Title: Malik the Malefactor

Fandom: Assassin's Creed

Pairing: Unrequited Malik/Altaïr

Genre: General, Humor

Rating: T just to be safe

Summary: Altaïr secretly likes Malik's kisses. But he's not about to tell him that. Especially not when he's mad at the older man. Because Malik is a jerk. And thus deserves to be ignored. Unrequited Malik/Altaïr. Oneshot. Pregame. Same tone as "Null and Void."

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just this laptop that I'm currently using. Hell, I don't even legally own the word processor I used to type this up. But you're not supposed to know that. ;)

Foreword: Hey, everybody! I know that, as of yesterday, it's been over a month's time since my last submission here on FanFiction, and in order to let everyone know that I'm still writing for this wonderful fandom (and to appease those who may have experienced just a teeny-tiny bit of RAGE/EXCITEMENT/APPREHENSION due to my inactivity), I wrote this – a cute little oneshot where Altaïr's feeling a little rebellious to Malik's parental role. :D Ah, yes, and the song inspiration is Dt8 Project's "Winter." Enjoy, everyone.

Malik is a jerk.

Altaïr used to think otherwise, used to think that Malik was strong and intelligent and kind, but that was a long, long time ago; he knows better now, has become very aware of how apparent it is that Malik is a jerk, of how he consists of no admirable qualities that in any way make him appear as someone who is particularly worthwhile.

Never mind the fact that he is the closest thing Altaïr has ever had to a father, that it is because of him that Altaïr knows what it is to be a man who uses his words instead of his fists to convey imperceptible emotions, that he is the one who prepares all of his meals at consistent intervals, buys every piece of clothing he wears with little or no protest, takes care of him when he is sick. Because right now, Malik is a jerk, a fool, and another particularly dirty name that Altaïr sometimes hears grown men call people who do not know their fathers; all of his previous endeavors amount to nothing – every time he smiled at Altaïr, every time he patted his head, every time he displayed affection means absolutely nothing now – because Altaïr sees his foster brother/father/mother in a whole new light, sees now that Malik is a jerk, a…bastard, and wholly unfit to be called anything that suggests that he is the hero Altaïr once saw him as, once loved him for.

So, while Altaïr busies himself with not listening to Malik and not eating his dinner, convinced that the inaction will somehow afflict the man and not himself when his stomach ultimately decides that it needs food, he inwardly declares that his new favorite foster brother is Kadar, that he likes the boy's playful grin more than Malik's sincere smile, prefers his off-handed comments over the older man's heartfelt lectures over safety. While Kadar shoves bread and meat and vegetables that Malik used to promise would make him "grow big and strong" into his mouth, Altaïr sits quietly in his chair with his hands folded in his lap and tries his hardest to conceal the grin that threatens to emerge on ticklish lips, becoming increasingly aware of how the eldest male seems to wilt like a delicate flower as he continues to ignore him, of how his gaze frequently returns to him with growing worryosity – a term that Altaïr and his new best and most favorite foster brother use to describe Malik's constant state of inquisitive apprehension upon sensing that something is troubling either of his two charges.

Not that Altaïr cares, for he has decided that the jerk can look at him all he likes because it has absolutely no effect on him, does not give rise to the fingers of nonexistent remorse clutching at his chest or the mute voice of pity that does not haunt his every thought. And just to prove how little he cares about Malik's feelings and attempts to capture his gaze, he begins talking to Kadar about how delightful his day was, disregarding the hungry boy's ever-so-slightly unpleasant table manners, politely asks him about his own day, to which Kadar shrugs and says, "S'fine. No complaints," before thrusting a piece of bread between his lips.

Altaïr smiles at him, then he feels Malik's investigative stare and is prompted to ask Kadar if he would like to play after dinner. And he most definitely does not feel embarrassed in front of his least favorite foster brother when his invitation is declined, looks down at his plate not because his face is flushed – for there is no awkwardness, no humiliation in not being rejected for other activities – but only for the reason that the food beneath his nose draws his attention. Because dinner is always made by Malik, Altaïr decides that the contents of his plate are culpable for the irritation that he clearly lacks, remarks to the older boy how horrible the quality of the food is. "Kadar, how can you eat that? It smells bad. And it doesn't even look good."

Kadar shrugs again, light brown eyes meeting his for a brief moment before turning back toward his own plate. "Tastes fine to me," he says before stuffing his mouth with the last piece of his portion of lamb.

Altaïr looks at him with something that is certainly not akin to annoyance, does not feel even the slightest bit out-of-place when Kadar exchanges glances with Malik and states that the man's cooking is always good, always leaves his tummy full when he walks away from the table after dinner, to which the older brother looks at him with affectionate eyes and allows his lips to curl into a modest smile, muttering a quiet thank-you. But because Altaïr is a true stoic – unlike Malik – he does not care that Kadar is defending the eldest male.

Then Kadar glances down at his full plate and asks, "Are you going to eat that?"

And Altaïr still does not care, definitely does not feel like he has just lost to the enemy, has no need to mentally note that he will have to exact his revenge on his best and most favorite foster brother one day, either by pushing him off of the fig tree or splashing water on him when he is in his new clothes. "No," he scoffs. "You can have it."

Kadar smiles and lifts excited hands to take possession of the latter's discarded food, but before his fingers can even touch his plate, Malik calmly retracts his fork from his mouth and picks up his knife to sever a piece of lamb, clearing an already clear throat; his eyes do not leave his hands as he says in a voice that sounds deep and adult-like and way too parental for Altaïr's personal opinion, "Kadar. Please."

And there is absolutely no way that Altaïr envies the way younger brother follows the man's unspoken command without so much as a single word, turning his attention back to his own plate and bowing his head as he continues eating his vegetables, is not at all anxiously awaiting for Malik to speak/lecture/scold him with his empty stomach twisting into knots, but is actually daring him to open his stupid mouth.

"Altaïr, please eat your dinner."

Altaïr does as he is told. But he most definitely hates every bite he takes and continues to ignore Malik's inquisitive stare.

And later, when dinner is over and Altaïr is lying bonelessly on his back in his and Kadar's shared bed, he stares up at the ceiling of the room and thinks bad thoughts about Malik, thinks about him slipping in a puddle of water when he goes to market to buy some new clothes or getting his fingertips burnt when he cooks the food or him becoming sick if Altaïr sneezes in his direction. Because he is a jerk and deserves to get hurt for what he did to Altaïr. But it is not Altaïr's own feelings – for he is a stoic, is completely unaffected by Malik's negligence – that makes him hope he will be…avenged. It is simply karma, for the sake of fairness.

And as Altaïr's mind begins to drift, he idly glances over at the old dictionary on the nightstand, remembering that, with stern eyes, Malik used to tell him to read several pages whenever he did something he did not like in the elder male's presence, something like letting a bad word slip past his lips or playing a little too roughly with Kadar in the fields around the brothers' house. Then, when bitter anger absolutely does not surge through his veins, words that are derogatory and negative and consist of the first three letters of the man's name just…pop up in his head without any cognitive effort; he likes to think that Malik is less Malik-like than he actually seems.

Malady. Malign. Maleficent.

The door to his and Kadar's bedroom opens and closes, and the person who enters is the very man that Altaïr has come to know as a jerk, approaching the bed with slow yet deliberate strides. "Altaïr?" Malik asks, "is there something wrong? You seemed troubled at the dinner table, and I just want to make sure that you're okay. Is there anything at all?"

Altaïr rolls over onto his side, pretends he does not hear the other's words.

Maladroit. Malevolent. Malicious.

In a matter of seconds, there is a shift of weight on the bed as Malik sits down and turns his body so that his chest is facing the other's back, leaning on his right hand which he places in a spot near Altaïr's head. He touches the boy's arm comfortingly with his left hand, and the other absolutely does not wish that his tunic was short-sleeved. "Altaïr?" Malik calls in a soft voice. "What's wrong? Won't you tell me?" He rubs his calloused palm up and down the length of the other's bicep, leaning closer. "Hm?"

Altaïr sighs, jerks his shoulder so that those intrusive digits fall from skin tingling beneath thick fabric.

Maltreat. Maladjusted. Malediction.

But Malik does not give up – never gives up, is always persistent and calculating – and he moves closer so that he can lie down beside the boy on the narrow bed with his cheek resting against his fisted right hand. His fingers return to Altaïr's arm, wrapping around it in a loose grip. "Altaïr," he says in a voice that is gentle, barely above a whisper, "please tell me what's wrong. It worries me to see you so bothered by something and not being able to help. Please don't shut me out; at least just talk to me so that I can know what thoughts fill your head. I promise that I have no intentions to harm you. You know that right?" He tugs lightly. "Come, turn over. Speak softly to me what problem you have, and maybe I will be of some assistance. Reassure me that it's not something I've done."

Altaïr lets him turn him onto his back, but refuses to meet his eyes.

Malodorous. Malformation. Malcontent.

Malik touches his face, leans in close to kiss his cheek. "Come. Tell me what's bothering you."

Altaïr remains silent, is most definitely not secretly waiting for another kiss.

Malaise. Malfeasance. Malefactor.

After a moment, Malik shifts again, eventually presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

And Altaïr's heart does melt when he feels them, does sigh softly as his face grows maddeningly hot, certainly does consider the man his hero again.

Malik.

He rolls over so that his chest is facing Malik's, slings an arm over the other's torso. His voice sounds weak and high-pitched in his ears. "…You didn't kiss me goodnight last night."

Malik's face flushes, and his lips curve into a smile before laughter tumbles from his throat.

Finis.

Afterword: Awwww. So sweet. I was practically gushing as I wrote this. Anyway, pleasepleaseplease review. Oh, and Opium will hopefully be posted before the end of next week. :D

-Jessica