Song of the Turtle Dove
All That Remains
-i-
The neighborhood is as uninviting and hostile as it has always been. The buildings are little more than carcasses; brick, buff brick and cracked limestone smothered by vivid, intimidating graffiti on every available space. Taller, uglier structures with curtain glass windows stained by years of neglect, some shattered or spider webbed with a million facets, reach for the sky the further toward the heart of the city you walk.
Vegetation is sparse. Browned weeds reach through the cracks in the sidewalk and curtains of vines crawl stubbornly up the sides of a lot of the buildings. There are no trees. Thick clouds of smog roll above and submerge the decrepit place in a uniform grey, sucking the place of color and warping it into something like a ghost town.
In short, it is the most depressing, gloomiest of places to ever have the displeasure of existing on this earth. People do not come here to visit the historical monuments or gush over the myriad of murals rebelliously painted on the sides of buildings or even to haggle with the street vendors for their overpriced wares.
People come here to die. They come here to waste away. It is one step above total destitution, one breath away from being fired from a sorry job and a blink from living in a cardboard box under an overpass, seizing through a final hit from some nameless drug after being promised a high worthy of heaven itself. No one to hear you cry. No one to bury your body. No one to even care.
It's Hell, and Altair walks through it with the cold indifference born from having to live in its hopeless underbelly for far too long.
He turns at the corner and comes upon the loft. It's a cramped, two-story building they rent that sits next to an old abandoned car garage. Squatters have made the condemned establishment their safe haven and drug dealers claimed it as a natural hotspot. He ignores the beggar who thrusts out their hand for spare change and unlocks the gate.
Malik isn't home yet, of which he finds himself surprisingly grateful for. He's still too raw, too wound up, to have to explain things for him. He needs…time. Something. A gun and a bullet, maybe. The thought makes him roll his eyes and snort in self-deprecation. So stupid.
When he makes it inside he throws the three locks on the door and shuts himself in, waits a few seconds, and then starts punching the cement wall next to it until he can't feel his hand, let alone think clearly past the haze of white-hot pain shooting up his arm.
The job was supposed to last at least a year, two if he was lucky. The pay had been decent enough, it kept their heads above water and even the benefits weren't much to complain about. If nothing else, it had been steady, and God did they need that right now. Malik needed that, and if they were going to put Desmond through yet another trial they'd need the money to pay for that damn leech of a family lawyer so he would finally get Desmond out of that crazy house.
But now Altair has gone and fucked it all up – again. This is, what, the fourth job he'd blown through since Dad died? Pathetic.
"Damn it," he mutters, pulling his hand back and inspecting the knuckles. They're bruised and split open, oozing blood slowly down through the lines of his palm. The concrete wall bears a noticeable stain and with a grimace, he quickly retrieves a scrub pad and spray bottle of bleach to clean it off. No reason to piss Malik off even more than he's already managed.
It takes almost an hour to get the spot cleaned, though Altair can still see the faded pink spatter if he squints and looks at it from the corner of his eye. It's so faint though that he's comfortable in the knowledge Malik won't notice it.
He puts the bleach back under the sink and stands leaning over its basin, fingers curled against the edge so hard his knuckles whiten. The shame and humiliation beat against his skull like some stupid fly throwing itself senselessly against the window over and over again. The anger is diminished at least, but in its place is something much more terrible. It's black and deep and has the phantom taste of rubbing alcohol spreading against the back of his tongue – and it makes Altair sick.
-i-
Malik finds him in the bathroom half an hour later, gagging on his own spit with a bloody paper towel wrapped around his fist.
"You got blood on my wall," Is the first thing he says to Altair, and then, "What color are you?"
"Red," he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut on another round of dry heaving. Usually Altair detests their unconventional color code simply because it's just another reminder that he's still nothing but a wretched, pitiful addict. But right then he's so very grateful for it, because all he has to do is say that one word and Malik is beside him in a second, cold cloth pressing against the back of his neck and strong hands holding him together all over again.
It's been six months since he's even looked at a bottle, but sometimes it feels like only days. Hours, even. It's like nothing has changed and that damned need is burning just as surely as a shot of whiskey ever did. He gags again as his body convulses at the very memory, wanting and yet rejecting, begging for the dumbed bliss of alcohol but threatening to bring unimaginable suffering if he so much as considers it.
"C'mon," Malik says, voice low and soothing past the headache blasting through Altair's skull. "Get up, you need to lie down on the couch. I'll call Achilles."
Altair lets himself be led from the bathroom and put on the sofa. Distantly, he can hear Malik pacing in the kitchen while he talks on the phone, explaining how he'd come in and found Altair in the bathroom. No, there weren't any bottles around. He didn't look like he'd been drinking. No, he couldn't smell any alcohol on his breath.
Footsteps, and then Malik is standing next to the couch and reaching down to peel back Altair's eyelids. He groans and jerks his head back, hating how the room spins.
"Clear eyes. He's clean." He sits down in front of Altair's stomach and shakes his shoulder. "Here, talk to him, you need him."
Altair glares at the wall as he accepts the phone and presses it to his ear. He doesn't say anything, but Achilles knows he's listening anyway.
"I'm only going to say this once, and then I will never mention it again." Altair shuts his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. He can easily picture Achilles sitting by the window of his duplex in that old battered wingback chair he refuses to get rid of despite the stuffing coming out of the seams. His son is staring out of the fogged up picture frame on the side table like always, a painful memory Altair never asks about during their weekly meetings, and all the lights are off so that the only source of light comes from the sun peeking through the dusty blinds. If he concentrates hard enough, he can even smell the cloying scent of cigarette smoke and lavender that is entirely Achilles; safe and familiar.
"…I've never met someone who has as much willpower as you. I know you want to stay sober, I know you want to do well and fix all your wrongs. Six months ago you came to me asking for help because you fucked up real bad, didn't you?" He doesn't wait for Altair to answer, not that he would have. "You said you didn't want to go back to that. Remember? You are not going to mess up all of this hard work, boy. You're not."
The tremors are already beginning to subside and the cold sweat has dried on his skin. On his shoulder, Malik's hand is a steady weight and he finds himself wishing to simply curl up around the other man and go to sleep.
"Whatever happened today isn't reason enough to go ruining your life."
He sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he can see the blood stain on the wall and it's so obvious to him now he can't believe he ever convinced himself Malik wouldn't see it. "It's hard," he mutters eventually, ashamed.
He hears Achilles agree and listens as his sponsor talks to him in that well-spoken burr, easing away the haze of addiction like a balm. These situations, the moments where Altair becomes so weak that he can't stand it anymore and nearly tips into that dark place that festers inside, are rare and stuffed far away in his memory banks. He's only approached this dreaded precipice once before – the day he walked into his first AA meeting, alone, and confessed to a room full of strangers that he wanted to die.
"Is Malik still with you?"
Altair raises his eyes and meets Malik's steady gaze, almond eyes dark with unspoken worry and a strong jaw clenched against undoubtedly sharp words. "Yes," he says, curling his free hand into a loose fist next to Malik's knee.
"Look at him. Look long and hard, Altair, and think about your decisions. If you give in, you're going to lose him."
His fist tightens and Malik grabs it, smoothing his fingers back out and rubbing the reddened palm and gently, so gently, prodding at the split knuckles. He nearly chokes and makes himself look away, focusing on their hands instead. Achilles sighs in his ear and he can almost hear the smile in the man's voice now.
"You're going to be fine, boy."
They talk for a little while longer and Altair listens, slowly collecting himself second by second and packing the broken pieces back in, a little less shattered than before. Eventually, he feels well enough to sit up beside Malik and mutter a few wordy sentences, answer some questions and even ask some of his own. By the time they hang up the sun has gone down and the busted street lamp outside is buzzing with its feeble light, forever threatening to cut out but somehow always managing to keep right on stubbornly shining.
"Let me see your hand," Malik demands, and before Altair can say anything his hand is being pinned to the coffee table while a rag soaked in peroxide is slapped over the flayed skin. He cries out in pain and tries to snatch it back, but Malik refuses to let it go and the struggling turns into a tug of war with the two of them rolling from the couch onto the carpet.
Altair grunts when a wayward elbow digs into his stomach. "Malik."
"If you would hold still it could be cleaned and properly bandaged, you insufferable idiot."
"You didn't have to attack me," he growls back, moving until the both of them can sit with their backs against the couch, his hand in Malik's lap. "A simple 'please' would've done it."
Malik flashes him a sardonic little smirk as he cleans the irritated skin, picking out bits of paper towel that has clotted with the dried blood and become stuck. "I don't have the patience to be polite with you. Now stop your whining, it's been a long day and the last thing I need is for you to be like my students and moan and complain about every little thing that's wrong."
He snorts but otherwise goes silent, letting the other man fix him up with sure hands and a tiny frown. In the quiet he can't help but think again of having to let Malik now that he's been fired. He has no backup plan, doesn't even have a clue to where he can turn from here. The bills are already behind for the month and he knows for a fact that the power is going to be cut off if they don't pay it by the weekend. He also knows without even having to look that is wallet is nothing but a gaping hole, and has been for a while now.
Malik carefully places a large square band aid over his knuckles and smoothes the wrinkles out until he deems it satisfactory. Altair sighs and rubs his forehead with it, sliding it down until the palm covers his eyes like a shield.
"We need to talk," he says, voice weary and heavy with regret.
He hears Malik make noise of agreement and feels him stretch his legs out before them. "Of course. I'd hate to not be given an explanation for any of this. Naturally I'd just beat it out of you anyway, but I appreciate you taking the initiative and telling me yourself."
"I was fired." Might as well just come right out with it, no sense in beating around the bush. "Some young thing with a degree beat me out. Fucker didn't even know how to crunch the numbers right, just flashed around his fancy papers and got a callback on the spot. They gave me an hour to clear out or they'd call security." He sighs again and lets his head drop back against the seat of the couch. He can't even look Malik in the eye.
Neither says anything for a long time and the buzzing lamp outside seems even louder and more annoying in the resulting silence. The heater kicks on with a rattling clank and steady hum. The sounds of the city filter in through the walls from outside in a familiar din of traffic and yelling. He imagines he could fall asleep if the situation was different, lulled into unconsciousness by the drone of New York in his ears. Finally, Malik breaks it by patting him on the leg and standing to brush imaginary dust off the seat of his pants. "Well, I'm going to fix some dinner. Are you hungry?"
Altair gapes after him, stunned and glued to the floor, the sounds from outside completely forgotten. Malik ignores him and walks to the kitchen to root around in the cabinets for something quick and edible. He's pulling down a box of hamburger helper – and if it were any other time Altair would start gagging, they've had enough of that shit – when Altair finally gets the sense to stop staring like an idiot and stand up.
"Did you hear what I just said?" he asks as he follows him into the cramped little kitchen. Malik digs out a battered old pot that is part of a set they found at an estate sale last Christmas. It's red and speckled with flecks of white, like someone swung a paintbrush at it and let the drops dry, and it's probably the nicest thing they own. "Malik, I said I was fired."
"I heard you," He's reading the instructions on the back of the box, as if he hasn't already memorized them. "Chili macaroni or stroganoff? Either one will take about half an hour."
"Malik – "
"Macaroni, then. The stroganoff smells like dead cat, anyway." And then, muttering, he adds almost to himself, "Don't know why we even buy it in the first place."
Altair grabs his arm in a tight hold. "Malik!"
"What, Altair?" Malik yells, whipping around hard enough to throw off his hold and send him back a step, startled. And then he sees it – the tension in Malik's shoulders, the tightness around his thinned lips and the caged look in his eyes, the same look Altair himself is undoubtedly showing. He doesn't say anything at first, and Malik keeps looking at him with that familiar glare through the panic in his eyes, and it's almost normal. Almost. Except that it's not at all. This time, Malik is the one to sigh and he leans heavily back against the counter, flicking the knob on the stove to make it click as it starts to heat up.
"I heard you," he says again, crossing his arms over his chest. "What do you expect me to say? That I'm disappointed in you? That I'm angry and I'm leaving you?"
Altair opens his mouth to say no, he doesn't expect that at all, but ends up shutting it again with an audible clack because, yes, that's exactly what he had expected. In return he gets this look of complete irritation and dismay, as if Malik can't decide whether he should soothe Altair like a lost little puppy, or kick him in the shin for being an even bigger idiot than before.
"Altair," he shakes his head and steps close enough to reach up and push long fingers through his hair, clenching them into a loose fist at the back of his skull. "You're being as dramatic as a woman who believes her husband is having an affair. If you think so little of me maybe I should leave." He settles his hands firmly on Malik's hips to keep him there just in case he does tries to escape, and causes the other man to wrinkle his nose in something that's not quite a smile, and chuckle.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says at length, leaning in against Altair's chest without really moving at all. "You were fired, that doesn't mean everything else has to end as well. We've gone through this before and we did alright." He shrugs a shoulder and moves so both of his hands are in Altair's hair and rubbing soothing circles against his scalp. "I'll see about cutting some of the classes short at the university and getting a second job. Maybe down at the depot until you get back on your feet."
"No, I – "
"Hush," Malik lifts that little bit on his toes and covers Altair's mouth with his own, coaxing him into a gentle, loving kiss that aches right down to the soul. "I know you're scared. I am, too. But we'll figure this out, Altair." He kisses him again, pulling him down this time instead of lifting to meet him, and steals the breath from his very lungs. It feels like coming home.
-i-
They clean up the flat properly ("I can't believe you got blood on the wall, you idiot") and have a questionable dinner in the living on the couch with late night game shows on mute playing on the tv. At one point Altair tries to broach the subject of finances and just how they can budget things, but is quickly shot down when Malik gives him a look that clearly states he is in no mood to discuss money. The same happens when he comments on spending the day tomorrow looking for work, so in order to keep from getting a verbal lashing from hell he drops the topic altogether and settles into their patchwork couch, one arm comfortably slung over the back, feet on the table and Malik a long line of warmth pressed in against his side.
He dozes off sometime between Wheel of Fortune and Family Feud with his head thrown back against the cushions. He wakes maybe an hour later with a mouth on his neck and a hand down his pants.
"Uh," he grunts, blinking up at the ceiling and shuddering as Malik squeezes his hardening dick with a warm palm. "What…?"
He hears Malik chuckle right before teeth nip there, that sensitive spot just behind his ear, the place that drives him completely wild with the barest of touch. A hot tongue presses against the bite and lips close over it in a sweet, teasing kiss.
"Let's go to bed," Malik whispers, and the cool breath on his wet skin sends a shiver of want down Altair's spine. The hand in his pants withdraws with a dance of massaging fingers to wrap around his wrist instead and pull him up from the couch. He stumbles, still groggy from sleep, and blindly follows Malik up the spiral wrought-iron staircase to the platform above where the bed is.
He doesn't say anything. A part of him thinks he should pull away and stop this before it even starts because he knows what Malik is trying to do. It's a reason to forget, an excuse to not think about how they could be homeless tomorrow and just another lost cause wasting away with the rest of the city. Malik is as terrified as he is. He worries about the money and about finding work and about all the other million and one things that have gone so wrong lately just like Altair does. And using sex as an excuse to forget about it will only make things worse.
"Wait," He stops on the top step and searches Malik's face.
Malik's hand tightens around his wrist. "Stop," he says. "I can hear you thinking from here and you're being ridiculous."
"But – "
He sighs and tugs Altair with him as he takes a few steps back and sits on the edge of the bed. Altair kneels between his knees with his head bowed, staring down at the bruised fist in his lap. "You're hopeless. After all these years you would think I would be used to way you and your family seem so intent on taking the blame for every little thing that happens."
Altair snorts and flexes his fingers, his arousal slowly ebbing away. "This was my fault, Malik. There's no getting around that. I lost my job."
"And you think you are the only one capable of supporting us?" he demands, and Altair knows without looking he has this look on his face that just dares Altair to question his abilities. Not since Kadar. Not since Malik would've given everything for nothing. Questioning that level of strength is impossible and unthinkable.
When Altair doesn't respond, Malik is lifting his face so he can look him in the eye. "You listen to me, Altair," he growls, and he feels his body respond immediately to the sound of Malik's voice dipping down into a place that makes those dark eyes glint with a hidden fire. Heat licks low in Altair's belly and has him shifting higher on his knees, gripping Malik's thighs tightly in his hands. "You will not let this drag you away from me. I want you, I'll always want you. So end your pity party and take me to bed before I tie you up and take care of it myself."
And, really, he can't find a reason to argue that, so he nods once and shoves Malik down onto his back with a rough push. It goes from indulging kisses and appreciative touching to a battle of teeth and tongue within seconds, hands fighting to get rid of every piece of clothing between them and then long slides of powerful bodies pushing against each other in a familiar dance that never, ever loses its consuming sense of breathless abandon.
It starts out fast and hard like it usually does between them. Almost angry, because Altair likes playing with tigers and Malik is as vicious and merciless between the sheets as he is out. But then something changes, a sigh of breath being too soft or a shared look giving too much and not enough away. They roll and dive, rock and pitch themselves in waves of pleasure that break and crash against their sweaty skin. Groans turn to delicious gasps. Hands clutch and hold together, shaking, trembling. And when it's over, when the only sounds are their labored breaths and the pounding of their hearts, they stay pressed so closely together it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
-i-
It's a few days later and Altair wishes he had stayed home if it meant he wouldn't have to see Desmond looking at him with those lost puppy-dog eyes he and Ezio seem to have perfected so well over the years, and that somehow managed to skip Altair's genetic makeup altogether. He rubs a hand over his forehead, scrubs through his short hair and pulls his hood down over his face.
"What are you going to do?"
"Not sure yet."
"But you've got a plan, right? You've been putting in applications everywhere haven't you?"
"Of course I have," he snaps, glaring from the shadow of his hood. "I didn't tell you this so you could stress yourself into the panic room, Desmond. I just…" He trails off with a heavy sigh, suddenly wishing he could simply disappear into the floor. His little brother is depending on him, locked up in some asylum with barely a hope of ever getting out. Desmond's been harboring this stubborn little spark, this wonderful desire of freedom, for so many months now. Altair promised him that he would get him out. Someday, somehow, he'd bring Desmond home and they would be a family again, they'd fix everything. They'd start over from the very beginning.
But as he sits there and his baby brother searches his face for answers, he feels his chest constrict with the realization that maybe he's been lying to Desmond and himself all along.
"Me and Malik are going through a rough time right now with money and – working for an appeal, it's really expensive. I've got some cash left in savings, a bit left over from the inheritance, but it's not enough and…Desmond, I'm going to do everything I can. I'll do whatever it takes, and – " He stops again and drops his head into his hands. He feels Desmond's arm around his shoulders, and it's so warm against the cool fall weather blowing around them where they're out in the garden.
"Altair?"
It hurts that Desmond sounds so young, like he's a teenager again and Dad's grave is still fresh and all Altair wants is for Mom to come take care of them again. "Mm?"
"…It's okay."
"No," he breathes, sitting up and wrapping an arm around Desmond, holding him so tightly his bones start to shake beneath the skin. "No, it's not okay, but it will be. I promise you."
A/N: This long of a wait won't happen again. Honest. Sorry it took so long.