This is actually my first AltxMal fic. I think Altair might be a little chatty. I apologize, but I tried my damnedest. Based on two pictures linked to on the kinkmeme on page 11 under the post "AltMal: new robes, highest promotion, flabbergast."
Malik frowned at the clothes lying on his bed. He didn't know why they were there. Hesitantly, he reached out, touched the cloth, and his eyes grew wide. They were made of silk. And not only were they made of silk, but also, they had been dyed the richest black and gold he had ever seen. Threads of red colored silk lined the gold portion on the pants, and the sash was the deepest red he had ever seen—more beautiful than the red of fresh blood, in which he had a healthy appreciation for.
He ran his fingers through the silken clothes, enjoying the feel of them. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like this, confined the bureau since he had lost his arm. Without thinking, he brought the cloth up to rub against his cheek and sighed. Whoever was the recipient of such a gift should feel good. He had to admit he was slightly jealous.
"Idiot assassins," he growled as he ripped the cloth away from himself, indulging in the childish, petty jealous he felt. "How do I know who to give these to without at least a note? Has Altair forgotten that learning to write is just as important as killing?"
He sighed, frustrated, as he folded the clothes and set them to the side, carefully, on a pillow by his bedside. It was then he noticed the new boots. He stared at them, astonished, before pushing them away with more than a little violence. He knew that he shouldn't let such jealousy consume him, but he was envious of whoever had such a wealthy admirer. He was jealous that someone was being spoiled so lavishly and grit his teeth at the thought that he'd have to deal with giving away more wonderful gifts like that, gifts that the recipient would never appreciate fully. He rolled on his side opposite the clothes, even though he felt exposed with his arm missing, just so he wouldn't have to look at them.
The next morning, after he had eaten and dressed, he gathered the clothes and boots in his arm and set them on the counter. Altair had left before sun-up on an emergency. He scowled at the thought: he was looking forward to chastising the "Master Assassin" on his lack of diligence in providing his assassins were literate. Malik made a mental note to talk to the teachers.
One of the assassins jumped in through the hole on the roof and walked over, asking for a map, which he provided without thinking. Such was his life now.
"Those robes—I saw those yesterday at market."
Malik straightened and looked at them. "Do you know who bought them?"
"My apologies, I do not. I had only a moment before I had to keep moving."
"Novice," he snarled, feeling the jealousy creep upon him again.
The assassin bowed his head respectfully. "My apologies. I can ask around, if you like."
Malik studied the assassin before him. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the offer. Finally, he said, "Sure. They were left for me to give to someone last night, but there was no note. I cannot give them if I do not know who to."
The assassin chuckled, and Malik scowled.
"Perhaps they are for you?"
"Do not joke like that." Malik waved his hand dismissively. "It is impossible. I am a cripple, and a harsh one at that."
"You are respectable and powerful—"
Malik scoffed. "I should think not. What power I have, I have gained by necessity. What respect I have is pure fluke, shown only by fear of my tongue and my wrath. Off with you and your foolishness. I have other things to attend to."
The assassin bowed again and disappeared. Malik's day passed slowly as people came and went. No one knew just who had bought them, and he was beginning to get irritated at the lack of knowledge. As the sun was setting and he cleaned the ink from the counter, the assassin from earlier returned.
"And your mission?"
"Will be finished by tomorrow, but, I found out something about the robes you may be interested in knowing."
"Then spit it out and stop jabbering uselessly!"
"The Chinese vendor said the man who bought them wore black robes, so he must be a scholar of some sort."
Malik nodded, looking viciously at the clothes. He loathed them more every second of his waking day. "Good. Now get out of here until you return with success."
He swore the assassin smirked at him, but he didn't care since the bastard left. He left the clothes on the counter, almost hoping someone would come in and steal them as he slept. When they were still there the next morning, he snarled maliciously, scaring the novice that had been waiting. He was in a terrible mood, more than usual, and it continued to get worse with every passing day. He sent letters out to all of his acquaintances that he knew wore black robes, but every letter came back negative.
Finally, he was sitting at the bureau counter, ink next to him, and he was trembling with jealousy and rage. He was in one Hell of a mood, and it was affecting the picture of the little bird he had seen outside that he was drawing. He looked when someone came through the roof.
"The novices are cowering outside—"
"Finally you came! Honestly! I thought you were smarter than this!"
He got a vicious sort of satisfaction from the confused look on Altair's face. He walked around the counter, snarling at the faces of the novices peeking in from the roof. He didn't realize Altair was wearing a set of hoodless white robes. The grand master looked horribly confused.
"Did I not tell you that learning to read and write is every bit as important as learning the proper method of killing?"
Altair frowned. "All novices are literate."
"Apparently not!" Malik was in rage mode. "Then you need to teach them such a thing as common sense!"
The grand master frowned.
He gestured to the robes. "Some idiot novice of yours—"
"Of mine?" Altair said with a smirk.
Malik snarled, "Yes! Of yours! There is no one that stupid who could not have come from you! He left these clothes here without any indication of who they were for! The vendor was of no help, and there was not even a note! I have been trying to figure out who they are for—"
"Malik."
"—several weeks now with no success! They have been taking up space here, gathering dust and waiting for someone to claim them!"
"Malik," Altair snapped, his lips turning downward.
Malik fell silent, giving him a glare that would've melted iron. Altair walked over to the clothes and picked them up, holding them out to him.
"They are for you."
It took him a bit to register the words, and when he did, he scoffed and waved his hand dismissively, walking back behind the counter.
"Do not joke like that. I thought you were above such idiocy, but every day you prove me wrong."
He plopped down at his seat, staring at the picture of the bird. It really was adorable. He cursed Altair under his breath: he didn't have the energy to continue running on full rage now that he had let the brunt of it out.
"I am not joking, Malik."
He scoffed again, resting his head in his hand and glaring at the picture, wishing the innocent bird to explode. "You jest. Just leave them there, Altair. I will find their rightful owner eventually."
"Malik."
He saw the clothes appear next to him. "Will you never give up this joke? There is no reason for me to dress in such superfluously fancy clothes. I am nothing more than a mapmaker now. These robes have served me well, and will serve me well until I return to the earth. Besides, surely you did not buy these. What a waste of money."
He looked at Altair, glaring, and saw the frown on his face. "I bought these for you with mine."
Malik then saw the new robes that he was wearing. They were white, a plain and cheap color, with red edges and black pants—the same black that the other set of robes was. His boots were also dyed black, and Malik scoffed as he appraised them.
"How noble of you, spending more on a gift for someone else than yourself. Now get these clothes out of my sight. I don't care if you bought them or not. Just get them out of this bureau."
"No," came the immediate and defiant response.
He heard a crash off to the side as one of the novices fell in from leaning in too far to hear what was going on. He sneered at Altair. "Yes."
"As the grand master of the assassins, I order you to put these on."
Malik laughed. It was derisive and cold. "How childish. Why does it matter what clothes I wear?"
"Because I wish to signify you as co-leader of the assassins."
Malik's brow creased as he shifted his chin in his hand, his gaze turning from a glare to a mystified look. "What?"
Altair sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking at the ceiling as if to ask for patience. "Without you, this Order would still be in shambles. Your strength with a sword has not waned despite what grief I have caused you. Your tongue has not dulled, and your wit is just as sharp. Malik, I am making you my equal."
His mind was working slow, churning through the thoughts slowly. Part of him didn't believe a word Altair was saying—it was ridiculous to even entertain the idea of a cripple ruling the world's most powerful organization. Nevertheless, the other part hoped what he was saying was true: he'd give his arm all over again (not his brother, nothing was worth more than his brother) just to have clothes as nice as those. Still, common sense told him not to believe such a foolish, fanciful thought. There was no room for the crippled in their society, let alone in positions of power.
Malik shook his head. "A pleasant thought to entertain, but you are wasting your time. What skills with the sword I have gained, I have gained from necessity, and my tongue and wit from hatred. These are not respectable enough to have earned such a right. Those clothes are expensive, and they will be put to better use with someone who has earned them more than I."
"Then tell me who to give them to."
Malik frowned, studying Altair carefully. It wasn't like him to jest for so long, especially with such a nonsensical and ridiculous joke. He turned over every assassin in the Order, one by one, until Altair interrupted him.
"You have proved yourself time and again. Another will be the Dai here."
Malik continued staring at him: he just couldn't comprehend what was going on. Altair picked up the robe and shook it out, holding it out for him. He gestured for the Dai to come. Still in a daze, he did as he was told, standing "tip to toe" with the Grand Master.
"You are not afraid to stand when others will sit with my errors. When I became lost in the Apple, you ripped me from it without sympathy. When I didn't know how to proceed, you cut the path for me. Undress."
His eyes narrowed, and he didn't move. Altair grunted in annoyance and stepped forward, slowly undressing the Dai himself. If he hadn't been so utterly floored at what he thought was happening, he would've found a sort of happiness in the degrading position Altair was in. When he felt the silk slip over his arm, he tucked his hand in and ran the cloth through his fingers, staring at it with a look of disbelief. Altair had the sash draped over his shoulder as he shook out the pants.
"Off."
He looked back up at Altair, comprehension that this was real and this was happening beginning to dawn on him. He opened his mouth to speak, but when no words would come, he shut it again. He felt a huge wave of guilt wash over him as he rubbed his chin. He felt disgusted at himself for the inhuman amounts of jealousy he had over the clothes, and now, he was being dressed in them. With a jolt, he realized just how ridiculous he had been, and he inhaled deeply, quickly taking off the top and shaking his head.
"No, no, I cannot accept these."
"Malik," Altair growled, and he held up a hand for silence.
"I do not deserve these. These past few weeks, I have done nothing but moon like a child over these robes and hate whoever they were bought for. I began to detest the man who bought them, and I wished the man they were for dead. Such jealousy is not worthy of such a reward."
"Malik, after all you have gone through—" The grand master stopped to cough into his sleeve, trying to cover his amusement. Altair placed his hands on his shoulders, and although he wasn't smiling, there was a smile in his eyes. "—the fact that you don't feel worthy, should, in truth, tell me that you alone are more than deserving, and that through your suffering, you mastered what I have not: humility."
Malik could've sworn he had never heard the Grand Master speak so much in all his life. He had been stunned into silence, and he fought to hold back the tears that were threatening to come. He was shaking his head rapidly; his eyes squeezed shut against the tears. His hand balled into a tight fist. There was no way that just at the change of his clothes, his life would suddenly be that much better. He had to be dreaming.
When he felt a hand cup his cheek, he turned away from it, snapping his head so violently it hurt. When the same hand touched him again, he sobbed once, collapsing. There was a grunt as he felt Altair catch him. There was no way this was happening. So long ago he had resigned himself to his life that this was too much to bear. He cried into Altair's shoulder for a long time, finally calming down enough to think straight. He felt the Grand Master nuzzled against him as they sat on the floor of the bureau, his arms tight around his waist and a hand rubbing his back.
"Malik, I need you."
The words were quiet, and he almost missed them, and Malik couldn't help but sit there.
"I… You…"
"Please."
After several long minutes of silence, Malik rose and walked over to a small bowl of water he had used earlier upon waking. He rubbed his face with the water, and silently, quietly, began to change into the robes. He heard Altair rise and didn't fight him when he helped him dress, even though he was more than capable of doing so himself. By the time they were done, a small crowd of novices and assassins were by the doorway, watching in awed silence as Malik gave himself a once over.
Then, when he realized how ridiculous he must look with his eyes red and puffy, tears streaks down his cheeks, that he was sniffling like no tomorrow, blowing his nose into his old pants as he stood in his underclothes, he began to laugh. It was the first time in a long time he had laughed like this, and he couldn't hold it back, much like he couldn't have held back his tears. He saw Altair's confused look, and he managed to say, "I look like a fool!" before laughing again. He was pleased to hear Altair chuckle quietly along with him, and when he calmed down, the Grand Master grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together.
"It has been too long."
Malik shook his head slowly, smiling as he ran their hands over the silken cloth.
"Come," Altair said, tugging him gently out the door. "The future is still long."