A/N: I wrote this a time before Revelations was out. For anyone that have not played ACI, Altaïr appears there with gray eyes (with a hint of green) instead of the golden-brown showed in Revelations. Just to clarify things.
Malik shook his head in the burning heat of Jerusalem. The sweat kept on dropping to his eyes, and they were too burning. It was taking is cost on him: he was dizzy and the air seemed heavy with humidity, difficult to breath. And that heat he knew well; it was the herald of a storm, the clouds were already painting the horizon with dark grey, but it would quickly spread over the city. Malik was not worried with it, not too much, even if outside his door the roof was made by wooden canvas. It was almost night, which meant he would close the door of the inner room of the bureau and sleep, that if he decide to stay outside. But he wouldn't. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad would never stay outside while rain was falling; he was afraid of water above all. Malik couldn't remember exactly why… Maybe he fell on a well or something, or he drowned on a lake… It didn't matter to him in that moment. The worse of everything, of storms and the Novice, was that a voice, a little and dark, kept on saying inside his head that he wanted Ibn-La'Ahad to come, to lay his bloody shape on his bed.
The brunette Assassin snorted, that couldn't be true; it had to be just a trick of his head. "I hate him. I hate him…" he kept on repeating to himself. No one in the world could deserve more of his hate. His brother – the only blood brother he had – and his arm were gone… And, with it, his title as camp Assassin. His life, his will, everything abandoned him, especially in the first months. Now, that he had recovered it all, Altaïr was growing stronger, and higher, in the Order, again. He would soon become a Master Assassin again, rising fast; while Malik would stay as Bureau leader for the rest of his life, tormented by nightmares. He closed his hand on a fist, barely cracking the feather. He could never forgive him. His teeth gritted when the brunette realized he was with eyes wet.
Altaïr stood frozen where he was, the sword dropping warm blood. He was breathing heavily as the last of two dozens of dead bodies fell to the ground. Two dozen of dead guards, two dozen of men that tried to kill him; and failed, as always. The dark horizon was approaching and he could hear the thunders; closer, carrying rain. That was a big storm, quite a lot of water for one day. The grey-eyed Assassin watched the closest body but quickly turned around, running up a building, faster and faster, running away from the storm. He had to get to the bureau before the rain, before the water. The fear was exposed in his wide opened eyes. And why was his leg crumbling? It didn't matter. He shook it slightly to free it from the sensation and kept on running. He could see the wooden canvas, he wasn't far from it.
Malik kept on thinking how Altaïr could be pleasant sometimes, and he was so mad at himself for that! "Leave me be!" he shouted to his own mind. Al-Sayf looked down at the map; it had some drops of sweat on it. And the heat kept on getting higher; it would stay like that until the rain had fallen. He heard quick and light steps on the roof, even if they were tired. Someone had jumped inside the bureau and landed heavily. Ibn-La'Ahad entered the inner room limping, was his right leg hurt? It didn't matter to Malik who coldly looked at Altaïr and said:
"Sit there and lick your own wounds." He pointed at a pillow close to the bed, Altaïr could do his own, and he would not take care of him. Never — again.
Altaïr sat heavily. Oh God, how his leg hurt! It was also wet, and these things were never a good sign. He took off his robes, checking if he had any wound to be treated on his chest, abdomen or back. All three of them were in perfect state. He picked up a sharp knife and started cutting the right side of his pants open. His thigh was oversensitive and hot, beside it was bloody. Ibn-La'Ahad tried to take the fabric off the wound, but a terrible pain spread across his leg, and he screamed. He cried like an eagle, and howled like a wolf. For all the shame he ever felt, he screamed of pain. He screamed in front of Malik.
"What has the Eagle done, now?" said Malik with pure scorn, lifting his head from the perfect map over the counter. "What have you done, Altaïr?" he said again, eyes wide open. He could see the wound; he could see how much it was taking from his… Oh, he hated to say that more than he hated the grey-eyed Assassin. He could see how much the same wound was taking from his Brother, and friend. The brunette Assassin jumped over the counter with his only arm. In despair he kneeled by Altaïr's side and ripped the fabric that was covering his right thigh off. "Uh-oh… What have you done, Altaïr?"
His voice, his hand, his eyes, he himself was covered by worry. The wound was deep, cutting the flesh half way to the bone. The muscle was open and could easily be seen; it was a miracle he managed to run to the Beareu, a greater miracle that none of the nerves was cut, too. He touched the region around the bloody stain. It was so thin, even if so deep. Surely it was made by a dagger. But it was also long, crossing the thigh in a straight diagonal from hips to knee. Malik looked up at Altaïr's face; the grey eyes were strangely shiny, wet. The Assassin was fighting back tears and gritting his teeth. How much pain was he bearing? Yet, did he know something about pain? Something said to him that the pain his Brother was feeling was the same one he felt when his arm was… He shuddered by a moment with the simple memory of the darkness, of the pain.
"Malik?" Altaïr called, hoping his voice could break his friend's line of thoughts. He knew, no, he felt what Malik was thinking. "Mal, what is it?" He used the nickname he himself gave to his Brother while they were mere teenagers. His fingertips touched the brunette's cheek, giving him a feeling of the soft skin. But Malik could not allow that. He quickly shook his head and picked up a bucket full of water. This was supposed to be his bath, but he would no longer take it, anyway. With a soft fabric he took from his pocket, he cleaned the wound. In a tender way, like a gentle caress. The grey-eyed Assassin smiled at him, a smile covered with pain as his hand fell to the ground again.
When Malik finished, Altaïr's thigh was wrapped on white fabric, a bit rough, Malik thought, but mentally slapped himself; he didn't need to bother with the other struggle… He hated him… Right? The brunette Assassin tried to get up, but his Brother held his arm with an iron claw, pushing him down again. Malik stumbled and fell on Altaïr's lap, who grunted and threw his head back in pain, passing the free hand over his face and hair. Yet, he didn't let go of Malik; the same that was trying to get up, unsuccessfully. The black-eyed Assassin gave up on trying, simply sat by Altaïr's side, that let go of his arm. He looked down at the other's legs. That pant was surely ruined, cut open in one thigh and full of little other cuts all over its extension. It was tight, showing all of its owner's perfect muscles. He suddenly caught himself admiring his object of hate. What was he doing? He looked up, then, at Altaïr's face. His eyes were of a cold silver, his jaw line was strong, and his lips… Oh, they were perfect!
"What are you staring at, Malik?" The camp Assassin said with a smile, reaching for the other's cheek with a shaky hand. It was so rough and… tender. Malik stood while the other's hand traced his cheek bone with the thumb. "Your skin is so soft…" The brunette smiled like a woman, suddenly ashamed and extremely flattered. All his inner voice was screaming was "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" but there was something stronger, other voice, that was constantly whispering "If he thinks your skin is soft, what would he think about your lips? Oh, imagine his lips!" And whispers, for Malik, were always stronger than screams.
As if hearing Malik's inside conflict, Altaïr pulled him closer, sealing his mouth with a kiss. His tongue opened the way through the sealed lips; and the other's met it with a wet greeting. Altaïr was already half way done with taking off clothes and quickly took off his pants. The brunette threw his dark coat away, and the same fell on the counter. A playful left hand went down from Malik's neck, opening his belt, stripping him from his robes. He was feeling a burning sensation all over his face… And his lap. And the grey-eyed Assassin parted the kiss, he looked down, to the other's pants.
"It seems someone hasn't forget what to do, at least." He smirked, kissing Malik again, putting his left hand inside the brunette's pants. He started pressing the bulge, massaging it tenderly; only to hear the meows and moans in that sweet, sweet voice. Oh, how he loved that voice, he adored it. Altaïr proceeded to slow moves of comes and goes; Malik buried his face on the other's strong shoulder, nailing his back, moaning.
"Do-Don't you… You d-dare to… Ah… S-stop… Ah!" Altaïr smiled, it aroused him, seeing the other like that, so… helpless, completely at his mercy; even if he had none. He did stop, only to hear meows and cries, begging him to continue. But he didn't; no, in fact, he pushed the other, which fell over the bed, and laid over him, licking his neck and chest. His hands were holding the brunette's waist. He traced a kiss' trail down the black-eyed man abdomen. Altaïr stripped him of his pants and traced, with his middle finger, a line up to the point of the other's hard limb. He removed his hand and licked it slightly, just to hear the reaction: a pleasured meow. He licked it again and again. Just to see how the other shook and grabbed pillows and sheets. He smiled and bit the limb slightly; a slight moan, with his name, he never felt so pleasured in his entire life…
But a thunder. A thunder ruined everything. Thunders mean storms, and storms mean water, quite a lot of water. He shivered and hugged Malik's waist, shaking. Even if with mind clouded by pleasure, the other turned, making Altaïr lay over his own back. He kissed the grey-eyed Assassin with a possessive and passionate kiss, it was his turn. His hand was graceful and found its way down the other's hips, doing the same Altaïr did. He pressured and massaged it, feeling the bulge getting even harder, if that was possible. With slow moves, he made the other get to the edge; but stopped. He kissed and licked his neck, whispering how cruel Altaïr was to him, and now he would suffer the same. The rain started falling, Malik saw glimpses of water getting inside the inner room of the beareu, the wind lifting some papers, but not his coat. And Altaïr, he was shivering, if by fear or pleasure, it was hard to say, maybe it was both. He licked the other's limb, over and over. The moans, the meows, Altaïr himself was seductive, his voice was simply… made for Malik's ears to hear. His body smelled like sweat and blood, and the taste… he couldn't even describe. Altaïr sat, Malik didn't stop, not even for a moment. The grey-eyed Assassin grabbed the others shoulder as he was pushed to the edge… And he fell. He fell and screamed Malik's name. He fell into pleasure, into heaven. He scratched the brunette's back and pushed him up. Malik now seemed a puppy, wanting more, with the cheek with a little stain of white. Altaïr licked the stain and threw him onto the bed. Malik fell with his back turned up, and the camp Assassin traced his back's muscles with his rough fingers. He kissed the other's neck and licked it slightly, whispering to his ear.
"Say you want me." He ordered to the brunette. "Say you want me to take you." The beareu Leader nodded, incapable of speaking. "Say it." The grey-eyed man hissed, biting his neck.
"I wan… I want you! I want you to take me…" the brunette screamed, begging.
Altaïr smiled and introduced one finger inside Malik, that had his eyes wide open. Incredibly, he wasn't thinking that was wrong, that was good. Altaïr introduced other finger, making scissor moves. The brunette was feeling pain no more, it was pleasurable… the grey-eyed Assassin introduced another and touched somewhere that made Malik see white dots, whatever it was, it was incredibly pleasurable. And then, Altaïr recovered his finger, and introduced his hard limb inside the dark haired man. He was tender, and laid over the other's back, even if not forcing too much. Lifting himself, he threw his weight over the brunette, over and over. And they were again at the edge, blushed, hot. Each moaning the name of the other. They didn't stop, panting. Malik shuddered slightly when Altaïr made the pace quicker. The camp Assassin licked the other's neck down to his shoulder. The climax first came to Altaïr, which shuddered, filing the other. And then, it came to Malik. What unbelievable pleasure was that? He panted, shuddered, screamed Altaïr's name and only then, spilled himself.
Tired, the brunette hugged a pillow, smiling, and quickly fell asleep. Altaïr pushed the blanket over them and longed his gaze over the other's turned face. He kissed the top of his head and laid his head on Malik's shoulder. Malik took a breath, sleepy and whispered, smiling, before falling asleep once and for all:
"I still hate you."