His world is narrowed to what blurry images he can see from between the cracks of Altair's fingers, and the sharp pricks of pain that come from Altair biting at his mouth, digging the talons of his free hand into his waist, grinding his hips into the uneven stone floor. He takes it, soaks it all in like there is nothing in him but room for this torture, until even his heart begins to inevitably hurt in the cage of his chest. Nonetheless, he reaches forward, reaches back, reaches for more, because Assassins have been taught to weather pain, and this, at the very least, makes him feel like he stands a little more on par with his brother and the great Eagle of Masyaf, who are otherwise always so unreachable because he is too young, too unskilled, and too much not Malik.
Altair, normally a man of few words, speaks at him, but not to him. He is so furious; everything about that calm, aloof demeanor is gone. He is always angry when they do this, always so forceful, and always aching, but that makes them more alike, Kadar figures, and he revels in that too. “Why can't you look at me?” Altair growls, pressing his palm and fingertips against Kadar's brow, until color blooms behind his eyelids. “Why won't you look at me? I have done everything even Al Mualim would want, and you still turn away? Damn you, you are not too good for me! I have bested you at everything! Why is that not enough? Why am I not enough?”
Kadar pants against the inside of his wrist, back arching off the floor, and he doesn't say anything, because his voice is not deep or dry enough to pass for his brother's, but he lifts his hands, even if Altair is keeping him pinned down far enough that he can only brush the tips of his fingers against the older man's chin. He can already feel the edges of a scowl there, the dampness of sweat and the wrinkle of skin as Altair pulls his lips back over his teeth, but Kadar cannot get past that, his reach limited as it is. Altair shoves him off with a rough push and a roar, down and away from him, “Why am I not enough?” he snarls.
Kadar's fingers flex in the air, grabbing at nothing. I don't know, he thinks, I don't know, Altair. Why? Why aren't I?
minifill
Altair, normally a man of few words, speaks at him, but not to him. He is so furious; everything about that calm, aloof demeanor is gone. He is always angry when they do this, always so forceful, and always aching, but that makes them more alike, Kadar figures, and he revels in that too. “Why can't you look at me?” Altair growls, pressing his palm and fingertips against Kadar's brow, until color blooms behind his eyelids. “Why won't you look at me? I have done everything even Al Mualim would want, and you still turn away? Damn you, you are not too good for me! I have bested you at everything! Why is that not enough? Why am I not enough?”
Kadar pants against the inside of his wrist, back arching off the floor, and he doesn't say anything, because his voice is not deep or dry enough to pass for his brother's, but he lifts his hands, even if Altair is keeping him pinned down far enough that he can only brush the tips of his fingers against the older man's chin. He can already feel the edges of a scowl there, the dampness of sweat and the wrinkle of skin as Altair pulls his lips back over his teeth, but Kadar cannot get past that, his reach limited as it is. Altair shoves him off with a rough push and a roar, down and away from him, “Why am I not enough?” he snarls.
Kadar's fingers flex in the air, grabbing at nothing. I don't know, he thinks, I don't know, Altair. Why? Why aren't I?