"He's afraid of thunder," Malik said through a sigh, looking down at his still open jeans. He couldn't have put on that much weight without noticing. After all, he had just worn the jeans a few weeks ago. Maybe it was just because they were fresh out of the dryer, still practically warm.
Altaïr's hand along his stomach brought him out of his thoughts, his fingers curling in an attempt to tug Malik's jeans close. "No go," Altaïr murmured, humming out after. "What have you been eating lately?"
Malik huffed, tugging his body away from Altaïr. "Oh, you know. I've been sneaking in a pizza and a chicken between breakfast and lunch. It gets me through the day," he responded dryly, disappearing into their room to tug the damned jeans off. He had been wearing nothing but his loose dress pants and sweats for such a long time, too exhausted to do anything beside go to work and then pass out on the couch. Or during sex, as Altaïr had taken to reminding him.
The sweatpants made him feel a little better, tucked into a hoodie he thought to be Altaïr's. He sat down heavily at the island in the kitchen, the stool protesting with a low squeak that had Kadar snickering. "Fuck you," Malik snapped sourly, opening his sandwich and looking at it with little desire.
"We'll go for a run tomorrow morning," Altaïr said through a mouthful of his own sandwich, elbows on the table and eyes on Malik. "It's been a while."
"Fine," Malik answered, pushing his sandwich towards Altaïr to grab an apple and water from the fridge, instead.
*
Malik was dying.
It wasn't as though he was out of shape--no. He was in perfect shape, not even out of breath at all. But every step made his head pound, his stomach constantly tossing and turning to the point where Malik's vision was beginning to blur. Altaïr was talking, a warm presence beside him in the cold winter morning, entirely too early for anyone to be awake and yet there they were, going for a run.
"You okay?" Altaïr huffed out, the touch against Malik's wrist the only reason why he heard him. Well, no, he wasn't okay, but he wasn't going to tell Altaïr that. His pride had taken one too many hits in the past twenty-four hours for him to admit that something didn't feel right in his body. It wasn't even as though Malik hated running. He loved running, he just hadn't had time to as of late. Even after a break he stilled loved running, though, loved the feel of his body getting back into the groove again.
His body just wasn't cooperating.
The first stumble was apparently enough of a warning for Altaïr, Malik trying not to jerk out of the firm hold on his bicep. He stumbled and moved, dragging Altaïr with him until he could manage to find a bush to bury his face in and vomit.
Altaïr was there, rubbing his gloved hand against Malik's back. Suddenly he was too hot and too cold, his body trying to empty his stomach only to find nothing there. The dry heaves were painful and loud in the early morning, his breath foggy with the cold. Altaïr somehow managed to keep them both up, his arms wrapped around Malik and trying to whisper soothing things into his ear.
It took ten minutes of pain and cold sweats before Malik could stand, leaning heavily against Altaïr. His mouth tasted sour and his body was trembling, listening as Altaïr called the apartment four times before Kadar finally picked up. His voice sounded sleepy on the other side of the line, contrasting against Altaïr's concern-rough voice.
Malik's face was hot and painful as he pressed it into the curve of Altaïr's throat. The man's morning stubble hurt, but not nearly as bad as the pounding in his head. It was a strange feeling, the overwhelming sense of confusion and vulnerability that came with vomiting on the side of the road. He couldn't even find it in himself to feel ashamed with how he was attempting to practically burrow into Altaïr, whimpering quietly when his stomach gave another lurch and he was leaning over to pour some more bile over the poor, unsuspecting bush.
"Okay," Altaïr said after he had hung up, using his now-free arm to wrap more securely around Malik. "Now I'm officially worried."
(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.b/?
Altaïr's hand along his stomach brought him out of his thoughts, his fingers curling in an attempt to tug Malik's jeans close. "No go," Altaïr murmured, humming out after. "What have you been eating lately?"
Malik huffed, tugging his body away from Altaïr. "Oh, you know. I've been sneaking in a pizza and a chicken between breakfast and lunch. It gets me through the day," he responded dryly, disappearing into their room to tug the damned jeans off. He had been wearing nothing but his loose dress pants and sweats for such a long time, too exhausted to do anything beside go to work and then pass out on the couch. Or during sex, as Altaïr had taken to reminding him.
The sweatpants made him feel a little better, tucked into a hoodie he thought to be Altaïr's. He sat down heavily at the island in the kitchen, the stool protesting with a low squeak that had Kadar snickering. "Fuck you," Malik snapped sourly, opening his sandwich and looking at it with little desire.
"We'll go for a run tomorrow morning," Altaïr said through a mouthful of his own sandwich, elbows on the table and eyes on Malik. "It's been a while."
"Fine," Malik answered, pushing his sandwich towards Altaïr to grab an apple and water from the fridge, instead.
Malik was dying.
It wasn't as though he was out of shape--no. He was in perfect shape, not even out of breath at all. But every step made his head pound, his stomach constantly tossing and turning to the point where Malik's vision was beginning to blur. Altaïr was talking, a warm presence beside him in the cold winter morning, entirely too early for anyone to be awake and yet there they were, going for a run.
"You okay?" Altaïr huffed out, the touch against Malik's wrist the only reason why he heard him. Well, no, he wasn't okay, but he wasn't going to tell Altaïr that. His pride had taken one too many hits in the past twenty-four hours for him to admit that something didn't feel right in his body. It wasn't even as though Malik hated running. He loved running, he just hadn't had time to as of late. Even after a break he stilled loved running, though, loved the feel of his body getting back into the groove again.
His body just wasn't cooperating.
The first stumble was apparently enough of a warning for Altaïr, Malik trying not to jerk out of the firm hold on his bicep. He stumbled and moved, dragging Altaïr with him until he could manage to find a bush to bury his face in and vomit.
Altaïr was there, rubbing his gloved hand against Malik's back. Suddenly he was too hot and too cold, his body trying to empty his stomach only to find nothing there. The dry heaves were painful and loud in the early morning, his breath foggy with the cold. Altaïr somehow managed to keep them both up, his arms wrapped around Malik and trying to whisper soothing things into his ear.
It took ten minutes of pain and cold sweats before Malik could stand, leaning heavily against Altaïr. His mouth tasted sour and his body was trembling, listening as Altaïr called the apartment four times before Kadar finally picked up. His voice sounded sleepy on the other side of the line, contrasting against Altaïr's concern-rough voice.
Malik's face was hot and painful as he pressed it into the curve of Altaïr's throat. The man's morning stubble hurt, but not nearly as bad as the pounding in his head. It was a strange feeling, the overwhelming sense of confusion and vulnerability that came with vomiting on the side of the road. He couldn't even find it in himself to feel ashamed with how he was attempting to practically burrow into Altaïr, whimpering quietly when his stomach gave another lurch and he was leaning over to pour some more bile over the poor, unsuspecting bush.
"Okay," Altaïr said after he had hung up, using his now-free arm to wrap more securely around Malik. "Now I'm officially worried."