Altair knew; he had to, groaning out quiet, nearly reverent words and half-sentences like a mantra to make up for everything they didn't say, and even though it was only repetitions of Malik's name, and Yes', and Now's and things that his tongue could not shape into words fast enough when Malik filled him and seemed to press every spot inside of him at once, Malik could hear it just the same, the Me too, the For always. “I wouldn't have any it any other way,” Altair said, the last coherent thing he managed to get out before he felt everything swell to the point that he wondered how the two of them could possibly still fit in that chair, when every sensation was large enough to fill the entire room, and it wasn't white he saw behind his eyelids when he burst wide open, it was blue, deep as a sapphire but bright as the sky, blue, blue, blue-
-----
Desmond desynchronized with a shuddering gasp, because he couldn't, couldn't possibly know what it was like to have his heart wind up and spring like that, even if he knew lust and physical pleasure and sex. He woke up to see Shaun hovering over him with slight alarm in the dip of his frown, and how could they have possibly thought it was a good idea to go back and explore Altair's hidden memories like they had pried into Ezio's of Christina? Just because the girls were out and Desmond, in the name of curiosity, had proposed it, and Shaun, in the name of fucking history had agreed?
“Desmond, mate, you all together there?” Shaun asked, because these days, the things that were wrong with Desmond were not at all physical, and it was less a matter of being all there than it was of being all right. Curse his pale English complexion, too, because he was obviously fully aware of the red tint to his cheeks and was running a hand over his face to hide it.
“I- oh,” Desmond said, and as intelligent of a response it was, it was not in Arabic or Italian, which was a good sign, at the very least. It seemed to take genuine effort for him to pry his fingers off the armrests of the animus, and only then did he become painfully aware of the discomfort between his own legs, and the tenting visual evidence of it that Shaun was clearly trying not to look at. He blinked back up at the other man, not even ashamed, because it was a natural reaction, both physiologically and intrinsically in the face of emotions like that, and he sat back from, easing the tension in his body that wasn't rightfully his. “God,” he said, fingers twitching because they could still feel someone's skin under them.
“Look a little shaken up there,” Shaun remarked, always a proponent of understanding sympathy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sat down on the foot of the Animus' seat, Desmond's knee bumping against his back. “Not that I can exactly blame you there, I mean technically, we've just acquired, if you want to get technical about it, the first recorded video documentation of historical pornography, that's all. And homoerotic, to add insult to injury. Bet we could make a fortune on that if we weren't, you know, preoccupied with saving the world and all.”
Desmond was glad for that humor, at least, even if the hollow pang in his heart was echoing without someone else to answer it. That was another time, another place, another person, he reminded himself, as he commonly had to consciously recall these days. “Shaun, don't tell-”
“I won't,” Shaun said, looking over his shoulder. They stared at each other for a moment, before he finally asked, “Did it hurt?”
Oh, Desmond thought, for the second time that day, realizing that Shaun had been misunderstanding, that he thought Desmond was shaken up because it had been traumatizing, and Desmond shook his head, smiling wryly. Then, thinking better, he amended it with, “Maybe a little.”
2/3
Desmond desynchronized with a shuddering gasp, because he couldn't, couldn't possibly know what it was like to have his heart wind up and spring like that, even if he knew lust and physical pleasure and sex. He woke up to see Shaun hovering over him with slight alarm in the dip of his frown, and how could they have possibly thought it was a good idea to go back and explore Altair's hidden memories like they had pried into Ezio's of Christina? Just because the girls were out and Desmond, in the name of curiosity, had proposed it, and Shaun, in the name of fucking history had agreed?
“Desmond, mate, you all together there?” Shaun asked, because these days, the things that were wrong with Desmond were not at all physical, and it was less a matter of being all there than it was of being all right. Curse his pale English complexion, too, because he was obviously fully aware of the red tint to his cheeks and was running a hand over his face to hide it.
“I- oh,” Desmond said, and as intelligent of a response it was, it was not in Arabic or Italian, which was a good sign, at the very least. It seemed to take genuine effort for him to pry his fingers off the armrests of the animus, and only then did he become painfully aware of the discomfort between his own legs, and the tenting visual evidence of it that Shaun was clearly trying not to look at. He blinked back up at the other man, not even ashamed, because it was a natural reaction, both physiologically and intrinsically in the face of emotions like that, and he sat back from, easing the tension in his body that wasn't rightfully his. “God,” he said, fingers twitching because they could still feel someone's skin under them.
“Look a little shaken up there,” Shaun remarked, always a proponent of understanding sympathy, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He sat down on the foot of the Animus' seat, Desmond's knee bumping against his back. “Not that I can exactly blame you there, I mean technically, we've just acquired, if you want to get technical about it, the first recorded video documentation of historical pornography, that's all. And homoerotic, to add insult to injury. Bet we could make a fortune on that if we weren't, you know, preoccupied with saving the world and all.”
Desmond was glad for that humor, at least, even if the hollow pang in his heart was echoing without someone else to answer it. That was another time, another place, another person, he reminded himself, as he commonly had to consciously recall these days. “Shaun, don't tell-”
“I won't,” Shaun said, looking over his shoulder. They stared at each other for a moment, before he finally asked, “Did it hurt?”
Oh, Desmond thought, for the second time that day, realizing that Shaun had been misunderstanding, that he thought Desmond was shaken up because it had been traumatizing, and Desmond shook his head, smiling wryly. Then, thinking better, he amended it with, “Maybe a little.”