He’s washing the dried blood off his hands to the best of his ability, using a puddle of rainwater just outside to serve his purpose. In the darkness just before the first rays of light, he can’t see much, so he fumbles and fumbles until he can do a decent job.
He looks over his shoulder and Malik’s face, a lot different from what he remembers, looks back at him, only a little bit surprised. He stops what he’s doing, and he thinks, This is it, it’s over; it’s all over. For a moment they say absolutely nothing, just stare at each other as if otherwise it would disrupt the moment.
He doesn’t even try to disrupt what happens between the two of them.
Eventually, he gets up from his crouching position with a pleasant tingling of his legs and walks up to him, nudges him against the wall.
Are you fucking bloody insane? Malik snaps, and he brings a hand to pin his wrist against the wall as Malik’s breaths come in sporadic gasps, looking at his still red hands. It smells like blood, iron, tangy. He feels Malik’s eyes roving wildly on his face, looking for a sign—any sign—of life, any that he recognizes who he is. But, he realizes, there must be none but the smile spreading across his lips, and how much dazed he looks.
He asks, Don’t you recognize me, habibi? It’s me, Altaïr.
It’s Malik. Malik. After all this time.
It’s intoxicating. He feels better than he has for a long time. Even if he feels the mental weariness weighing down on his body, after all these years.
“You always manage to screw things right up, don’t you?” He asks.
“No, no, no Malik. Stop speaking like that, that’s not your accent; stop speaking like Maria’s country people.”
He—no, Altaïr—steals a kiss. He steals another, and steals his neck.
He steals his clothing.
He steals Malik’s body, even, for a while.
He tries to not think too much about it, because it would give this too much meaning. He doesn’t want to think about how willingly Malik throws his head back to give him free access to his neck as he runs teeth and lips down his skin. (Even as he whispers, “Shaun, Shaun. Not Malik.”) He keeps his armed arm positioned just below his neck throughout this whole ordeal, won’t he do anything strange. He doesn’t think about the way Malik slips a leg up and around his waist and how he stays still as he does with him as he will.
He doesn’t think about Malik gives him control.
All he can think about is how good it feels, how much blood he can smell and how intoxicating it is.
The blood.
It feels goddamn liberating.
He bites the slant of Malik’s shoulder and draws blood and licks it with the broad of his tongue. His left hand is planted against Malik’s sternum, carefully so he won’t trigger the hidden blade, pressing him into the cold wall.
Altaïr sighs and closes his eyes, dreams of the colors of Masyaf and not the white and the black and the red. He tries not to lose himself.
Maybe this is therapy, maybe he—
—he leaves, afterwards.
~
Soon, he learns that there is no one that can help him unveil how to die fully and be reborn in a vessel without these scars.
a/n: Hopefully it's getting darker? I enjoyed writing this part. And I'm sorry if OP didn't like the Altaïr/Malik channeling through Desmond and Shaun. :/ I've posted the first part in my personal journal (beeskies.livejournal.com/6212.html#cutid1) in case anyone wants to go for some non-anon comments. Maybe tomorrow I'll post the second part and link it to that post. Anyway, I hope this part satisfied you guys despite the size and possible fail! :D
i grow tired of my flesh and bones (2c/3)
He looks over his shoulder and Malik’s face, a lot different from what he remembers, looks back at him, only a little bit surprised. He stops what he’s doing, and he thinks, This is it, it’s over; it’s all over. For a moment they say absolutely nothing, just stare at each other as if otherwise it would disrupt the moment.
He doesn’t even try to disrupt what happens between the two of them.
Eventually, he gets up from his crouching position with a pleasant tingling of his legs and walks up to him, nudges him against the wall.
Are you fucking bloody insane? Malik snaps, and he brings a hand to pin his wrist against the wall as Malik’s breaths come in sporadic gasps, looking at his still red hands. It smells like blood, iron, tangy. He feels Malik’s eyes roving wildly on his face, looking for a sign—any sign—of life, any that he recognizes who he is. But, he realizes, there must be none but the smile spreading across his lips, and how much dazed he looks.
He asks, Don’t you recognize me, habibi? It’s me, Altaïr.
It’s Malik. Malik. After all this time.
It’s intoxicating. He feels better than he has for a long time. Even if he feels the mental weariness weighing down on his body, after all these years.
“You always manage to screw things right up, don’t you?” He asks.
“No, no, no Malik. Stop speaking like that, that’s not your accent; stop speaking like Maria’s country people.”
He—no, Altaïr—steals a kiss. He steals another, and steals his neck.
He steals his clothing.
He steals Malik’s body, even, for a while.
He tries to not think too much about it, because it would give this too much meaning. He doesn’t want to think about how willingly Malik throws his head back to give him free access to his neck as he runs teeth and lips down his skin. (Even as he whispers, “Shaun, Shaun. Not Malik.”) He keeps his armed arm positioned just below his neck throughout this whole ordeal, won’t he do anything strange. He doesn’t think about the way Malik slips a leg up and around his waist and how he stays still as he does with him as he will.
He doesn’t think about Malik gives him control.
All he can think about is how good it feels, how much blood he can smell and how intoxicating it is.
The blood.
It feels goddamn liberating.
He bites the slant of Malik’s shoulder and draws blood and licks it with the broad of his tongue. His left hand is planted against Malik’s sternum, carefully so he won’t trigger the hidden blade, pressing him into the cold wall.
Altaïr sighs and closes his eyes, dreams of the colors of Masyaf and not the white and the black and the red. He tries not to lose himself.
Maybe this is therapy, maybe he—
—he leaves, afterwards.
~
Soon, he learns that there is no one that can help him unveil how to die fully and be reborn in a vessel without these scars.
a/n: Hopefully it's getting darker? I enjoyed writing this part. And I'm sorry if OP didn't like the Altaïr/Malik channeling through Desmond and Shaun. :/
I've posted the first part in my personal journal (beeskies.livejournal.com/6212.html#cutid1) in case anyone wants to go for some non-anon comments. Maybe tomorrow I'll post the second part and link it to that post.
Anyway, I hope this part satisfied you guys despite the size and possible fail! :D