Originally written March 2013.
Malik heard a faint knock on the door he had left ajar and lifted his head, away from the map he was studying. He wasn't surprised to see Altaïr standing there, donned in his new Grandmaster robes, leaning against the doorframe. Malik stood from his desk, instinctively stepping forward and almost expecting the assassin to smirk and reply with a witty response as he said toyingly, "What news, novice?"
It surprised him immensely when all Altaïr did was shuffle forward, silently, head bowed as he snaked his arms around Malik's thin waist. He buried his face in the crook of Malik's neck and mumbled, "Hold me."
Malik froze for a moment before obliging, holding Altaïr against his chest with his one good arm. He felt Altaïr's warm breath against his collarbone and resisted a pleasurable shudder. "H-How'd it go?" he ventured, fighting to control his concern. It was unusual for Altaïr to seek attention in such a docile way, so he was either simply exhausted or something was very wrong. He had just returned from a meeting with many of the higher-ranking assassins regarding his new status as the new grandmaster after Al Mualim, so Malik could only hope for the best.
"Fine." Judging by his tone, Malik surmised that Altaïr was indeed telling the truth, and the younger man visibly relaxed.
"That's great." He felt Altaïr cling to him a little tighter, noticed the way the other man breathed in deeply. Malik frowned slightly - Altaïr was behaving like a sick child content only when comforted by its mother. Was the grandmaster sick? "So… nothing's wrong?"
"Not now, no." Altaïr placed a gentle kiss on Malik's collarbone, angling his jaw so that he could place another just beneath Malik's ear. The kisses were soft and tender, not like the possessive ones he would usually mark Malik with.
That stubborn novice, refusing to answer him straight. Malik reached up, fingers finding purchase on Altaïr's hood; he slowly pulled it down, revealing Altaïr's head of medium brown hair — no doubt a trait from his Christian mother. Altaïr didn't object — another sign of ultimate trust, Malik was the only one he allowed to do such a thing — and made a pleased, strangled sort of whimper as Malik ran his fingers through his feather-soft hair.
"Tell me what's on your mind, Altaïr. I may be the youngest rafiq in the history of our Order, but I'm not your mind reader."
Altaïr let out a little sigh, resting his nose on Malik's temple. "Stay with me."
Malik couldn't help but chuckle softly, shaking his head. "Novice, I'm right here."
"No, stay with me — here." Altaïr pulled back slightly and Malik let his hand drop to the small of the Grandmaster's back. The two stood facing each other, joined from the hip down, staring into one another's eyes. Gold staring into brown. Altaïr's face looked slightly pained.
"I… I don't understand," Malik said, his words honest. He searched Altaïr's face, willing him to elaborate.
"Don't go back to Jerusalem." Altaïr closed his eyes momentarily before kissing the corner of Malik's mouth. "Please, don't go back. Stay with me, Malik."
Malik blinked. So that's what Altaïr wanted? That's what was wrong? Altaïr, the youngest Master Assassin - and now Grandmaster - was simply afraid of being lonely?
"But… Altaïr, no one knows Jerusalem's streets better than I. All my maps, and the informers I know… who else—"
"We'll find someone else. I'll send for someone to retrieve your maps, if that's what you want. But please, Malik." Altaïr was pleading, begging. "I want you - no, need you here…. with me. Without you, I'm nothing. I wouldn't be standing here as Grandmaster without you. You deserve this position just as much as I."
Malik shook his head. "No, Altaïr. You were born for this position, we both know that. And there are plenty of wise rafiqs already here at Masyaf that can guide you, I—"
"I want you, Malik." Altaïr's voice had taken on a broken, desperate edge, and Malik thought he saw his mouth tremble slightly. "Because I…" Altaïr buried his nose in Malik's hair, his hands digging into Malik's black rafiq robe. "I love you, Malik." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I love you, and I want you here by my side. I want you to be here with me, every step of the way, to make sure I don't trip and stumble. I want your advice to heed, I want to see your face and your smile, even your frown and hear your harsh, chastising words. I want to come to bed every night, exhausted from the day's work, to see you waiting for me. I want to have somebody who will listen to my troubles, who will take them to heart and hold me when I'm down. I want to perhaps raise a family with you and grow old with you as we watch our children become assassins and raise children of their own." Altaïr gazed deeply into Malik's eyes, every ounce of sincerity held within them. "Because that's what people who are in love do."
Malik was speechless. Altaïr had never once before revealed such feelings to him before, let alone in such detail. He was at a loss of what to say — how could he respond to such a confession? Malik felt his throat constrict a little as he tried to swallow. "I…"
"So will you stay?" Altaïr rested his forehead upon his lover's, his eyes two golden pools swimming with emotion. "… Please?"
Malik let out a little rush of breath, knowing his answer had been the same from the very beginning. "Yes," he breathed, and turned his head to meet Altaïr's lips with his own. And so he stayed.