“I was hardly aware the weather here was so captivating,” Malik says when Altair walks back into the bureau after oh-so-politely escorting the Damascus rafiq out. The Eastern inks are spread on the table, and Altair stops and tenses at the sight of them, at the sight of him, standing in front of the counter for once instead of behind it, leaning against its edge.
“It's nice,” says Altair, looking toward the lattice in the courtyard, visible through the other door.
“Is it the heat that you like, then? The rise in temperature in the afternoon? Or perhaps the desert chill at night? Maybe you like how fickle the weather is here. Or maybe the sparse rains – you never did like water.” With every word, Malik takes a step closer, but there are more words than there are steps between the two of them, and by the time he finishes, Altair is cornered - trapped between his own unflinching pride and Malik's hand, slipping into his hood and around the back of his head. He forces Altair to look at him by fisting his hand in the younger man's hair. “Is that why you came?”
“Come back to Masyaf with me, Malik,” Altair says, quietly, lifting his eyes.
Malik smiles, loosening his hold. “For what reason, Altair?”
Altair returns the smile, though his rendition is more subdued, dim but bright like candlelight at dusk, like the torch fires of Masyaf from a distance, like the stars from the garden terrace behind its castle. Altair reaches up, pulling the other man's hand down, and Malik lets him, fingers sliding through the strands. “You have been away for too long, brother – have you forgotten? The weather there is even nicer,” Altair says, turning his palm up and cupping his hand for Malik's to fall into it, and fall it does, fingers seeping through the cracks of the Grandmaster's like sand through a sieve.
“And what of Jerusalem?” Malik asks, because it is a beautiful city, has been ever since it stopped being a banishment, and in a sense, it is his, as much as Masyaf will ever be.
Altair gives this a moment of thought.
“I will appoint another rafiq.” Then, he lowers his eyes to their hands, grins a little. When he contracts his fingers, Malik squeezes back. “Or we can make the one in Damascus look after it, if he likes it so much.”
{ooc; SORRY OP the Acre rafiq couldn't make it; the ride is tough on his old man back, so in lieu of that, no tea parties were to be had, but at least I fit the goading and a mention of his pots in there?}
(2/2)
“It's nice,” says Altair, looking toward the lattice in the courtyard, visible through the other door.
“Is it the heat that you like, then? The rise in temperature in the afternoon? Or perhaps the desert chill at night? Maybe you like how fickle the weather is here. Or maybe the sparse rains – you never did like water.” With every word, Malik takes a step closer, but there are more words than there are steps between the two of them, and by the time he finishes, Altair is cornered - trapped between his own unflinching pride and Malik's hand, slipping into his hood and around the back of his head. He forces Altair to look at him by fisting his hand in the younger man's hair. “Is that why you came?”
“Come back to Masyaf with me, Malik,” Altair says, quietly, lifting his eyes.
Malik smiles, loosening his hold. “For what reason, Altair?”
Altair returns the smile, though his rendition is more subdued, dim but bright like candlelight at dusk, like the torch fires of Masyaf from a distance, like the stars from the garden terrace behind its castle. Altair reaches up, pulling the other man's hand down, and Malik lets him, fingers sliding through the strands. “You have been away for too long, brother – have you forgotten? The weather there is even nicer,” Altair says, turning his palm up and cupping his hand for Malik's to fall into it, and fall it does, fingers seeping through the cracks of the Grandmaster's like sand through a sieve.
“And what of Jerusalem?” Malik asks, because it is a beautiful city, has been ever since it stopped being a banishment, and in a sense, it is his, as much as Masyaf will ever be.
Altair gives this a moment of thought.
“I will appoint another rafiq.” Then, he lowers his eyes to their hands, grins a little. When he contracts his fingers, Malik squeezes back. “Or we can make the one in Damascus look after it, if he likes it so much.”
{ooc; SORRY OP the Acre rafiq couldn't make it; the ride is tough on his old man back, so in lieu of that, no tea parties were to be had, but at least I fit the goading and a mention of his pots in there?}