This is my really really bad fill. It doesn't fully comply to your request, but whatever. It's not meant to be in segments, but because of the limit, I have to put in segments.
--Substitution--
The three huddled around the fire, getting what little warmth they could from it. Spending your night outside in the desert was not high on anyone’s list of favourite past times. Spending it with a surly bastard and a brother you cannot help but desire, is about as low as one can get.
The cold was slowly working its way to the bones of his fingers, causing him to place them so near to the fire that one stray spark would burn them. Not that the two others were not in similar positions. Kadar seemed to be suffering the most out of the them. His lips, his beautiful full lips were going blue. Malik could not help but wonder if he could kiss the blue away. If he suckled and bit and ran his tongue over - no. He would not fantasize in such conditions. The entrance to Solomon’s Temple (and a large city) lay a mere mile or so away, but apart from that, they were on a flat expanse of sand. If he chose to pleasure himself (which would be nigh impossible considering the freezing night), he would be caught by either his brother, or, far worse, Altair, in an instant. A humiliation the man could not possibly bear to face. He could just imagine the surprised smirk on his face, canines glinting even in darkness. The raised brows, slightly widened grey eyes. A bitter clench of his stomach struck without warning.
If Malik were asked, he would vehemently deny his jealousy of the younger man. Wonder half amusedly how one could possibly be envious of that bootlicking, self centred, humourless fool. But it was there, all the same. He would never be as fast as him, as strong as him, as nimble. Altair coasted through his training, never practicing half as much as Malik. Natural ability seemed to be worth double ability that was gained through repetition. The elder man would constantly challenge the younger to duel in the arena, to prove once and for all who was best. To his mortification, he always lost. Altair’s lips would curl into a cruel imitation of an innocent smile as he pointed his sword at the other’s pulsing neck. And it would vanish, replaced by a glare, and a warning that the same would happen the next time around.
Altair was ruthless, lazy and about as witty as a fraying carpet. It was to Malik’s anger that Kadar worshipped the ground the man stepped on. Such respect he did not deserve, would never deserve. If anything, his younger brother should have adored him. He, who was diligent, intelligent, and WAS worthy. But no, Kadar only ever looked at him with fraternal affection.
Malik did not feel the same. He wanted his younger brother, as a man should want a woman. Wanted to feel, taste, claim him as he should want to for a pretty young thing in a brothel. Of course, he did the same to whores, but there was no real desire behind his ministrations. No want. Only necessity.
Kadar was the first to penetrate the wall of silence that had fallen.
“So …”
Nothing more. Nothing anyone could respond to. The novice just needed to say something. As ever. Altair raised his head from where it had pointedly been focussed on the ground, and glared at him, eyes narrowed. Almost daring him to say something more, daring Kadar to give him adequate reason to hurt him. The recipient of his gaze shrunk in his skin a little, and turned his eyes away. Ashamed that he disturbed his hero, no doubt. Malik hated that, but did not hate the flush that graced his brother’s cheeks. Only wished that he had put it there, doing something entirely different.
And of course, he had to play saviour to Kadar.
“I‘ll take first watch tonight.”
“And I second,” Altair quickly responded. Quite odd, really, considering the man never seemed eager to do anything other than sit and hang his head like a sullen little boy. But neither Al-Sayf questioned him, merely blinked in surprise.
“I - I guess that leaves me with third,” Kadar spoke out, voice now timid. Altair snorted in disdain, before his head lowered itself once more.
FAIL FILL
--Substitution--
The three huddled around the fire, getting what little warmth they could from it. Spending your night outside in the desert was not high on anyone’s list of favourite past times. Spending it with a surly bastard and a brother you cannot help but desire, is about as low as one can get.
The cold was slowly working its way to the bones of his fingers, causing him to place them so near to the fire that one stray spark would burn them. Not that the two others were not in similar positions. Kadar seemed to be suffering the most out of the them. His lips, his beautiful full lips were going blue. Malik could not help but wonder if he could kiss the blue away. If he suckled and bit and ran his tongue over - no. He would not fantasize in such conditions. The entrance to Solomon’s Temple (and a large city) lay a mere mile or so away, but apart from that, they were on a flat expanse of sand. If he chose to pleasure himself (which would be nigh impossible considering the freezing night), he would be caught by either his brother, or, far worse, Altair, in an instant. A humiliation the man could not possibly bear to face. He could just imagine the surprised smirk on his face, canines glinting even in darkness. The raised brows, slightly widened grey eyes. A bitter clench of his stomach struck without warning.
If Malik were asked, he would vehemently deny his jealousy of the younger man. Wonder half amusedly how one could possibly be envious of that bootlicking, self centred, humourless fool. But it was there, all the same. He would never be as fast as him, as strong as him, as nimble. Altair coasted through his training, never practicing half as much as Malik. Natural ability seemed to be worth double ability that was gained through repetition. The elder man would constantly challenge the younger to duel in the arena, to prove once and for all who was best. To his mortification, he always lost. Altair’s lips would curl into a cruel imitation of an innocent smile as he pointed his sword at the other’s pulsing neck. And it would vanish, replaced by a glare, and a warning that the same would happen the next time around.
Altair was ruthless, lazy and about as witty as a fraying carpet. It was to Malik’s anger that Kadar worshipped the ground the man stepped on. Such respect he did not deserve, would never deserve. If anything, his younger brother should have adored him. He, who was diligent, intelligent, and WAS worthy. But no, Kadar only ever looked at him with fraternal affection.
Malik did not feel the same. He wanted his younger brother, as a man should want a woman. Wanted to feel, taste, claim him as he should want to for a pretty young thing in a brothel. Of course, he did the same to whores, but there was no real desire behind his ministrations. No want. Only necessity.
Kadar was the first to penetrate the wall of silence that had fallen.
“So …”
Nothing more. Nothing anyone could respond to. The novice just needed to say something. As ever. Altair raised his head from where it had pointedly been focussed on the ground, and glared at him, eyes narrowed. Almost daring him to say something more, daring Kadar to give him adequate reason to hurt him. The recipient of his gaze shrunk in his skin a little, and turned his eyes away. Ashamed that he disturbed his hero, no doubt. Malik hated that, but did not hate the flush that graced his brother’s cheeks. Only wished that he had put it there, doing something entirely different.
And of course, he had to play saviour to Kadar.
“I‘ll take first watch tonight.”
“And I second,” Altair quickly responded. Quite odd, really, considering the man never seemed eager to do anything other than sit and hang his head like a sullen little boy. But neither Al-Sayf questioned him, merely blinked in surprise.
“I - I guess that leaves me with third,” Kadar spoke out, voice now timid. Altair snorted in disdain, before his head lowered itself once more.