Title: Missing
Author: imaginary_witness
Pairings: Abbas X Altair
Ratings: PG
Warnings: Drinking.
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Romance.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this story: living (or passed) human beings or fictional characters. These events never happened, according to history or as the original author intended them. This is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend. For entertainment purposes only. Thanks.
A soft night breeze gently blew through the open rooftop of the Syrian bureau in Damascus. The slight vegetation rustled from the wind and the scraped lightly against the hard clay wall, above the assassin looking up at the stars through the gate. His brown eyes were open but unseeing to the skies, as he wasn't thinking of the skies and earthly limits, but of the Heavens above them and the Gods he was serving.
A slight rustle in the farthest corner caught his attention. It was nothing but a short movement, a shadow of a sound. Though it was enough to stir him from his thoughts and awaken him from his prayers. He numbly shifted to sit up, assuming the rafiq was cleaning in his nightly ritual or preparing for a prayer. But it wasn't the humble body of the rafiq.
It was the shadow of a body he knew well. A built assassin, skilled and trained. He worked too hard and too hard for his body's own well-being but he never complained. He was leaning against the wall, his shoulders slightly slumped at ease, rising softly with the rhythm of his breathing. In the darkness, he seemed so small. So tired.
The assassin shuffled to his feet, slowly rising and stepping on several corners of the pillows he was previously lying on. It made him sick to be away from Masyaf, with his mountains and towers and the loud hustling training rings. He missed watching over his guards and commanding the force to protect his city, his home. The silence of the bureau unsettled him and as he cautiously made his way over to the assassin before him, he felt his throat constrict with a slight pressure. It had been so long since they last spent any length of time under the stars together. Still, he felt drawn to his presence.
When he drew nearer, he could see the tears sparkling on the other's cheeks. Though he cried, his body was limp. He raised a clay bottle to his lips and took a sip, obviously aware of a new-comer to his company but not caring enough to acknowledge it.
The commander of Masyaf took his seat beside the assassin wordlessly. They sat in unity for a moment of shared silence. A moment in which the assassin took the bottle and drank from it yet again. It smelt oddly of alcohol and the commander naturally reached over to push the rim of the bottle down with the palm of his hand.
"You shouldn't be intoxicating yourself on missions." he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.
The assassin simply smiled. "You always made it your business to what I do with my missions."
The commander smiled. "I suppose I do."
There was a shared moment of silence once more. Then,
"Why?"
The smile on the commander's lips faltered. His eyebrows twisted and his lips pursed as he considered a worthy answer.
In return, the assassin simply raised his bottle and took another sip, followed by a larger gulp. He placed it down once more, smacking his lips together as he did so.
"Well," the commander slowly began. "I suppose it's a habit of caring that dies hard."
The assassin said nothing but nodded his head slowly in acknowledgement of the answer. A tear raced down his cheek but he did nothing more than stare ahead. A breeze blew through the bureau and several leaves from above rained down. The commander's gaze fell to the fallen leaves. Before he thought his actions out fully, he was already gathering the dead leaves and building a small fire out of the pile.
The assassin said nothing to him the entire time. His mind was elsewhere, just as the commander's had been. He watched as the younger man's broad shoulders pulled and stretched when he bent down to toss more fuel to the fire. He listened to his soft footfalls as he left him and returned, several clay bottles clinking as he approached. He smiled as the flames of the fire licked a memory in his mind. He felt hollow and empty. But the memory, like the fire, made him feel warm.
"How long has it been since we sat like this last?" he asked, leaning his head against the wall and casting his golden eyes upon the commander.
The younger assassin took his seat, pulled the cork out of his own bottle. "Years." He replied numbly, before taking a sip.
The assassin turned and leaned his side against the wall. "How many?"
"Several." Another sip. Silence. "Maybe ten."
"Why?"
"Oh, for pity sake? I don't know."
The assassin smiled. "Say it."
The commander glared over the top of his bottle at the Master Assassin before him. He sucked his breath in a hiss and spat out his answer. "You lied."
The assassin simply smiled once more and turned to lean his back against the wall once more. The alcohol was making his cheeks slightly rosy in the firelight and he sipped from his bottle once more. He seemed content with the answer from his comrade.
After some time in silence he called his name. "Do you still believe that?"
There was a quiet though immediate answer that seemed to spoil the air in the bureau. "Yes."
"Then why are you here?"
"I was sent."
"To Jerusalem. Not to my side."
There was a darkness in the assassin's voice. The commander felt a small rush of fear course through him.
"I don't have an answer for what you seek."
"I thought so."
"Altair."
The atmosphere in the bureau changed dramatically. All the warmth drained and the fire crackled. The assassin turned to face the commander, the friend he had of old. The man who once was his brother.
"I am sorry."
And suddenly the two assassins were crying. The master turned his face from his commander and let his tears fall openly while the commander stared straight ahead to face him. It was another moment before the pair's eyes met once more.
"How long has it been since we shared a night together, Abbas?" The master asked.
"A long time." he replied.
He shuffled over to lean his own back against the wall, placing a heavy arm around the older man's shoulders.
"Do you remember that one night," he began. "That one night when we did exactly this in our room when we were younger."
Altair giggled as he once did, the sound slightly off of memory since he matured. "And you nearly got us caught."
"And you threw the bottles out the window to keep us from being found out." Abbas laughed.
"Well, we had to do something!" Altair chuckled.
A light reflected in both their eyes as they gazed into the childhood they shared. Their sight was clouded with memories and loss.
"I still don't believe you." he whispered, eyes cast to the fires. "But I am sorry. I feel it, at least."
The master nodded, turning his face to search Sofian's eyes. "Do you think we can, maybe, work past this one issue?"
"Do you want to try again?" Liquid brown met hard-set gold.
"Would we be able to?" The assassin couldn't keep the uncertainty from his voice as he leant forwards.
"Would it be like this?" The commander challenged as he bent towards the assassin.
"Maybe." Altair whispered as their lips met. Scared against soft, shaved against stubble.
It was a sweet kiss, a delicate one. Their lips barely moved, their breath was hot and slow against the other's. They tasted of alcohol and sweat, blood and fear. Abbas tightened his hold on Altair from around his shoulder and Altair reached over to stroke Abbas' face from ear to jaw. He pulled away slowly, a soft melting feeling between their lips as they ceased their romance.
"I can't say I can get over it."
"And I can't say that I can accept that."
Abbas' eyes were liquid as he gazed into Altair's. "I have missed you."
"More than you know." Altair whispered back.
Abbas leaned back suddenly, lifting his drink up. "To friendship."
Altair met his bottle with his own. "To brothers."
The pair downed their drinks, swallowing until there was nothing more in the bottle. Then buzzing with alcohol the pair went to lie on the pillows and wait out the rising sun. Tomorrow would bring them each a new day; a new start to something they had taken for granted. As they lay down to sleep, not entirely holding each other but clasping hands firmly, the rafiq peered out from his private quarters at the assassins lying side by side.
He smiled and tied a short parchment to a pigeon's foot, humming to himself with glee. The mentor would be happy indeed to receive word that Abbas Sofian had fulfilled his mission, without even having to ask for it.