/doesn't know how to number shit -- Then Altair’s fingers brushed the very bottom of the scar tissue on his flank and he stiffened. It wasn’t even a conscious action, it just sort of happened. Altair pulled back, frowning slightly. He set his hands in the hollows of Malik’s hips and looped his thumb through the belt loops of the jeans Malik still wore. “What is it?” he asked and Malik was glad he wasn’t touching, he couldn’t think when he was. He looked sideways, unable to look at the other man, but Altair unhooked one hand and gently grabbed his chin. “Malik,” he said, making Malik look at him. He didn’t have to say anything else really, the question was all in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Malik said.
Altair blinked at him, surprised, “For what?” and he let go of Malik’s chin to stroke his cheek. “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”
Malik licked his lips and his eyes roved again before settling back on Altair and he was suddenly super aware of the remaining part of his arm and the fact that when he wore short sleeves the end always just barely showed. He didn’t own any shirts like that anymore because of it, except for night shirts, for when he was alone, and no one could see or stare. His next words were small and dry and rasped out from the back of his throat, “I don’t want you to see.”
Altair blinked at him, not understanding at first, then, just like they always did, his eyes traveled to the partial empty sleeve. Malik did his best not to squirm from being stared at so openly by the other man. Most people caught and eyeful before looking away, not wanting to be rude, only a few people were comfortable enough around him to just stare right at it without feeling awkward, and one of them was dead now.
A frown etched itself right across Altair’s face before he snatched up Malik’s hand and put it against his stomach under his shirt. He then grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled up. Malik felt his throat go dry watching the curve of Altair’s body as he stretched his arms up over his head, his abdomen full of muscle. Then his eyes caught more detail. “You aren’t the only scarred one,” Altair told him and gently took hold of Malik’s wrist, guiding his hand across the multitude of scars on Altair’s chest.
Malik carefully traced each scar as Altair presented it to him, starting with the newest one, the bullet wound that looked similar to a ragged starburst in his side. Malik didn’t know how he’d missed them that first night, since they were everywhere, all shapes and sizes, and all pale against his dark skin. Maybe it had been the adrenaline, the fact that he’d been so wired after the burn out with Ezio and then the shock of seeing Altair again (bleeding out in his kitchen non withstanding) he hadn’t really checked him out, half naked as he’d been. Now though it was all he could do to find each imperfect mar on his skin, each white scar, with his eyes and his fingers and know them. Altair watched him levelly, his hands back on Malik’s hips, letting Malik slowly find each perfect little scar.
As Malik found one of the last ones, on Altair’s shoulder, over his collar bone, a deep, nasty wound like he’d been stabbed, Altair leaned over him, “I don’t care,” he said softly, “I like you because of your imperfections,” and he kissed Malik gently. Malik reached up and wrapped his arm around Altair’s neck. “It’s not like you still aren’t amazing even if you think you’re flawed,” and he brushed his lips against Malik’s. “I like you just like this,” and he rested his forehead against Malik’s, amber eyes closing.
His own eyes shut and he had to quickly press his hand over his mouth before something that sounded very much like a sob threatened to come out. Altair didn’t say anything, didn’t even open his eyes. “Damn you,” Malik was finally able to mutter and Altair’s eyes flickered open and he looked at Malik curiously. “Why the hell did it take you so long to come into my life?” he demanded.
Re: Altered Flight Pattern (88/?)
--
Then Altair’s fingers brushed the very bottom of the scar tissue on his flank and he stiffened. It wasn’t even a conscious action, it just sort of happened. Altair pulled back, frowning slightly. He set his hands in the hollows of Malik’s hips and looped his thumb through the belt loops of the jeans Malik still wore. “What is it?” he asked and Malik was glad he wasn’t touching, he couldn’t think when he was. He looked sideways, unable to look at the other man, but Altair unhooked one hand and gently grabbed his chin. “Malik,” he said, making Malik look at him. He didn’t have to say anything else really, the question was all in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Malik said.
Altair blinked at him, surprised, “For what?” and he let go of Malik’s chin to stroke his cheek. “What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”
Malik licked his lips and his eyes roved again before settling back on Altair and he was suddenly super aware of the remaining part of his arm and the fact that when he wore short sleeves the end always just barely showed. He didn’t own any shirts like that anymore because of it, except for night shirts, for when he was alone, and no one could see or stare. His next words were small and dry and rasped out from the back of his throat, “I don’t want you to see.”
Altair blinked at him, not understanding at first, then, just like they always did, his eyes traveled to the partial empty sleeve. Malik did his best not to squirm from being stared at so openly by the other man. Most people caught and eyeful before looking away, not wanting to be rude, only a few people were comfortable enough around him to just stare right at it without feeling awkward, and one of them was dead now.
A frown etched itself right across Altair’s face before he snatched up Malik’s hand and put it against his stomach under his shirt. He then grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled up. Malik felt his throat go dry watching the curve of Altair’s body as he stretched his arms up over his head, his abdomen full of muscle. Then his eyes caught more detail. “You aren’t the only scarred one,” Altair told him and gently took hold of Malik’s wrist, guiding his hand across the multitude of scars on Altair’s chest.
Malik carefully traced each scar as Altair presented it to him, starting with the newest one, the bullet wound that looked similar to a ragged starburst in his side. Malik didn’t know how he’d missed them that first night, since they were everywhere, all shapes and sizes, and all pale against his dark skin. Maybe it had been the adrenaline, the fact that he’d been so wired after the burn out with Ezio and then the shock of seeing Altair again (bleeding out in his kitchen non withstanding) he hadn’t really checked him out, half naked as he’d been. Now though it was all he could do to find each imperfect mar on his skin, each white scar, with his eyes and his fingers and know them. Altair watched him levelly, his hands back on Malik’s hips, letting Malik slowly find each perfect little scar.
As Malik found one of the last ones, on Altair’s shoulder, over his collar bone, a deep, nasty wound like he’d been stabbed, Altair leaned over him, “I don’t care,” he said softly, “I like you because of your imperfections,” and he kissed Malik gently. Malik reached up and wrapped his arm around Altair’s neck. “It’s not like you still aren’t amazing even if you think you’re flawed,” and he brushed his lips against Malik’s. “I like you just like this,” and he rested his forehead against Malik’s, amber eyes closing.
His own eyes shut and he had to quickly press his hand over his mouth before something that sounded very much like a sob threatened to come out. Altair didn’t say anything, didn’t even open his eyes. “Damn you,” Malik was finally able to mutter and Altair’s eyes flickered open and he looked at Malik curiously. “Why the hell did it take you so long to come into my life?” he demanded.