Malik looked up from the pile of maps littered across the table in front of him when he heard Altaïr hissing in pain near the fountain. Normally, he would ignore it and go about his business, but the day had been long and the diversion welcome. Moving to the door leading out to the sun-filled entrance of the Jerusalem bureau, Malik leaned against the frame and crossed his arm over his chest nonchalantly, his fist grabbing at the pinned sleeve.
Altaïr was crouched over the fountain, one of his throwing knives dangling from the fingers of one hand, and the other holding his cheek. A diluted river of red ran between his fingers to stain the white cuff of his sleeve, and Malik rolled his eyes when he figured out what he was seeing.
"Altaïr," he said in an exasperated voice, "tell me you aren't shaving with a throwing knife. That would be ridiculous, even for you." Pushing himself away from the door, he moved closer to Altaïr, who hunched himself at what Malik could only assume was the rebuke in his voice.
If only it worked on a regular basis, he thought, sighing.
"Here, show me," Malik ordered, his hand on Altaïr's shoulder to urge him to turn around. The other assassin did so reluctantly, giving Malik the most petulant look he had seen on anyone over the age of twelve. Rolling his eyes, he pried the hand covering the wound off of Altaïr's face.
"It's nothing," Altaïr muttered, moving to rinse his hand of blood in the fountain. Malik's expression twisted in a combination of annoyance and amusement. Whether novice or master assassin, his worst wounds had always seemed to be self-inflicted.
"How is it that I end up caring for your wounds even when you should not have any?" he asked sharply, though his words lacked their usual bite. Leave it to Altaïr to spill blood wherever he went.
"I did not ask you to care for me," Altaïr said, a stubborn set to his jaw. Malik scoffed dismissively, crouching in front of him as he took the other's chin in his hand and turned his face so he could examine the cut. It did not look deep though it was still oozing blood. How troublesome.
"If I did not, nobody would," Malik retorted, standing and moving back toward the interior of the bureau where he kept his bandages and salves. The sound of Altaïr's irritated splutter followed him, putting a small smile on his lips that he hid as he returned with a clean cloth and a pot of soothing salve in his hand. Altaïr was splashing water over the wound, barely sparing Malik a glance as he knelt next to him, setting the salve aside so he could dip the cloth into the fountain.
Wordlessly, he reached over to tug the hood off Altaïr's head, letting the sun catch his short hair. The desire to bury his fingers in the dark tufts was almost overwhelming, the only thing stopping him from doing so being the annoyed look on Altaïr's face. Smirking at him, he squeezed the cloth and began dabbing at the wound.
"You are a fool," Malik said, and to his surprise Altaïr laughed.
"So you often tell me." He brought his hand up to cover Malik's, and for the span of a heartbeat he felt a heat wash over him that was different, hotter, than the desert sun at midsummer. "What is my folly this time?" Altaïr's golden eyes bored into Malik as he extricated the damp cloth from his grasp to clean his wound himself. Malik cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.
"What sort of idiot shaves with a throwing knife?" he asked, gratified that his voice didn't show any hint of his discomfort. He hadn't felt so off-balance since the two of them were novices sparring together. Altaïr had pinned him, chest heaving, and Malik had felt a stirring in his blood at how beautifully deadly his rival had been in that moment.
"I make do with what I have," Altaïr said, stirring Malik from his memories with a start. The dai tried covering his lapse by focusing on removing the lid from the pot of salve, but knew that Altaïr was not fooled for a moment. It was embarrassing to be caught reminiscing like that, and Malik frowned at him, as well as himself. He was no longer a seventeen year old ruled by his passions, and Altaïr was no longer a brash, cocksure showoff eager to capture Malik's attention.
Well, not as much.
"Had I known, I would have loaned you the proper tools," Malik said, setting the salve on the lip of the fountain and dipping two fingers in.
"Would you?" Altaïr asked, and the skepticism in his voice made Malik bristle. Of course he would have, he was not in the habit of denying the assassins that came to his bureau basic necessities, regardless of what certain arrogant novices thought. However, that didn't mean he wouldn't have given him a difficult time about it.
"Hold still," Malik ordered instead of answering, using his salve-coated fingers to smooth along the cut. At the first touch, Altaïr hissed softly, his head jerking back enough that Malik gave him an annoyed look. With a huff, Altaïr moved himself closer, and Malik resumed applying the salve. His proximity to Altaïr had him holding his breath, and as he gently touched the irritated skin, he noticed a patch that the other had missed while shaving, right above his lip, near his scar. On a whim, Malik moved to touch the unshaved section of skin, his finger trailing down to the scar as he smeared the excess salve ineffectually over Altaïr's face.
When Altaïr didn't object to being touched, Malik chanced a glance at him, and found him staring. He opened his mouth to say something to justify his actions, but before he could, Altaïr grabbed his hand at the wrist, holding him in place. Even with one arm, Malik knew he could put up a fight against Altaïr if he wanted to. Instead, he held himself completely still, studying Altaïr's sharp gaze.
"Malik," Altaïr murmured finally, pulling Malik's hand down and moving closer. Malik's heart skipped a beat. He felt as though he were frozen in place, helpless to stop the oncoming tide.
"Don't," he whispered harshly. Altaïr paused, much to his surprise.
"Why not?" he asked, his tone tinged with curiosity. Malik wet his suddenly-dry lips with his tongue.
"It will change everything," he answered, his voice raw with unintended honesty. His hand was still held in Altaïr's grasp, and he turned it sharply to clutch at his sleeve.
"Not all change is bad," Altaïr said, his gaze unwavering. Malik released a scornful breath.
"Spare me," he said, his mouth turned down in a scowl. Altaïr didn't let this deter him, and Malik grudgingly had to give him credit for persistence.
"You think too much."
"You don't think enough."
The two of them stared at each other for half an eternity, until Altaïr finally moved, brushing his lips over Malik's. It was the lightest contact, could hardly be called a kiss, but it stole Malik's breath all the same. Altaïr's lips were chapped, and he kept his eyes open as he tested his boundaries. It was a little embarrassing, and Malik pulled back from the non-kiss with the intent to tell Altaïr to kiss him for real, or to stop this nonsense and let him get back to work.
"Altaïr," he said, annoyed when his voice came out unsteady. The smirk on Altaïr's face only heightened his annoyance, and he pulled his wrist from the other's grasp to punch his arm. Before he could swing, though, a shadow passed over the top of them, and Altaïr was on his feet in an instant as a young assassin dropped in from the ceiling entrance.
"Safety and peace," the newcomer greeted, looking curiously at Malik and Altaïr. Malik stood, gathering his salve and his dignity, and heading toward the door leading inside.
"We will finish our discussion later, Altaïr," Malik promised darkly. The young assassin looked on curiously as Altaïr laughed. Malik wanted to punch the smile from his face, even as a curl of affection settled in his belly at the sound.
"I am very much looking forward to it."