Altair did not back down. He raised a hand to push Malik away, indulging in the idea almost sulkily, except his hand stilled on the other man's chest, just below the shoulder, his fingers bending with the curve of his collarbone. The river water had not dried from the other man's skin, and it was cool to the touch against his heated hand. It bit into the little scrapes and cuts in the crooks of his fingers that he had acquired while climbing, small injuries that no longer hurt when they bled because of how many times he had broken the skin there, but he hissed just the same, feeling the boiling of his blood meet with the cold dampness clinging to Malik's skin.
“Long,” he answered, raising his eyes before lowering them again. Malik was watching his hand with hawk-eyed attention. An assassin's hand so close to one's heart was no trifling matter. “And a bit humbling.”
Malik raised his head, and even without looking, Altair could feel it in the shift of air. They were standing close enough that the very energy coming off of them seemed to ripple the atmosphere. “I've won, Altair,” he said, voice quiet and deep, like the underwater current, and as if sensing the danger, in a blade by his heart, in the connotations that came with water, they both stepped away, wary of the step they took to bring them ever closer. That, at least, was not a race.
It took him a second, and it was not without great reluctance that the Grandmaster nodded, jerkily, and admitted, “Yes. You have.”
Because he was not merciless, Malik smiled as he bent to retrieve his clothing, hooking them over his arm as he allowed Altair a moment longer to procrastinate. “Good. Then come walk with me. We will return together.”
Altair's head snapped up, eyes wide in alarm as he looked first to the other man, still dripping, and then to an imaginary place to their left, where, past the edge of the cliff, there was a river running quick and treacherous beneath their feet. As tormenting as the heat was, the Grandmaster was no more inclined to partake in a swim than he usually was. “What?” he asked, hoping he had heard wrong. Surely, Malik would not be so cruel a victor as to demand that of him. (But he was a tyrant in his own right, Altair knew.)
Malik did not laugh, but his smile was obvious, biting deep at the edges into his cheeks as he tried to quell it, not wide but inset, and bright just the same. Altair's train of thought was as clear as the wrinkle in his brow, for the man was very poor at hiding things other than himself. “What?” Malik echoed, innocently. “There are footpaths, are there not? You said so yourself. It can be reached by both walking and on horse, and unless you are up to carrying me back at a passable gallop, I suggest we walk.”
“I make a very sorry horse,” Altair muttered dryly, but only upon recovering from his relief.
“Perhaps you should start sleeping in the stables and learn a thing or two from the masters,” Malik retorted easily, falling into step with him as they began to descend. Altair shoved him lightly for that, but eventually, their shoulders came to brush together as they walked anyway, and the journey back took much longer than the journey to, but for once, Malik did not complain.
3/3 - I am already cringing at the idea of all the typos in this.
“Long,” he answered, raising his eyes before lowering them again. Malik was watching his hand with hawk-eyed attention. An assassin's hand so close to one's heart was no trifling matter. “And a bit humbling.”
Malik raised his head, and even without looking, Altair could feel it in the shift of air. They were standing close enough that the very energy coming off of them seemed to ripple the atmosphere. “I've won, Altair,” he said, voice quiet and deep, like the underwater current, and as if sensing the danger, in a blade by his heart, in the connotations that came with water, they both stepped away, wary of the step they took to bring them ever closer. That, at least, was not a race.
It took him a second, and it was not without great reluctance that the Grandmaster nodded, jerkily, and admitted, “Yes. You have.”
Because he was not merciless, Malik smiled as he bent to retrieve his clothing, hooking them over his arm as he allowed Altair a moment longer to procrastinate. “Good. Then come walk with me. We will return together.”
Altair's head snapped up, eyes wide in alarm as he looked first to the other man, still dripping, and then to an imaginary place to their left, where, past the edge of the cliff, there was a river running quick and treacherous beneath their feet. As tormenting as the heat was, the Grandmaster was no more inclined to partake in a swim than he usually was. “What?” he asked, hoping he had heard wrong. Surely, Malik would not be so cruel a victor as to demand that of him. (But he was a tyrant in his own right, Altair knew.)
Malik did not laugh, but his smile was obvious, biting deep at the edges into his cheeks as he tried to quell it, not wide but inset, and bright just the same. Altair's train of thought was as clear as the wrinkle in his brow, for the man was very poor at hiding things other than himself. “What?” Malik echoed, innocently. “There are footpaths, are there not? You said so yourself. It can be reached by both walking and on horse, and unless you are up to carrying me back at a passable gallop, I suggest we walk.”
“I make a very sorry horse,” Altair muttered dryly, but only upon recovering from his relief.
“Perhaps you should start sleeping in the stables and learn a thing or two from the masters,” Malik retorted easily, falling into step with him as they began to descend. Altair shoved him lightly for that, but eventually, their shoulders came to brush together as they walked anyway, and the journey back took much longer than the journey to, but for once, Malik did not complain.