Still, the next day finds him dressed and entering the training facilities at his appointed hour to teach the four- through six-year-olds. There's an older man he recognizes, but doesn't remember his name, and he frowns as he cracks his neck and knuckles. No one is taking the one job he can actually do from him. The kids scream with excitement when they see him coming, and the older man looks at him, surprised. He must not look well, bags under his eyes and scarred arms and legs that should be very hairy poking out of a fitted tee and shorts.

"You should be in bed!"

He growls and shakes his head. "Mine."

The older man looks thoroughly impressed as his eyes trail down the hideous scars on his arms and legs, and he growls. The man bows out of respect and backs off to watch, just in case. He grins like a goof and looks at the kids for just a moment before he's smothered with children and laughing at the dog pile on top of him. With a roar, he wrestles them all off, and takes a moment to play with them before lining them up and beginning lessons. Granted, he entered lessons at the end of the day—two to four pm so they'd wear out—but he was still here, and he was going to do it, and he was going to show them that they were wrong to keep him down for so long. He trained the kids, and he trained them well—well enough he had actually gotten a compliment once on how advanced they were by the time they were starting missions.

He's alarmed to find how far behind the kids have fallen compared to the previous two years he's been working with them. The newest kids don't know what they should know, and the ones about to graduate to the seven- through twelve-year-old group aren't ready for it. He manages to teach them enough, though, that he knows he can bring them back up to speed, because he does well at making sure they master what they need to do at an accelerated pace, and those who can't he spends extra time with outside of class. The seven- through twelve-year olds learn from seven to ten, and the twelve- to seventeen-year-olds from ten-thirty to one-thirty, and after four he trains the eighteen-year-olds and up. And after that, he's free to do whatever, because the training sessions are long, but that's okay because the kids learn. All the other times they have classes, and sometimes, he goes in with the four- through six-year-olds to color or paint with during those half-hour breaks if he doesn't want to do paperwork. He loves his job.

They loved their job.

And they've only been doing it for two years, but already he's pulled the assassins heads and tails above the other master that taught them how to fight. It probably helps he's lived three lives of highly-skilled, better assassins to learn all he needs to know. And when three forty-five rolls around, he perches on one of the training bags and calls one of his younger students, and then they're off playing the Blob, and he's moderating the game. He laughs as they scatter like dust in the wind, and there's lively screaming and tagging and cornering the others to tag them to make the Blob bigger. The older gentleman seems surprised at his teaching methods: fun and easy, liable to get distracted at the beginning and the end, and he realizes it was the master from before him. After two or three rounds, the kids have surrounded his punching-bag perch, and he quirks an eyebrow as they shout for him to come down so they can capture him in the blob as well.

He leaps over their heads, and they're off and screaming as they chase him around for a bit before he "accidentally" trips and then all the kids are on top of him, all of them saying, "Tag!" The last few minutes are nothing more than a pile of wrestling kids, and he's laughing as their parents waiting on the sidelines gather their children for classes again. He says goodbye to each of them before feeling the adrenaline and serotonin slowly level out. He doesn't know how long it's been since he's trained them, but he feels so much better already. Ezio is humming quietly in the back of his mind, and he feels better now that the medication is going to wear off—now that he'll be better again.

"That's how you teach them?"

He blinks, looking at the older man and frowning.

"It's a wonder that anything gets done," he hears Shaun say, and he looks to see the man walking over as Lucy smacks him, hard, on the back of his head.

"Although the middle of the training session was pretty cool to watch," Rebecca says. "You had them all lined up and working hard."

He smirks.

"You spoke just fine, then, as well," Lucy murmurs.

"So then, tell me, Desmond," Shaun begins, "just how is it that you manage to be in your office every day after four if you're supposed to be training the older kids. I see you in here maybe two weeks of the whole year training with them at the beginning of the year."

He frowns and his eyes dart over to a chart he has on the wall of the training facility. He lets the older kids train themselves, predominantly; since they're getting ready to graduate they know what they need to do. He has a set of tests they have to pass starting around December or January, and they have six months. While their schooling stops for a two-month break, their training never stops, and before they can become indoctrinated as fully-fledged assassins, they have to pass his tests which are simple in nature. He spends two weeks with them, assessing them just after the graduate from the seventeen-year-old group, then tells them that they have to pass his tests, and the rest is up to them. This weeds out the hard-working from the lazy, and the lazy are usually sent off to universities or colleges to become something different for the order. Which is fine, because the order needs lots of different people to keep running, and as long as they stay in shape, it doesn't really matter.

The first test is simply rope climbing in several parts. They have to make it up and down a rope with no help, chalk, or things on their hands. Then they have to carry one-hundred and sixty pounds in the shape of a human on their backs, hang between two ropes for a minute, and then climb back down. This test evolved once he saw the reports over the years of more than just a few assassins being killed because they couldn't carry an injured buddy and hang on the side of a building as guards checked the parameters.

The second test is they have to disarm him in the combat area set out and pin him. The first time, it happens in a ring. The second time, it happens in a narrow rectangle—the third time, in a narrow rectangle with boxes and obstacles. Simple enough, and good to assess their fighting abilities.

The third one is his favorite. He finds a subsitute, and at six, he wakes up, vanishes into the city, and the assassins have a day to find him—however many of them choose to take it that day, and he's only have a handful find him on their own. They can use any means necessary to find him, whatever they need to, and he's allowed to change his looks if he deems it necessary. Then after that, they have to hide from him for six hours. It's his absolute favorite test, and it tests the biggest skills the assassins need.

Usually by then, they've already been on several missions that he's okayed, and any other skills they might have needed they've picked up. And already, he's seen a decline in deaths in the order and a much higher success rate among the missions. He's done better than any other master in the order when it comes to training. He helps there's four of him to get it done. There were four of him. And he knows at least once he'll take the kids to Central Park, and another time out to dinner, because he loves his job so much. He spoils his kids rotten, and that's okay with him, because he's damn good at his job.

"Desmond?"

He jerks and finds Lucy staring at him, all of them, concerned, and he offers a hesitant but pure smile.

"Do you just not want to talk to us?"

"I wouldn't want to talk to us, either," Rebecca murmured. "I mean, let's face it: we really blew it underground with him."

"We didn't do too bad," Lucy said, and he looked down just in time to catch one of the five-year-olds as she hurtled toward him.

"Hi, Master Miles, sir! We made you a get well card with glitter and ribbons and paints! We missed you!"

He takes the offered card from the little girl and kisses her head. "Thank you."

He opens it as best he can with a squirming little girl in his arms, and smiles at the amount of glitter that falls out of the card. There's a picture of him and the kids on the inside, and the sun has a smiley face and the ribbons on the edge are glued into clumsily tied bows. This is a masterpiece. "Get well soon!" is written at the top in blue paint, and he finds himself smiling, and Ezio is chuckling quietly in the back of his mind—the medications can't kill what he won't let die.

"It's beautiful. I'll hang it up, Amanda."

The girl looks so happy at the statement, even though his voice is rough. He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.

"You got scratchies like my papa!"

He laughs and realizes he hasn't shaved in a while. Nevertheless, he carries her over to her mother, and the girl goes to her mom willingly, thankfully.

"Will you come and play with us like use always do?"

"Maybe. Maybe tomorrow."

She sighs dramatically, but he chuckles and walks out of the gym and into the hallway that connects to the main foyer, and that connects to the halls with the rooms. It's incredible how much of this is underground. As he walks through the main foyer, with the heads' offices and his, and several comfy couches and a TV and a pool table, he stops and stares at the wall he painted on. He wiggles his fingers, feeling his finger missing, and he flicks on the Eagle Vision.

His picture is still there, but it's incomplete. He feels like he needs to finish it, and Ezio is humming he probably should. The man is still quiet, still hindered by whatever drug they pumped him with, and once it wears off, he knows all three will be back. The wolf still needs his back legs, and the eagles need shading. The snarl on the wolf and the attacking eagles make the three look like a powerful trio, and he can't help but smile. He wants to finish his painting—if he can remember where he got the paint from.

He jumps when he feels a hand in his, and it's Lucy's. He looks to see her looking upset, and he smiles warmly. Of course she would look worried: she doesn't understand the beauty of such a work of art, something that he's given his all for.

"Desmond, we're not going to let you go crazy again. I promise."

And he laughs at that, because he knows it's all ready too late, and he's fucking batshit, and he'll never be normal, and that's okay with him, because as his mind begins to churn at those words, he knows he'll finish his painting one night—even if it kills him—and he'll fall in love with his ancestors' wives all over again because he'll never find one of his own, and he'll continue to sleep with the wolf and the two eagles, and he'll keep trying to destroy himself, because that's all he's good for, really, and someone else would be much more suited to fulfill his shoes.

And he's giggling like mad, and the bright blue blobs melt into horrified faces as he laughs and giggles. He can't help it because he is so utterly fucked up that there is no saving him now, not as he turns away and walks down the corridor to his room, not as the walls melt around him as he looks for a place to set the picture. He rubs his chin and feels the longer white hairs on his chin as all of a sudden his bones become heavy, and he sags under the effects of age. He rubs a hand against his eyes, just wanting to rest as he continues to look around the room, and he decides the place for the card is on his desk, piled high with various pictures and other things. His hands tremble slightly as he sets it down gently, and he notices the wrinkly skin on his hands. He really ought to thank his kids for thinking of him so often. He is such an old man, and he sits down at his desk stiffly as he looks at all the pictures he has.

When he feels familiar hands on his shoulders, he leans back to smile at Sofia, only to find that it's not Sofia, and he frowns, rising to meet the woman with short black hair. He asks who she is, and the woman gives him a confused look. He wants to know why Rosa is out here at his villa and why she has not aged, but the image melts quickly, and he's back in his room in the modern day. There's glitter on his fingers, and he watches it sparkle in the light he doesn't remember turning on.

"Desmond?" he hears one of them say.

"Sod it all," he hears, and he has all of two seconds to process what's going on before he realizes there're lips on his, and the distinct masculine scent fills his nose.

But they're too harsh to be Leonardo's lips, as he felt so many times before after Ezio's curiosity got the better of him, and they're still much too gentle to be Malik's, and he knows these kisses just as well, so he's trying to figure out just who he's kissing, and the hard press of medal and glass against his cheekbone as a tongue darts out to ask for permission to enter—something Malik never did—and he's left in a swirling of myriad of thoughts as he figures out everything.

He's kissing Shaun Hastings, historian and field technician.

He's Desmond Miles, of the twenty-first century.

And he's currently realizing there is no room for Altair or Ezio with Shaun, and Ratohnhaké:ton didn't have a man that he liked like this, not in the middle of the Revolutionary War so he can't be him, and when Shaun pulls back. He blinks, finally seeing the twenty-first century through the eyes of Desmond Miles after over two years. Ezio murmurs something in the back of his head that he ignores as he looks around at his room that seems so familiar and yet so new all at the same time. Shaun is standing there, his fists in his shirt as he pants from the ridiculous kiss, and the girls behind him look horrified.

"Shaun?"

"That's me, you ignorant prat."

He grins. "Yeah. That's you. And I'm me."

"Are you sure?" the man growls. "Or do you need another kiss?"

Desmond chuckles, and he knows that as soon as he lets his guard down, the bleeding effect will be back, but he's okay with that for now, because the bleeding effect protects him from reality, and he's come to rely on them for lots of things, not, but that's okay. Shaun drops his hands and steps back just slightly.

"Yeah. Yeah."

"'Yeah,' what, you irritating sod?"

"Yeah," he breathes, sitting on his bed and covering his face with his hands. "Yeah. I'm me. For now."

He sprawls on the bed on his stomach, and Shaun is looming over him, beside him, and he stares up at the man, whose pupils are big and black.

"Do you want to give me another kiss?"

"And risk my life at the hands of a madman? I'll leave that to Lucy."

He looks at his crush, who seems to be contemplating something, and then she shakes her head and smiles as she walks over and straddles Desmond, making him jump slightly as she places her hands on his back and laughs quietly.

"I used to do this with Sixteen."

"What, fuck him?" Desmond says with a cheeky grin.

"No," she murmurs, and he hums happily as her hands begin to give him a wonderful massage. "It helped him calm down."

And soon enough, he's melting under skilled fingers as Lucy gives him a wonderful back massage, and he can hear the sound of Rebecca pulling over his desk chair while Shaun sits at his head. Eventually, his breathing evens out, and thankfully, thankfully, Lucy doesn't stop. He's utterly exhausted, even though he's only been active for two hours today, but he'll get there. He won't be stopped, and Desmond promises himself that he'll work himself into a grave before he lets himself go that much. He'll make the bleeding effect work to his advantage. And as he slowly drifts off, his mind calm and his thoughts relatively clear, he can feel the looming dream of Ezio and Sofia. It will be a good night for him.

And he dreams with startling clarity. He shouldn't be able to see this far into his ancestors' lives, but now that he no longer has to worry about the constraints of the Animus to relive the memories, it's okay. He dreams of his final moments with Sofia and the kids, and he relives the final kisses and the warm touches. He relives their last meal together, on the road, and he relives that final, breath-taking view of his wife as he sits on the bench. With a quiet sigh, he can feel the warmth of the sun in his bones, and he's ignoring the man at his side who needs to learn respect for women. His wife looks beautiful as she roots around at the market stalls, and his mind is churning sluggishly, terribly so, and he closes his eyes for just a minute. That's all he needs before he wakes to the familiar smell of animal skins and smoke. He could feel that impending self-doubt knot in his belly at the thought of fighting against his own people.

He's been exiled, outcasted for deserting his own people—the people that raised him to be all that he is. He should be fighting for the Crown, he should be fighting against the British, because they're promising to keep the intruders out. Yet, somehow, deep in his bones, he can't find himself able to band with his tribe against the colonists. He hopes every night they don't find him and kill him in his sleep. They hate him. He wakes up with a grunt, feeling several bodies against him. One on either side. Did he collapse in a fight? He struggles to open his eyes, and he finds a head of blonde hair under his nose.

He shoots up, alarmed that he might have gotten tangled with one of the colonists—hopefully not a married one to bring even more shame to his name. The blonde woman stirs, and so does the black-haired one on his other side, and he prays that he didn't have an orgy with them because that would be awful. He climbs out of bed and opens the door to the long cabin to see a ten-year-old standing there.

"Master Miles! Are you coming?"

He smiles, and all of a sudden, there's three of him walking down the hallway, and he can feel the set of three legs moving as one as he walks alongside the ten-year-old who tells him all about breakfast. There's him, and there's Ezio, and there's Ratohnhaké:ton. All he has left it to bring back Altair, who should be back sooner or later. He'll come back. And as he walks down the halls, he can almost see the three bodies moving slightly out of line with each other, Ratohnhaké:ton's lower crouch, Ezio's mid-aged powerful stride, and his…

His…

His?

Probably nothing.

But that's okay.

And as he steps into the facilities, all three of them seem to meld together into one being, into one person, and like throwing thin veils of cotton over his eyes, he now sees things in a way that's almost familiar to him, except Altair isn't here. He needs that final layer, that final push of security to help him along, and he can't live on his own, because he is nothing. The kids are ecstatic to see him again, and he laughs at the warm welcome—but it's not one laugh, it's two and a half, because he's going to fade eventually. The bleeding effect will make sure of it. And there's nothing he can do to reconcile himself, because he doesn't want to live, and he did, briefly, try to throw that other kid in the Animus into his body rather than him. He's tired of having four men in his head, and it's easier to let himself die so he doesn't have to deal with the headaches that this life comes with. It would take some serious work to fix him, and it would have to start with shutting up the others, which will never happen, because he is hell-bent on destroying himself to make himself better, and that's okay.

That's okay.

That. Is. Okay.

The class comes and goes in a flash of happiness and mirth, and he has thirty minutes before his next lesson-time. He can't wait. As the kids file off, he takes a quick nap sitting against the wall, and when he wakes, there's those three standing there again, watching and looking absolutely upset. He smiles at them and beckons them forward. If they want to train, he can work with them. The blonde woman walks up to him and cups his cheek, caressing it gently before leaning in and kissing him. He smiles, and it's nicer than any of Lucrezia's kisses, any kiss that Ratohnhaké:ton's experienced, and he wraps his arms around her waist as she continues to kiss him. Her hair looks beautiful down, and he feels as if things are clearing up slightly. By the time she pulls back, he's Desmond again.

But it just doesn't feel right.

Because he is the reject of the assassins, the one who ran away.

He's the one that's here only because of the kids.

Nevertheless, he chuckles, and it sounds so wrong. It does. He shouldn't be here. He should be hiding behind the veil of what's not him.

"Hey, guys."

"So we have to kiss you every time to make your bleed throughs better? Pathetic," Shaun murmurs. "Absolutely pathetic."

Desmond frowns, and he doesn't really want to be here. "You don't have to. I'm happy as—"

"Don't say it, Desmond," Lucy reprimands. "And Shaun, will you just shut up? We're supposed to be healing him!"

Desmond chuckles as the kids start filing in. "Look, guys, don't worry. I'm too far gone, anyway. It's okay."

He gently pushes them to the side as he walks over to greet the teens, leaving them stunned. This next class is even harder, because while they listen better, he has to teach them more complex moves. Still, he loves every minute of it, even if he can't hear Ezio or Ratohnhaké:ton. His heart and soul just soar with the kids, and he feels so ethereally happy by the time they're done. He just loves it. With a smile, he sees them off, and he can't help but wonder just were his life is going to go. And when they're done, he has thirty more minutes, and Lucy, Rebecca, and Shaun are all beside him again.

"Desmond, we need to talk."

He looks at Lucy. "What's up?"

She sighs, looking frustrated, and he quirks an eyebrow.

"Look, I have thirty minutes before my final class, and if one of my other students shows up to ask for help, they come before you. You might want to start talking."

He watches them closely. Yeah, sure, they're good companions, but he has other things he should be doing, like filing the paperwork on what he did and the kids.

"Desmond, you need to heal."

He snorts. "I'm okay, guys. Stop—"

"You are not okay, dude!" Rebecca all but growls. "You cut off your own finger to paint! You've got, like, a million different people living in that head of yours, and we don't want them—"

"That's bullshit, Rebecca," he growls, cracking his knuckles out of instinct—a nervous tick of Altair's. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have kept me shoved in that… thing for so long. Just like you didn't want Clay, Subject Sixteen, but the men in his memories."

All three flinch at that mention, and he scoffs.

"You can't even talk about him. That's pathetic. Come talk to me when you grow a pair."

He walks out without waiting, leaving them in surprised silence. He paces out of the facilities and toward his office to make sure things are getting done, and his head feels clear, and his gait is powerful, and he feels as if he belongs, for once, behind the guise of power that isn't real. He walks into the office to find the old man from yesterday, who gives him a rundown of where he is and what he's been doing, and Desmond grins and dismisses him. The man seems all the happier now that he's done with his job, and he sits at the desk briefly before picking up where he left off. He doesn't pay attention, hardly noticing when his father and the other heads talk as they pass to go to lunch.

"I swear: I've never seen the assassins more excited."

"There is a new sort of energy we've been lacking, isn't there?"

He pauses in the middle of preparing what novices can do what missions. He can see his father standing there as they wait for the final head, and he frowns. Suddenly, as he watches them in their robes, he becomes conscious of the fact that he's still in his tee and shorts, the ones he uses for teaching, and there are nasty scars all over his arms and legs. He sees his father turn around, and their eyes meet, and Desmond bristles on instinct. The man steps back in just the slightest—was that fear?—and he feels lucid and ready to attack if his father comes near him. The other heads notice his father's shift in emotions, and he scowls as he looks back down at the papers. He can hear Lucy join them, asking for permission to talk with them, and as they walk out, he revels in the blessed "quiet." There's the TV in the main foyer, the kids moving in and out, and adults talking and chattering, but it's a happy quiet, and he feels better now that the heads are out of their building. He hums warmly, getting through several missions before rising to go finish up with the littlest kids.

He walks out at the same time the teacher walks them to the facilities, and he grabs the last one, laughing at the smarting punch to the cheek he gets from the little kid for surprising her. The girl recognizes him immediately and apologizes, and he kisses her cheek before placing her on his shoulders and walking with the classes to the gym. They're all eager to start, and he has them warm up before beginning lessons.

They eventually end with the inevitable dodge-pad game. They all line up against the wall, and he tests their reflexes at the same time as playing a fun game as he throws one of the stuffed pads they can attach with Velcro to their arms. Unsurprisingly, it takes him a while to get them all out because his kids are beasts. When it finally ends and the parents come gather their children, he exhales happily. He loves this job.

So when he goes strutting around as just Desmond in the underground labyrinth, he's not entirely surprised to see that the other assassins are coming to him with their questions. He's more than happy to help them, because he's had four lifetimes of leading and knowledge to understand what to do and how to help them, and helping the assassins now is much easier than back in Altair's time because everything is so meticulously organized electronically. He spends several hours taking over where his father left off, because his father is an idiot who can't do shit, and he's able to make sure that those things that Bill had said would have to wait until tomorrow were done now.

He may hate the order, but he doesn't hate the people, and they have no right to be put off.

He even spends an hour or two in the training facilities, sparing with a young man who wants to pass the second test, the disarming test, within next week. The young man is a brilliant assassin, and he has already passed the hanging test. He's going to be the first one to pass the fighting test, and he, no doubt, will take on tracking Desmond by himself, and Desmond bets he can find him if he slacks in just the slightest.

He'll have to start planning a disguise.

Eventually, the boy has to go, has to prepare for a mission Desmond okayed for him, and as he watches the boy walk off, he can't help but feel a swell of pride in his chest. There is nothing more exciting than watching the graduates at the end of the year get their robes and take the pledge. He loves it. He paces back to his office, finishes some paperwork, and steps into the foyer. He watches the others for a bit before heading to his room and gathering his things for a shower. As he scrubs his scalp in the college-like showers, he can hear two more men enter, and he's glad that he has the noise of the water and the stall to block him from sight.

"It's a pity Bill is still the 'Mentor,'" one of them says, and he can hear the flies being undone as they get ready to pee.

"I know. You wanna hear my theory?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"He treats his son like trash because he knows his son is better. Knew he would be."

The first man laughs, and for once, Desmond feels blessed for being a natural magnet for being in the right place at the right time to listen in, just as Altair was on his missions. When the laughter dies down, he starts scrubbing his body.

"The boy's a loony bin!"

"The boy gets more done than Bill ever did! Remember that request I put in weeks ago for leave to go visit my niece in Colorado—the one getting married?"

"Yeah, I do."

"I asked Desmond for help today, and within minutes he had okayed the travelling time."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah, I know. He took one look at the paperwork that Bill had filed away, and checked with the missions and schedule, and even bought the airplane tickets using the funds from the order. I leave Friday, when they ordered the tickets."

"Wait, you're getting leave?"

"I'm even getting pay."

"How?"

The men are done, and he listens to the urinals flush. As they wash their hands, he keeps listening.

"I don't know, but I think Desmond cares more about us as people than the others ever did. Hell, wasn't it him that really started pushing for those kids in the universities to be able to go there on our expense? It's gotta be nice to go through college without having to pay, especially if they're working for us the rest of their life. I think he's all for letting us go out and about. I even talked to him about picking up a second job off the grounds."

"And he said that's okay?"

"He said he doesn't see why it should be a problem. He told me the tech geeks could create fake information for me."

The first man gave a noise of surprise as he listened to the door close. Once it did, he could hear Ezio laugh as the man appeared in the shower, sitting against the door. Desmond ignored him as he rinsed himself off and relaxed under the scalding water.

"Well, sounds like you're doing fine."

He hums noncommittally, his eyes fluttering closed.

"That doesn't change the fact he still has to deal with unwanted negative effects," Ratohnhaké:ton murmurs as he materializes, leaning against the wall.

"It's not our fault."

"That doesn't change anything," the Native American murmurs.

"If we could get rid of Bill, we could clear the way for improvement."

He jerks, opening his eyes to see nothing there. He was pretty sure that was Altair's voice, who he hadn't seen yet, who was still buried under the effects of the medicine. Ezio and Ratohnhaké:ton don't seem to hear him.

"His own dedication blinds him. If the order continues on the path it does now, there will be more disaster to follow."

Desmond understands on several levels. If he ran away, then others will, surely. It's time to round up the assassins as a family once more, rather than as prison mates. But his natural hatred for the order prevents blind dedication, and he can't do it on his own.

"Nor would we let you," the voice murmurs.

He hums, closing his eyes and letting his head tilt back into the water. He can feel the water on the other side of his eyelids, and he realizes this is the longest he's ever been one person in over two years. He's spent most of the day as Desmond, as that failure of an assassin, and he feels okay with that. Nevertheless, he wraps the towel around his waist, realizing that he forgot his clothes in his room, and he frowns as he dries off as best he can with a second towel, gathers his things, and steps into the hallway. He paces down the hallway, noticing the stares he gets from the three girls he trains occasionally in his spare time. The one with the red hair and the bright green eyes is the best of the three, and she's planning on taking the rope test tomorrow. She has a younger brother who's in the youngest group. It's almost alarmingly familiar, the amount of protective love she has for her brother. He tries not to let it show that he can feel their eyes on him as he walks away, down the hall to his room, and walks in before exhaling softly.

He sees Malik standing there, hand on his hip. "Novice, you shouldn't be parading around like that."

"It's not my fault," he murmurs, watching the world slowly dissolve into the grey of the castle as he pulls out his sleeping clothes.

"You know that you're tempting the others when you walk around naked."

"It's not my fault I forgot my clothes," he growls, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stares at the man.

Malik rolls his eyes. "You are an idiot. Perhaps the biggest idiot I've ever made."

"You've made that quite clear," he murmurs, settling down in the mats and the pillows to sleep. "Are you going to come over here or not?"

There's an agitated silence before he falls asleep curled around Malik. And that's okay, because even though Malik would never admit it, he approves of Altair's decisions.