It's completely odd, Malik thinks as he sits on the not-couch at the prosthetist's office, waiting for the doctor to come in, that just when he finally gets used to not having an arm, someone with the ability to help him regain his lost limb surfaces. He wants to call it ironic, perhaps even richly so, but feels that the word somehow doesn't measure up to what is happening.
It had been Altair's idea, shockingly enough. A fake arm - prosthetic, they called it. Made out of metal and wire and sometimes something that looked like living flesh, if the customer wanted it to. Truthfully, when it had first been suggested, Malik had laughed. He'd laughed himself sick, bent over the table so he wouldn't fall down. Then, after he'd finished laughing, he'd locked himself in his room until Kadar got tired of being left out in the cold and ordered Altair to climb in through the vents above his room and force him out. Both boys had been smacked for it, rather forcefully.
Despite his reservations, he still sits here and waits for the doctor, because while he's grown used to not having an arm, he still yearns for his lost limb. He's not proud to say it, and will never admit such a weak notion out loud, but it is the truth.
The doctor finally comes in, a woman whose all smiles, and they begin to discuss the new arm in question. It will take a week to get his choice of arm properly fitted, but after that he will have an arm again. Although Malik's face is calm and composed, inside his nerves flutter with anxiety. He is so used to being abnormal with one arm, so used to fending off concerns with barbed comments and cold looks, so used to the underhanded methods fellow employees try to take because of his disability (or what they call it anyway) that he isn't sure he recalls how to be "normal".
Hopefully he can find out soon.
------
A week passes by in glorious speed, and all too soon Malik is back at the doctor's office, hand digging into the not-couch as they fit the cap onto the severed part of his arm. It's painful, but no more so than losing his arm the first time. After that, its like connecting the final piece of the jigsaw; the arm clicks as it settles into the cap, and after the doctor fiddles around a moment more she takes a step back and nods. His heart pounding, Malik gingerly raises the arm and rolls it.
It moves.
He clenches his fist, straightens the arm, rolls his wrist - every movement is as flawless and easy as it is on his regular arm, as if there's nothing wrong to begin with. His lips are pressed firm, but his eyes tell of his joy. He quietly thanks the doctor as he slips on his coat - momentarily forgetting he has two arms again - and walks out the door, heading for home. Altair will be pleased, he thinks.
-------
Altair is more than pleased. The bronze-skinned assassin grins as he examines the fake, gently running fingers over the not-skin that's in the same shade as his regular skin. Malik enjoys the attention, although he still throws a few sour comments in for the sake of making it seem otherwise.
The trouble doesn't start until later that night, when Malik finds himself in the bathroom, pausing before he takes a shower. The fingertips of his normal hand hover over where his fake arm is connected in hesitation. He has always taken his before bed showers one-handed. The idea of doing otherwise feels... unnaturally wrong for some reason. Almost as if the other arm has no place within the shower.
So he takes the fake out.
-------
Altair frowns when he returns from the shower minus one arm. "Why did you take it out?"
"It was bothering me."
There is no explanation beyond that, but Malik knows Altair understands. The assassin had to get a prosthetic ring finger for his left hand a while back, and while he wears it during the day, he always takes it off during his jobs. He's used to handling his weapons without it, and doesn't need it despite what his boss insists upon.
He climbs into bed then frowns again. The cap feels weird against his bed, almost intrusive. Again he hesitates. The cap is what connects it all - if it is removed, he may not be able to put the arm back in. Then again, does it really matter? He's lost his arm once - he can lose it again.
He removes the cap, placing it gingerly on the bedside table before rolling to face Altair. In the darkness, fingers stroke his neck and shoulder as they do every bedtime. When they reach the area where the cap was though--
Malik cries out in alarm as a bolt of white-hot pleasure shoots through him, straight to his groin. Altair's fingers freeze, but that only makes it worse. It was true that after the loss of his arm his stump was sensitive, but never so sensitive that it caused feelings like these! He writhes and fights to get away from Altair, who is suddenly holding him down and touching the flesh expertly, stroking it gently and listening to Malik's hitched gasps and whimpers.
In the darkness the assassin smiles and rolls on top of the man, grinding their erections together. Malik is not the only one effected by this new development. The sounds are like drugs to the assassin, and they get even better when Altair kisses the flesh, licking and sucking at the small areas where the needles when it. It proves to be too much for the older man despite his prowess in bed; one sharp suck is all it takes and he's arching back as he comes, shaking badly as he goes blind.
Altair stills above him, hissing through his teeth as he grinds against Malik, rinsing the last visages of pleasure from his own system, sighing when he's finally drained dry. He collapses against Malik, but none of the usual banter assaults him. The raven-haired man is unconscious, and it isn't long before Altair follows him.
Fill: Careful Touch 1/1
It had been Altair's idea, shockingly enough. A fake arm - prosthetic, they called it. Made out of metal and wire and sometimes something that looked like living flesh, if the customer wanted it to. Truthfully, when it had first been suggested, Malik had laughed. He'd laughed himself sick, bent over the table so he wouldn't fall down. Then, after he'd finished laughing, he'd locked himself in his room until Kadar got tired of being left out in the cold and ordered Altair to climb in through the vents above his room and force him out. Both boys had been smacked for it, rather forcefully.
Despite his reservations, he still sits here and waits for the doctor, because while he's grown used to not having an arm, he still yearns for his lost limb. He's not proud to say it, and will never admit such a weak notion out loud, but it is the truth.
The doctor finally comes in, a woman whose all smiles, and they begin to discuss the new arm in question. It will take a week to get his choice of arm properly fitted, but after that he will have an arm again. Although Malik's face is calm and composed, inside his nerves flutter with anxiety. He is so used to being abnormal with one arm, so used to fending off concerns with barbed comments and cold looks, so used to the underhanded methods fellow employees try to take because of his disability (or what they call it anyway) that he isn't sure he recalls how to be "normal".
Hopefully he can find out soon.
------
A week passes by in glorious speed, and all too soon Malik is back at the doctor's office, hand digging into the not-couch as they fit the cap onto the severed part of his arm. It's painful, but no more so than losing his arm the first time. After that, its like connecting the final piece of the jigsaw; the arm clicks as it settles into the cap, and after the doctor fiddles around a moment more she takes a step back and nods. His heart pounding, Malik gingerly raises the arm and rolls it.
It moves.
He clenches his fist, straightens the arm, rolls his wrist - every movement is as flawless and easy as it is on his regular arm, as if there's nothing wrong to begin with. His lips are pressed firm, but his eyes tell of his joy. He quietly thanks the doctor as he slips on his coat - momentarily forgetting he has two arms again - and walks out the door, heading for home. Altair will be pleased, he thinks.
-------
Altair is more than pleased. The bronze-skinned assassin grins as he examines the fake, gently running fingers over the not-skin that's in the same shade as his regular skin. Malik enjoys the attention, although he still throws a few sour comments in for the sake of making it seem otherwise.
The trouble doesn't start until later that night, when Malik finds himself in the bathroom, pausing before he takes a shower. The fingertips of his normal hand hover over where his fake arm is connected in hesitation. He has always taken his before bed showers one-handed. The idea of doing otherwise feels... unnaturally wrong for some reason. Almost as if the other arm has no place within the shower.
So he takes the fake out.
-------
Altair frowns when he returns from the shower minus one arm. "Why did you take it out?"
"It was bothering me."
There is no explanation beyond that, but Malik knows Altair understands. The assassin had to get a prosthetic ring finger for his left hand a while back, and while he wears it during the day, he always takes it off during his jobs. He's used to handling his weapons without it, and doesn't need it despite what his boss insists upon.
He climbs into bed then frowns again. The cap feels weird against his bed, almost intrusive. Again he hesitates. The cap is what connects it all - if it is removed, he may not be able to put the arm back in. Then again, does it really matter? He's lost his arm once - he can lose it again.
He removes the cap, placing it gingerly on the bedside table before rolling to face Altair. In the darkness, fingers stroke his neck and shoulder as they do every bedtime. When they reach the area where the cap was though--
Malik cries out in alarm as a bolt of white-hot pleasure shoots through him, straight to his groin. Altair's fingers freeze, but that only makes it worse. It was true that after the loss of his arm his stump was sensitive, but never so sensitive that it caused feelings like these! He writhes and fights to get away from Altair, who is suddenly holding him down and touching the flesh expertly, stroking it gently and listening to Malik's hitched gasps and whimpers.
In the darkness the assassin smiles and rolls on top of the man, grinding their erections together. Malik is not the only one effected by this new development. The sounds are like drugs to the assassin, and they get even better when Altair kisses the flesh, licking and sucking at the small areas where the needles when it. It proves to be too much for the older man despite his prowess in bed; one sharp suck is all it takes and he's arching back as he comes, shaking badly as he goes blind.
Altair stills above him, hissing through his teeth as he grinds against Malik, rinsing the last visages of pleasure from his own system, sighing when he's finally drained dry. He collapses against Malik, but none of the usual banter assaults him. The raven-haired man is unconscious, and it isn't long before Altair follows him.