Originally written in June of 2013.

This is extremely short and kind of lame, but writing these things help me cope after reading The Secret Crusade.


Malik's eyelashes fluttered against Altaïr's cheek as their lips slid against one another's. They lay sprawled on several patterned cushions placed in the corner of Altaïr's office. Their limbs were tangled, their robes spread around them.

Malik let out a slow exhale as the grandmaster lowered his lips to Malik's exposed neck — he brought up his hand to feel Altaïr's matted hair beneath his fingertips. In response, Altaïr moaned deep in his throat. He dragged his teeth over Malik's jaw before pulling back and meeting Malik's gaze with his own.

For no other reason than to feel Malik's heartbeat thrum beneath his touch, Altaïr placed his left hand on Malik's chest. Malik allowed the connection between them before taking the assassin's hand in his own.

"Did it hurt?"

At Malik's question, Altaïr's brow furrowed with confusion.

"Your finger." Malik's fingers danced over Altaïr's ring finger, which was half missing from his official induction into the Brotherhood. It was necessary, if one wished to ascend to the rank of Master Assassin, to prove one's loyalty. Not only that, but if this ritual wasn't completed, the finger would be severed anyway from the acquired hidden blade received at such an induction.

Altaïr hardly hesitated. "No."

Malik fixed him with a hard stare. "You gave me the exact same answer when I asked you about the wound that almost severed your leg."

Altaïr shrugged. He was an assassin, he couldn't afford to bow down to physical injuries. His golden, bird-like eyes traveled involuntarily towards Malik's amputated arm; he seemed like he was going to say something, but thought better of it.

But Malik was shrewd and easily caught on. He raised his eyebrows, indicating for Altaïr to continue.

Altaïr obliged, knowing Malik knew the question already. "Did it hurt?"

Malik let the question hang in the air for a few moments, eyes clouding with indescribable pain — but it wasn't the physical pain he remembered. "… not as much as when I lost Kadar."

Altaïr's eyes fell; he had lead himself into this one, he should've known. "I'm sorry." His words were barely audible, his lips moved with the slightest of movements.

But Malik's eyes were just as sharp as Altaïr's; he noticed almost everything. "I didn't believe you when you first said that to me," he admitted quietly, his fingers still interlaced with Altaïr's. "That, or I didn't want to believe you.

"But now," he continued, squeezing Altaïr's hand, "after all you've done, after what you've become…" His eyes wandered to Altaïr's outer, ebony robe — those of a grandmaster. "I think I finally can… and I do."