’s that, but I meant the other thing,” Altair interrupted, words coming out in a rush. Somehow Malik must have known what was going to happen; he stepped back in alarm just as Altair came forward to press his mouth against Malik’s.
It was curiosity, more than anything, that made him part his lips, just to see if Malik would push back, shoving his tongue between Altair’s teeth so that it was more of a fight than a kiss. They had been taught, as Assassins, to take advantage of every opening and seek out any weakness; this was no different. Malik took Altair’s challenge with a little twist in his expression as if to say, fine, might as well, it is too late now.
It was uncoordinated and uncompromising, heads tilting the wrong way, teeth clacking, biting too much, too hard or not enough, and there never seemed to be enough time to breathe before one of them would dive forward again, demanding and without thought for the other. They should have stopped, just from the awkwardness of their hands tangling as they tried to claw over their robes, hair, or neck, but Altair was persistent, as was Malik, because they knew that they could get it to work — the open-mouthed kisses, the timing of their breaths, and the push of their bodies — because they had seen it happen, so it was obvious to Altair that they would get it right, eventually.
He was forced to break away, gasping, but Malik chased after him, hand gripping the back of his head, refusing to let Altair pull away completely. Altair took a quick breath, knowing that it was not nearly enough to fill his lungs, but Malik stayed put, the air playing over Altair’s damp lips as the other boy exhaled, waiting and staring.
When Altair leaned in again, it was careful and deliberate, but no less eager. Malik made a pleased noise, the soft sound making Altair’s mind turn blank. Before he knew it, he was pushing Malik into the wall of the fortress, tripping over his own feet and stumbling into the older boy. Hands bracing against the warmed stone, Altair stilled at the familiarity of having Malik trapped between his arms, the image sharp in his mind, of Malik hooking a leg around his waist to bring them down, red sashes being taken off, and long, black robes hiding what was already obvious. Had he given it any real thought, Altair would have recoiled at how much he wanted it, all of it — the easy, open affection, the contentment — not just Malik, crowded into the wall under him. Without meaning to, he glanced up, expectant, and was met with Malik’s annoyed expression.
“Predicting the future?” Malik asked, flushed and panting, but decidedly more mindful than Altair. He kept his position, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.
“You seemed to like it well enough,” Altair replied, smirking and moving closer until Malik put a palm over his mouth, stopping him.
“I did like the sounds you were making,” Malik conceded, grip tightening when Altair would have pulled away, scowling.
“That wasn’t m-” Altair began, only to be cut off by a short gasp as Malik lowered his hands to Altair’s waist, slotted his thigh between Altair’s legs and nudged upwards. Hips jerking, Altair pressed his face into the curve of Malik’s neck, muttering breathlessly, “That wasn’t all me.”
Tomorrow Was Not Dull [6/?]
His jaw was set, stubborn and determined, and there was something in his expression that was new to Altair — solemn as ever, but there was a look of ease in his eyes, even as the color rose in his cheeks and the tension set his shoulders into a rigid line. For all of Malik’s disappointment and apprehension, maybe there were parts of that future that were not entirely disheartening. And it showed, in the way he frowned at Altair, thoughtful and searching, and tossed the sprig of jasmine away, not looking to see where it landed.
“It didn’t seem all that bad,” Altair said, lightly enough to withhold an argument for once.
Malik’s speculative gaze turned sour. “You would say that, being the grandmaster-”
“Yes, there’s that, but I meant the other thing,” Altair interrupted, words coming out in a rush. Somehow Malik must have known what was going to happen; he stepped back in alarm just as Altair came forward to press his mouth against Malik’s.
It was curiosity, more than anything, that made him part his lips, just to see if Malik would push back, shoving his tongue between Altair’s teeth so that it was more of a fight than a kiss. They had been taught, as Assassins, to take advantage of every opening and seek out any weakness; this was no different. Malik took Altair’s challenge with a little twist in his expression as if to say, fine, might as well, it is too late now.
It was uncoordinated and uncompromising, heads tilting the wrong way, teeth clacking, biting too much, too hard or not enough, and there never seemed to be enough time to breathe before one of them would dive forward again, demanding and without thought for the other. They should have stopped, just from the awkwardness of their hands tangling as they tried to claw over their robes, hair, or neck, but Altair was persistent, as was Malik, because they knew that they could get it to work — the open-mouthed kisses, the timing of their breaths, and the push of their bodies — because they had seen it happen, so it was obvious to Altair that they would get it right, eventually.
He was forced to break away, gasping, but Malik chased after him, hand gripping the back of his head, refusing to let Altair pull away completely. Altair took a quick breath, knowing that it was not nearly enough to fill his lungs, but Malik stayed put, the air playing over Altair’s damp lips as the other boy exhaled, waiting and staring.
When Altair leaned in again, it was careful and deliberate, but no less eager. Malik made a pleased noise, the soft sound making Altair’s mind turn blank. Before he knew it, he was pushing Malik into the wall of the fortress, tripping over his own feet and stumbling into the older boy. Hands bracing against the warmed stone, Altair stilled at the familiarity of having Malik trapped between his arms, the image sharp in his mind, of Malik hooking a leg around his waist to bring them down, red sashes being taken off, and long, black robes hiding what was already obvious. Had he given it any real thought, Altair would have recoiled at how much he wanted it, all of it — the easy, open affection, the contentment — not just Malik, crowded into the wall under him. Without meaning to, he glanced up, expectant, and was met with Malik’s annoyed expression.
“Predicting the future?” Malik asked, flushed and panting, but decidedly more mindful than Altair. He kept his position, using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.
“You seemed to like it well enough,” Altair replied, smirking and moving closer until Malik put a palm over his mouth, stopping him.
“I did like the sounds you were making,” Malik conceded, grip tightening when Altair would have pulled away, scowling.
“That wasn’t m-” Altair began, only to be cut off by a short gasp as Malik lowered his hands to Altair’s waist, slotted his thigh between Altair’s legs and nudged upwards. Hips jerking, Altair pressed his face into the curve of Malik’s neck, muttering breathlessly, “That wasn’t all me.”