Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Past screams louder than future, and to Malik, the future is mute.

The present, however, is very much noisy.

Malik lifts his gaze to find the winding path dotted with children and he inwardly bemoans their incessant chattering. This is his dwelling point in the park, his little ivory tower. Something binds him to this spot, this old bench on this grassy knoll which slopes down into this brook that babbles by.

A child shrieks in what is delight or fear when a stray cat with a pretty Golden Retriever at its tail bursts from the bushes and rushes past the group and down the path. Malik follows the chase with a lifted eyebrow before the animals fall from his sight.

His gaze climbs higher and he squints.

The sun is torrid, the sky a harsh blue with some lacy clouds here and there, and some gusts of wind.

He loathes this shade of blue. It reminds him too vividly of Kadar and thoughts of loss begin to plague him.

There is a huge rift in Malik’s life.

He is the man who owns everything but has nothing. He is a man so poor that the only thing he has left is money. He has won the crown of martyrdom, put it proudly atop his head. Malik, the king of pain. There's the homely adage that runs 'suffering makes you stronger' which implies you turn out for the better in the end. No one tells that you turn out meaner and glum, unkind and distrustful.

At the apex of his studies and the outset of his career (which settled him with a substantial family inheritance) The Accident had happened. In the months following his brother’s death Malik aged a dozen years—losing his sibling was like losing a part of himself, like losing a limb, and more.

In The Accident that took his brother Malik had suffered an injury not amenable to treatment and the laryngeal nerve trauma ended in a complete loss of voice. He could still laugh, sigh, cry. But no noise would come out.

Kadar's life insurance defrayed the costs of his operation and therapy, leaving him with the bulky inheritance to spend on nothing. He retained his job for the simple reason of being a skilled drafting technician and because his position is non-verbal.

Non-verbal.

Non-vocal.

That’s what people are wont of calling him when they want to sugarcoat it. Malik never warmed up to the term. He is mute. He finds no offense in it. He can make some airy breaths at best, if he exhales hard enough, but he essentially can’t make a sound, which is what mute basically means.

When they find out his predicament, few bother talking to him. What for inability, what for the effort it requires, what for his temper. People rarely talk to him these days. He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or curse. He is a social misfit now. He leaves work the moment first offices are emptied. In the halls there are always sounds of commotion, people laughing and talking, though the idea of going there and plastering on a big fake smile while pretending that everything is alright doesn't sound appealing. It never did. He dislikes the people around him, and dislikes himself for disliking them. Mere acquaintances leave him unsatisfied, and few people are willing to accept the burdens of friendship as Malik imagines it.

Those who disliked him used to call him ‘the boy from the desert’. Largely because of his shade of skin and his family origin. There’s a huge difference between being inside a desert and having a desert inside you.

Most people will never die, because they have never been born is what his late brother used to tell him, a motto he scribbled up during a philosophy class and never used in his paper because death snatched him away. Malik is wont of thinking that he was born once, but died when Kadar did, and he’s not sure if he waits for rebirth or for death. Deep down inside he already is dead. All he is is an empty husk of a being.

People put on a menagerie of masks every day. Make-up, clothes, a smile. He puts on his scowl. It’s his way of saying fuck you to life. And life in return replies with 'Congratulations. You have lived another dreadful day. I will see you tomorrow'. He’d shout a fat fuck you to everyone around, if he only could. What he sometimes misses is the sound of his own voice. The last recorded memory of it that he possesses he won’t even look at. Kadar is in it.

When he first was informed about the loss of his voice, he had little time and no motivation to think on it. Kadar was dead and he died along with him. It’s only after the blinding pain of his grief subdued that he realized all that he had lost.

The effort of explaining and expressing himself had become with the years more and more terrifying. What for the inability to find the right words and what for the ignorance of others he had developed almost a passion for silence.

Malik feels he would kill for a good conversation. He would talk to someone, and he is alone.

He remains sitting on the bench, taking the sun. He keeps his hand over the page that’s victim to the waywardness of a July breeze before he turns to his book—his only true friend that calms his agitated nerves—and resumes reading from where he last stopped before this distraction.

Malik is barely past the first new sentence when he hears a sough beside him, some rustle of branches in the colossal bushes to his left.

He looks up with a frown, half-expecting another badly-behaved pet.

The person that stumbles forth from the underbrush beneath is a shining example of man's stupidity.

The young man staggers out from between two heavy branches of a spruce and into Malik’s field of vision. His entrance is clumsy, his gait has a subtle sway, his eyes tightly closed in a comical expression.

The man looks like he’s scrabbling about in the dark in search for his lost dignity like a mislaid dumbbell.

Malik rolls his eyes at the idiot. It’s too early for crazy. He looks too young to be drunk at this hour anyway.

His eyes fasten on the man, but Malik never once realizes he’s following his antics with a heavy scowl. The man bends at waist, thrusts his arms out before him like he wants to touch something, his fingers outstretched.

No one stops to help. Not one soul.

People form a wide curving path around him, want nothing to do with him, save for a couple who deign him a look or turn to stare into his face, and the best they can offer is pity or disgust. He attracts little notice otherwise.

Malik feels drawn to him for no earthly reason.

The expression on his face is tight and pained and it dawns on Malik, moment by moment, that this looks nothing like drunken bouts he’s witnessed in his lifetime.

The man doesn’t look like a creature that would ask for assistance or endure pity. He lowers into a crouch until the tips of his fingers come into contact with the pavement and feels his way towards the nearest bench little to his right, the one neighboring Malik’s. When he finally sits down, Malik realizes his eyes have been closed throughout the ordeal. The man clutches at the flaking timber that makes the backrest, heaves a series of deep but quivering breaths through his nose, his frame bent into a drooping posture. Perhaps he is dizzy.

He is giving Malik sympathy nausea.

Malik has half a mind to try the luxury of doing good, to venture over and ask if he’s alright, when the man sucks in a mouthful of breath and shouts in volumes which almost make Malik cover his ears.

"MARIA! MARIAAAAA!"

Malik drops his book.

He is halfway over to check what his problem is when the man somewhat lowers his yelling and a sliver of desperation creeps up his tone.

"Maria! Bad girl, come back!"

It hits Malik like a thunderbolt when he remembers the Golden Retriever that scrambled away after a cat.

The man is facing lawn and clutching at the rim of his bench while filling his lungs with air and Malik grabs at his shoulder just in time to interrupt his incoming yell.

"Mari—huh!?"

The wide eyes that shoot up at him are too bright and too out-of-focus to look normal. Something drops inside of Malik.

Now this is a whole can of crazy.

Malik thought the man is an idiot. Now that he finds out he is blind, he knows he is an idiot.

To make light of something like this. To struggle amid a struggling world and stumble around without a walking stick or another person. To refuse asking for help.

"Who’s there?" The man demands. Malik pulls insistently at his shoulder, but he just won’t budge.

His attempts fall through the cracks.

"What do you want, asshole? Speak!" He looks up at the general direction of his face, waiting for an answer Malik doesn't have.

Malik opens his mouth, but in vain. He can’t even begin to say what he wants.

"The fuck?" He listens to his unwitting companion say when he furiously snatches up his hand from the bench and turns it over in his own.

‘M-U-T-E’ he spells carefully into the man’s open palm.

The man falls silent for a few ensuing moments as he tries to comprehend the signs imprinted into his skin, and then his mouth forms a surprised ‘oh’.

"Apologies for calling you an asshole, I couldn’t have known." He expresses his regret and his fingers enclose Malik’s hand into a warm handshake he immediately returns.

"A blind man and a mute man, what a curious company we make." He speaks to fill the void of silence.

Malik stands a touch awkwardly, forgetting why he approached the man in the first place.

"Name’s Altaïr, by the way."

Malik pulls Altaïr’s hand up again and spells out his own name, slower this time.

"Matik?" Altaïr tries. Malik joins his fingers and smacks across Altaïr’s palm in a rush of frustration.

"I don’t know if that’s a high-five or a no."

Malik slaps himself on the forehead first, then smacks three consecutive cuffs over Altaïr’s offered palm.

"OK, that’s definitely a ‘no, stupid’."

Malik sighs and writes with his index finger across Altaïr’s hand again, with long breaks in between letters.

"Malik." Altaïr says at last, and there’s a smile on his lips warm as the sun that shines down onto Malik's nape. Altaïr twists his wrist to shake hands again and Malik almost fears the chill of his own icy skin will seep into Altaïr’s warmth.

"Salaam Alaikum, Malik." He speaks barely above a whisper and Malik can’t remember the last time someone greeted him thus.

'Alaikum Salaam, Altaïr.' He writes.

While Malik helps Altaïr track down Maria (his guide dog), Altaïr explains that he is not the owner and that she is a young guide, still a trainee whose training started altogether too late.

Altaïr is not allowed his own service dog for some reason, but he applied for the public access to guide dogs and Maria has been assigned to him by the training center. Altaïr likes her, disobedient as she is. She will listen to Altaïr, but she simply has a cordial dislike for the leash and a lively spirit that gives him a headache or two.

Maria is bubbly and strong and cuddly, and shows her immediate affection for Malik by almost pushing him to ground and slobbering over his neck after he squats down to pet her.

They return Maria to the training center together and when they leave Altaïr invites him for a drink as a token of his gratitude.

Normally, Malik would be quick to refuse. But seeing how clumsy Altaïr is even with his walking cane makes him want to escort the man home, and Altaïr maintains he lives nearby.

It’s a seedy section of town where Altaïr lives.

He dwells on the first floor of a dingy building that is as uninviting as it looks. It smells damp inside and the walls of the halls are peeling away in wake of the advancing black and green mold.

When Altaïr finally unlocks the door, there is a breeze coming in through an open window inside.

Altaïr’s living place (Malik firmly refuses to call it an apartment) is something no one should live in, let alone a visually-impaired person. What he has are bare essentials. The obscure border between the kitchenette and what Malik supposes represents the living-room is so efficiently and inexpertly merged that Malik doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins. There can’t be four steps of distance between the walls. Altaïr's furniture is a collection of mismatched pieces. The walls are gray, the woodwork a peeling white, the rug jugged and dirty-brown, and flimsy furniture crammed into a tight fit. A hallway branches out into the remaining two rooms. And in all honestly, 'hallway' is a generous way of putting it.

The bathroom is altogether too small, a tight fit for two adults. It’s just as dingy and decrepit as Malik has been expecting and smells of old pipes. A grayish porcelain toilet, a moldy shower, a sink so tiny Malik is not surprised at the towel that rests below it—it’s probably there to soak in the excess water that escapes. Altaïr's bedroom is the biggest room in the flat, if that could be considered big at any rate.

The electric light bulbs hang on wires, but that’s far from the strangest detail. The off side of light switches is firmly though clumsily taped to walls. Malik feels unfettered enough to inquire about this oddity.

"Oh," Altaïr remembers, "I turned a bulb on accidentally once. Stayed on for days and nights, cost me an arm and a leg. This way I’m sure I can’t turn them on."

There is no way Altaïr is doing any better than scraping by. He is on the verge of subsistence. Malik now understands why they wouldn’t let him keep Maria.

But Malik isn't one to belittle someone else's home, even if said home is a rickety place in a shabby neighborhood.

When Altaïr stretches out his palm in offer, Malik writes ‘water’. He isn't even sure if Altaïr has anything else to offer.

He frowns at a funny plant with hoary leaves while he settles into the protesting couch, but his eyes soon shift to observe Altaïr rambling around the kitchenette.

The coarse material of his blue jeans is a touch tattered at places, much worn and faded. His plain white hoodie is innocent of any details, the t-shirt beneath is horribly wrinkled. As if an iron has never touched it, as if…

Malik scowls darkly while Altaïr sets down a pitcher of tap water and a glass with a chip in it. He snatches his hand right after Altaïr takes a place on the creaky couch beside him.

'Do you have clothes ironed?'

"Uh, not really. Never learned that properly, and I don’t see my skill improving anytime soon," Altaïr gives a chuckle to hide an emotion Malik can’t quite figure out. "I don’t want anyone’s pity, Malik."

'Pity is something that is wasted on you.'  

"Thank you."

The conversation between them is slow. It takes patience for Malik to write everything out on Altaïr’s hand and it takes an effort for Altaïr to decipher everything.

'How do you cook?'

"Sometimes I fix something up." The omitted part of the sentence hangs in the air between them.

'Do you have money?'

"I get enough to pay the rent and not starve, if that's what you wanted to know." Malik's mouth settles into a grim line Altaïr can't see and he holds onto Altaïr's hand without writing. Altaïr sighs. "I don't need much. Things are worth nothing. We ascribe worth to them."

Malik wants to shake his head in utter disbelief. Here sits a man who refuses to be treated with a gravity that his condition is entitled to. He had said he despises the idea of someone following him around all day.

Malik is not even mad, he is just amazed. Amazed and concerned.

'You are a brave man.' He writes across Altaïr’s hand while he contemplates what he’s gotten himself into.

"I’d be a coward otherwise."

That’s pride talking. Malik is not fond of excessive pride.

To say that he is fond of Altaïr is a stretch, but to say that he hates him would be a lie.

Malik thinks his stupid heart has chosen the strangest moment to warm up again. He can’t leave this man to his own devices. Altaïr will protest, he’ll screech around and kick and growl like a bratty child, but Malik will take it all and he will stay at his side.

'You could use a shave.'

Altaïr laughs.

Malik has sown good seeds, he’ll see what it yields.

Chapter Text

 There were some filthy words, some glares and some angry gnashing of teeth, and quite a distance to go before they could reach an agreement.

Malik did his utmost to convince him, and Altaïr did growl and snap against all the entreaties and persuasions until he realized it is for his mindlessness that Malik chides him, not out of pity. Malik tried self-pity once. It was the most detestable feeling one can have.

Altaïr has already been dealing with a lot of ego blows. His pride is constantly taking hits from having to rely on someone else just to eat and get around. The man criticizes snobbery and ignorance and people in general, but it seems his criticism is merely a means to salve his bruised ego at being excluded from their world. Malik finds that they are both self-imposedly detached from humanity. Though Altaïr through pride and Malik through bitterness.

Malik takes seriously his duty as an aide.

He ignores the way Altaïr’s expression contorts with scornful pride, though for a man who refuses to be treated with excessive assistance Altaïr seems to have taken quite a fancy to him. He is quicker to accept him than Malik had initially thought, and he relents under Malik’s coddle, but not without an occasional indignant grumble.

Malik is slow to realize how much caring for someone he has missed in his life, and once he does, it pains him. It pains him that he might be envisioning Altaïr as a bleak alternative to a younger brother.

Why should he offer assistance when Altaïr can open his stubborn mouth and speak and ask for help? Why should he aid him when he has something Malik does not and never will? Malik would forfeit his vision if only he could have his voice back. The injustice gobbles him up, feasts at his heart and mind. Why does Altaïr have his voice when Malik cannot? Why do those who should entirely and altogether be banned from speaking have a voice, why do those who do not need it at all have it, and Malik cannot? Why must he feel like this burden weighs down on his entire life, on his entire future? He feels like a burden to the world…

… only he doesn’t.

For the first time in ages, Malik doesn’t feel a burden.

When he first stepped up to Altaïr it was out of annoyance, when he communicated with him it was out of mild curiosity, when he stayed it was out of anger. Until it dawned on him that Altaïr needs assistance, needs a guiding hand no matter how self-reliant he thinks himself.

For the first time in ages, Malik feels like a guiding light, like he’s alive with a purpose, like he can be of use to someone.

Malik can exist on his own, but Altaïr’s relies on others. His impairment seems recent, he’s not yet settled into its disadvantages, not yet ready to part from the comfort of assistance, even when he refuses it.

"The real definition of power is to me the control over one's own life. A balanced life." Altaïr tells him once, between nursing the tea Malik has brought over while coming to help him shave.

'Letting other people in is not throwing the balance off.' Malik writes across skin that's been heated by the steaming mug.

"It’s not. That’s why I let you in."

They grow closer.

The gap between them is daunting. Daunting isn't nearly strong enough a word. To call it daunting is like calling the Atlantic a swamp.

Their exchange is slow but Altaïr is getting the hang of it and he picks up in a quick tempo. Altaïr has learned the sign language. Malik forms the signs with Altaïr’s hands and Altaïr reads them aloud. It worked, for a while. Until Malik began to miss the canvas that is Altaïr’s hand and Altaïr began to miss Malik’s fingers writing into his skin. Their exchange is slower than between most people, but it’s all the more rewarding. With Altaïr, Malik finds a way of saying the unsayable. Altaïr has grown extremely sensitive to the touch. He can tell what tone Malik wishes to convey by a mere change in pressure on his hand, or the nuances in the way he draws lines.

They share ordinary human frailties and spend pleasant summer forenoons near the bench where they met. The spot is lonely and theirs. A little clearing between the trees and bushes, and thrifty grass to sit on. Sometimes they take out Maria so she can have a romp in the park and clap her proud tail to the ground below while she sits on the grass beside them.

The close-knit friendship they continue to forge is an effort of both sides. It’s a connection deeper than acquaintanceship, more intimate than friendship.

Altaïr has a frank and easy way that Malik rarely liked on people, but it made him like Altaïr worse and worse. He no longer has a reticence before Altaïr, and no longer worries about not having a reticence. He furnishes Malik with many pleasant evenings of discussion, be it an extremely arduous argument, or some silly blabber.

He feels energized and warmed by his presence and time’s flowing in good company.

They soon grow inseparable.

They like to creep out into the warm sunshine of late September and onto the smooth thick turf of their spot, but when they meet today, overhead is a gray expanse of clouds and Malik has left his wallet on the table and it’s a long distance to his home. This is especially poignant because today he promised Altaïr they would eat alfresco.

He garbles the details, but the outline of the story he draws into Altaïr’s hand is clear.

"Sooo, you’re without a penny." Altaïr sums up while Malik shifts on his feet before the bench and thumbs along the umbrella ribs.

"I guess we’ll have to buy a dinner on me."

'Don’t lie, you haven’t got a dollar on you.' Malik writes into Altaïr’s offered hand. He's grown proficient in sensing when Malik wants to say something.

"Hey, don’t make me draw out a three-digit number. Two hundred and fifty… cents."

Altaïr outright laughs when Malik slaps himself across forehead with a fat smack and earns a playful snap of umbrella atop his head for it.

On the nearest vending kiosk they buy a set of cheap candy for Altaïr’s two and a half dollars and return to occupy their bench. They sit in silence, two adults who nibble on cheap chews that taste of apples and cola and need ages to come off teeth.

"Both are shit." Altaïr passes his final judgment after they trade candies.

'You’re shit.'

"I’m THE shit."

Malik's mouth quirks up into a smile while he listens to Altaïr's pretty munching and keeps his fingers branched over Altaïr’s open palm without writing anything.

"I miss making my own shisha." Altaïr admits randomly during a vain attempt to rid his teeth of tacky chews.

Malik remembers he has an old narghile. It’s an unsightly thing, rusty at joints, with a cup too small for Malik himself and a bowl that smells of coal no matter how many times he washes it. It’s probably collecting dust under some bed. He will bring it along some other time.

The musings of a future tryst make him mindless and he only belatedly notices his soft caress over Altaïr’s hand and pauses in his ministrations. Altaïr doesn’t protest his absentminded touch and doesn’t pull away. Malik decides to make it a fixed habit. It colors their special friendship in unique ways. Altaïr is the only man he knows who could appreciate his body language through a mere sense of touch.

Altaïr sighs beside him in the most un-Altaïr-like way possible.

"It just hurts, you know…" His voice is soft and reminiscent when he launches into a short talk, speaking as one lost in an old dream. Or a recurring nightmare. "One moment everyone adores you, and in the next people don’t want anything to do with you."

Malik surveys his face while he recounts his tale. His features briefly subside into a past disappointment and his voice is a low whisper in Malik’s ear that awakes in him the thoughts of bygone days.

"And then you're all alone in the world, cast off by it..."

Altaïr stops there and doesn't talk for a while. During the uncheerful quietude Malik holds the back of Altaïr's hand and strokes over his knuckles.

The truth of Altaïr's story is as follows.

As Malik had rightfully assumed, he was born without a visual impairment. He used to be an athletic prodigy, a sports wunderkind with a bright future and career ahead of him. He was adored by masses until hubris swelled his ego to proportions that eventually led to a sports injury on the field and ended in cortical blindness and a total loss of vision that has not recovered to this day. Altaïr discovered a fate worse than rising to fame after death. Rising to heights and then plummeting into obscurity during one's lifetime.

Now that hubris gave way to humility, now that he gave up most of his material possessions and his dreams, Altaïr loiters alone in his sorry home and looks for a steady job, when he's not spending time with Malik.

Wisdom seems like something Altaïr has grown slowly into and never grown out of thereafter.

"I understand now that past is seldom as we would have it, Malik. But we should find worth in the present, and future. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is." Altaïr twists his wrist over and admits Malik into it, gives his hand a little squeeze.

It’s reassuring. As is his presence.

"I’ll find a job, sooner or later. And you find yourself a hobby, something you love or like."

'It’s pointless.'

"Do you want to be operated upon without an anesthetic?"

'No?' Malik presses his fingernail into the mound of his Venus below his thumb to indicate the questioning tone. Venus mound for a question mark, a sharp pinch to the tissue between his thumb and index finger for an exclamation mark.

"Well then find an anesthetic: a series, poetry, jogging, a game, anything."

Malik is too reclusive for most things to touch him. Not because he has no feeling but because he has so much of it. But he will try to take up his advice.

Malik once left only a sapling in the ground, and it grew into a tree.
 

He decided to add another little branch to this already growing tree of friendship just to spice it up a little. Malik began to allow Altaïr in shortly after he wormed his way inside his mind, but he begins to allow him into his literal home this time. Altaïr's got stomach like a rubbish bin and basically wolfs down anything Malik arranges for dinner.

In the past months he's been assisting Altaïr during the process of mastering Braille because of an open position as an off-screen voice for a regional radio station. Malik helps him prepare for the upcoming job interview.

Altaïr is overwrought with a nervous excitement.

Malik peeks into his bedroom where Altaïr is dressing up to check his progress. He is trying to keep up with him, but a headache is splitting his skull in half today. He doesn't knock when he enters, but he touches Altaïr's arm to quietly notify his presence.

Altaïr's hair isn't long, but it's wild and wants cutting. A smile inches onto Malik's face while he combs through to ruffle and tame his unruly hair, tries to slick it down.

"I wish I could see myself." Altaïr says wistfully.

Malik looks him over and notes that his neck-hole is askew and the buttons of his shirt are off-kilter. The one that should be at the apex rests in the second slit from the top, while the one below dangles out freely. Malik reaches up to fix this without a second thought and Altaïr barely stifles a tiny startle that makes his body stiffen for a fraction of a moment, but he settles to let Malik take care of his little slip-up. His hand cups across Malik’s while he’s smoothing out the wrinkle across his collarbone and when Malik lifts his gaze his eyes fall on Altaïr’s little smirk.

Malik feels warmth suffuse his aching temples and his cheeks, but doesn’t fight it because Altaïr can’t know. He feels a dram of embarrassment at his own doting and grooming. His hand remains like frozen under Altaïr’s hold, neither fighting nor acquiescent in its position. He looks away from what is now a smile when Altaïr’s hand falls from his and he retreats with a flutter in his gut to add to his migraine.

Anxiety over the interview had somewhat veiled Altaïr's sense of perception, but now that his focus is clear, he picks up on Malik's sour mood.

"Are you OK?" He inquires and puts up Malik's canvas.

'Got a rotten headache.' Malik writes crudely, with less elegance than he's accustomed to.

"Should I..." Altaïr lets the question hang as he lifts his other hand. Malik scowls in puzzlement, listens to Altaïr swallow and watches his Adam’s apple go up and then down.

Altaïr steals Malik's canvas when his other hand joins to hold Malik's temples.

The gesture makes Malik's breath catch.

Altaïr's touch could cure a headache. Malik's chin goes slack while deft fingers knead circles into sore tissue. He feels pain and nervousness being soothed from his head and body during the rub down his temples and across his scalp.

He realizes he has closed his eyes when Altaïr's fingers descend further and deeper into his hair and opens them only to see where Altaïr is going with this. His petting is rather reticent at first, but Malik leans into the subtlety of his touch to give a green light to his exploration.

For a while, silence reigns.

Altaïr's hands slip closer to each other, across his ears and down to his jaw, to cradle Malik's face. He is closer now than he's been at the outset of this impromptu journey. Malik is disconcertingly aware of their height difference in this half-embrace.

"Sorry..." he says, faintly at first, then louder but hoarsely, "I always wanted to see what you look like..." Malik feels Altaïr's breath across his cheekbone while his fingers roam fleetingly across his numbed temples. He's got a strong impression that Altaïr is picking his words with care. His touch migrates towards his cheeks, though this time it isn't a mere wispy brush, but a direct caress. He feels the warmth of Altaïr's body and for a delirious little moment he's tempted to nestle against his friend, to face-dive into the texture of his shirt and body. For a long moment he just inhales the smell of Altaïr in its entirety―the fabric softener of his clothes and the mint gum of his chewing candy, the whiff of perfume Malik bought him for his birthday and the soapy scent ever-present on Altaïr's white hoodie. He smells of safe haven and refuge from the sordidness of life.

"Loosen up, you're working a lot of face-muscles there." Altaïr schools while thumbing across Malik's brows. He really does brood far too much, though not close enough as he once did, but it's Altaïr who had been willing to provide good distraction to pull Malik out of his inner monologue and keep his gloomy musings from being locked away.

"You do know that proverb which says it takes over thirty muscles to frown?"

'40.' Malik corrects.

Altaïr chuckles. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day."

He raises a shaky hand to brush away some rebel bangs from Malik's forehead and surprises his cheek with a little kiss.

What a strange gesture for a grown man. Stranger even for Altaïr. Malik rebuffs the ensuing kiss and begins to write on Altaïr's hand.

'Allah have mercy on you during that interview.'

"I'm an atheist, swear to God."

Malik humphs, barely mollified.

"Allah will pardon my little jokes on Him, and I'll pardon His big one on me."

It's no joke when next morning they call Altaïr to break the news of his employment.

To celebrate this happy occasion, they go out on a dinner and a subsequent walk.

They venture into the park little after a throng of clouds comes rushing with a gust of wind and they walk at a saunter until a deluge plummets down upon them. The rain continues until their clothes feel wet and clammy while they wait for a taxi. Malik doesn't admit, but it feels exhilarating; he loves dark light, hard clouds, warm rain, and the gentle clutch of hand. While drops are coming heavy and fast in the rain he presses Altaïr closer to his side and his hold on Altaïr’s hand tightens.

They run from the downpour and into Malik’s apartment with soaking clothes and shoes, and Malik offers him the sanctuary of warm clothing and cups of steaming Moroccan tea.

During the course of the evening, Altaïr doesn’t break word about his departure and neither does Malik. He embraces Altaïr’s presence and doesn’t think ill of him for drifting off into sleep on his couch, first on Malik's shoulder, muffled inside a thick cocoon of khaki blankets, and then on Malik’s lap.

His face is babyish in slumber.

Malik listens to the soft whirr of his dryer working on their clothes. Then to the gentle crescendo of Altaïr’s breathing.

He sits sunk into cushions of his couch and runs his fingers through Altaïr's wild hair, thumbs letters across his cheek and ear in a languid gesture gushing with affection.

Rain patters against the windows.

The more he watches Altaïr, the more he realizes that what little "straightness" that was still in him is slowly divided by zero. After all, he doesn't particularly take a fancy to men. Sure there were some that snuck a tickle into his libido, but he admired them from afar, from a distance he didn't want to cross.

Altaïr sleeps on with his face pressed into his lap, oblivious to the world.

Malik will remember this evening as the one that marked his fall into love, the moments during which his heart was brought to its knees, slain by chubby Cupid.

He drew Altaïr not only into his home tonight, but into his heart, into its innermost chamber. Altaïr had already been wedged far too deep into it and resistance is futile.

Malik seems to lose himself in the tireless drumming of rain on the roofs overhead while an ache fills his chest like molten lead.

His head swells with intricate emotion, saddled with the complicated emotional baggage that loving your best friend entails.

Malik hates loving things. It just gives the world something else to take away from him.

Chapter Text

Malik fell in love because, well, sometimes he likes to punch himself in the heart.

He has always been possessed of a sharp eye―’the hawk’ they used to call him in high-school. After he was left bereft voice, his perceptive skills grew sharper. What others failed to notice, he picked up in a matter of moments.

Altaïr had been a peculiar case, but he had begun to understand him as well, bit by bit, step after step, slower than he was used to.

Altaïr is not subtle in body language.

Malik knows not if that’s his natural trait or influenced by his loss of vision. He doesn’t startle when Altaïr feels for his touch―his hand or forearm, or shoulder—but Malik now grows tense when Altaïr lets his touch wander. Because he welcomes it, welcomes what he didn’t have in so long a time, and probably won’t have for longer still. He could return the touch. Anytime. It would only be fair.

But he doesn’t.

It’s easier to just stiffen up and wait for it to pass, because Altaïr is an attractive man and he wouldn’t mind digging deeper into their relationship. He’s just afraid of what he would find, or rather, what he would not.

It’s easier to dismiss them as an inevitable part of Altaïr’s impairment and forget what they could mean.

Allah almighty knows Malik hadn’t wanted to fall in love with Altaïr. He hadn’t wanted to fall in love with anyone.

But he lies in bed at night with all sorts of thoughts flitting through his head, with seeds of doubt germinating in his mind. He reached a stage where suspicion ends and doubts arise and pain flows in rivers.

Maybe Altaïr felt something for him, too. He had purposely kept away that train of thought in order to elude any possibility of false hope.

Maybe, maybe, fucking maybe.

Love, what a pain to live with.

During the helix of their relationship, Malik only belatedly realized how important this bond became, how it nurtured his life.

His love for Altaïr begins to sustain him and blossoms into something undeniably real and utterly painful.

Malik is a man of logic. He acknowledges that the first necessity for solving a problem is to be aware that it exists. The second necessity is to realize that, on a practical scale and perhaps theoretically as well, it is not necessary for the problem to exist... or that life can be arranged so that the existence is not a problem. That's what logic maintains.

The opposite of logic maintains quite a different route: let's screw up our courage and cross that border. You won't fall off the edge of the world, Malik. You'll just find yourself in new territory not yet on your maps.

And before Malik knows it, his fingers are becoming involved in an elaborate game of seduction.

That he likes using Altaïr’s hand as canvas is nothing new. He most loves the swell of his Venus mound. It hosts his touch like a silken pillow and the cushion of flesh is forever putty under his touch. If he presses hard enough, he can feel Altaïr’s pulse. The pulse is stronger yet along the arterial road on his inner wrist, but Malik doesn’t venture there. It’s a private territory he doesn’t want to impose on.

He draws over Altaïr's palm with playfulness he never possessed and each touch, each drag of finger, is imbued with an affection he couldn’t express with sound.

It's a chary move, this seduction through touch.

His fingers assume a strange tenderness, linger a while longer.

That evening they spread a blanket upon their grassy knoll and smoke Malik's shisha with a fruity flavor of orange and peaches. When they don’t pretend on being the most polemic philanthropists of the age, they play silly games, or puzzles, or shoot the breeze with nonsense.

Malik is cross-legged and smoking with the gleam of a fragmentary smile while he watches a sprawled Altaïr scratch at his cheek which is beginning to darken with stubble. He'll need a home visit from Malik soon.

"Describe me the first thing you see." Altaïr asks him. He might have been expecting some random passer-by or a scenery, but Malik's eyes fall to his drink, a bottle of apple cider. Malik passes the hookah, blindly gropes about for Altaïr's hand and lifts the glass bottle in his other one to give it a little shake. A speck of sediment falls to the bottom before it rises up via foamy fizz. Malik describes this bubbly journey of apple morsels to him.

"We are apple sediments, Malik." Altaïr's smoke-distorted voice interprets a poem. Malik smiles because Altaïr has understood the reference. "Riding on bubbles one day and falling into abyss tomorrow. And waiting for another ride."

A young woman passes by a distance away, jogging, and Malik begins to describe her. Altaïr's laugh interrupts his fingers and Malik swerves into another question, one he least expects himself to ask.

'Do you like girls?'

"I had a girlfriend once. She left me."

Malik accepts his laconic response, but his questions aren’t near to being answered. There’s only two things he can do now. Seek to evade the perceived rejection or try to repair the lapse.

'So you like girls?'

"I guess so."

Malik sighs noiselessly and tries to let the wave of disappointment pass as quick as possible, tries to ignore the bitter taste it leaves in its wake. His mind is a blank. He feels depressed, a mite of apple on its way to the bottom of glass. On no rational grounds, he even manages to feel rejected in a most childish way. Many are rejected daily, and they survive. But this is Altaïr. His friend. His best and only true friend, in fact.

"I had a boyfriend once, too." Altaïr chuckles at some fond distant memory and Malik is cruelly thankful that Altaïr can’t see his bulging eyes which no doubt make a comical expression. A flutter, a rush of something hot and freezing climbs up his nerves while his fingers hover over Altaïr’s open palm. His fingers tremble.

Fear clogs the queue of questions he wants to ask.

Malik solders his fingers into a fist and marks the end of their conversation and doesn’t ask more.

He gulps down the cider in the hope of pacifying his stomach and his soul before he lays his fingers to rest on Altaïr’s hand and lets the warm skin cushion his retired thoughts.

Shaving Altaïr has long ceased to be the same habitual routine for Malik.

Altaïr can’t free-run as he once did, but he works out. Malik used to spare it a passing glance the few times he played witness to it, but the sight of Altaïr doing push-ups and sit-ups now attracts his immediate attention. Staring at this feels like someone is twisting his brain in a vice, like a voice in his head shouts I want! I want! but it never says what.

Worse still is cramming himself next to Altaïr in his tiny bathroom and shaving his very-much-shirtless friend.

It’s strange. He’s seen Altaïr in a state of half-dress a thousand times before, and he had never felt physical interest stir at the sight. Altaïr is not unattractive per se. Malik only never before bothered for the rest of him much.

Now he can’t believe he’s never noticed this side of his friend. The way his torso heaves with steady breaths, the way muscle in his wiry arms shifts when he tightens his fists in boredom during this tedious task, or the way dusty-pink nipples pebble up when Malik’s icy hands touch his neck to turn the direction of the blade, or wide shoulders that straighten and pull back to allow Malik space.

This is serious. It's completely fucking terrifying. It isn't like the world changed. It's more like Malik has fallen in love and then noticed that the world had already changed.

He surveys Altaïr's profile, watches as his blank eyes gaze absently into the direction of soapy water slopping around in his sink. Malik swallows the spit in his mouth nervously while he feels Altaïr’s Adam's apple rake against his palm as he holds him in place. His cold hands graze against the rest of skin on his throat and Malik's treacherous eyes tumble down to watch the rise of nipples into pebbled buds.

Whenever a pang of lust touches his mind he determinedly chastens it down, balances on the edge of passion, straddles the line of being turned on or plain pissed off.

Malik drapes a towel across Altaïr's neck, tilts his head backwards with soap-slippery fingers. He empties the tube of shaving-cream, furiously lathers, and rakes Altaïr's cheeks with the new blade of a safety-razor.

Altaïr smirks at his energetic shaving.

Malik feels his heartbeat accelerate rapidly in his chest at his cheery mood.

'Stay still.' Says the grip of his hand on Altaïr's jaw. The man waits patiently as Malik stirs up more lather with slapping of the unctuous brush, furrows his brows during the pull across the stubble on his face. Malik is more careful with his skin than with his own, even when his movement suggests a rougher handling. He'd rather shoot himself than damage Altaïr's handsome face.

When he is finished he wipes off the remaining foam with the warm towel and gently rubs some of his own moisturizing cream into Altaïr's skin.

His shaving has been rowdy today, because he is furious with hopeless hope that Altaïr might return his feelings some day.

Malik can't live without him. You only can't live without water and air, all else is optional, says something in his head, but his very soul begs to differ. A life without stupid Altaïr’s presence would be mere existence.

He thinks of Altaïr until it makes him feel both better and worse at the same time, until he can't even force himself to not think about Altaïr anymore and lets him traipse and roam through his mind like he owns the place. Altaïr shirtless, Altaïr laughing over nonsense, Altaïr smiling during a touch of hands, Altaïr delving into the deepest corners of Malik’s mind with a single question. Altaïr. Altaïr. Altaïr.

He idly strokes Altaïr’s knuckles during a humorous exchange of silly childhood beliefs.

"I wouldn't go swimming in the pool because I was scared of the sharks."

Malik’s body shakes with silent laughter.

'I thought actors sacrificed their lives when they died in films.' He writes back what he remembers.

"I used to think I was special."

'I used to think my parents knew how to parent.'

"I used to think that grown-ups actually knew what's going on."

Malik doesn't answer, but he frowns a little. He thinks of how to evade the gloomy mood they have inadvertently fallen into when Altaïr trails on.

"I thought that sex is French kissing thanks to Hollywood."

Malik is suddenly very aware that they are lying side-to-side, with him half-glued to Altaïr's frame to keep the proximity of his writing canvas. They are practically breathing the same air.

Malik feels this conversation is starting to take a slightly different turn. It’s a road he’s somewhat afraid to travel, but from the crossroads he stands at it just looks so exciting.

He decides to swerve from truth. Just a tiny little white lie, it won’t hurt, just to keep the flow.

'Me too. One day I said to mother I saw two people have sex outside the house.'

Altaïr laughs, and while he does Malik uses the moment of distraction to lean in a little closer to him, to give himself a bigger advantage, and strokes slowly over the longitudinal arch of Altaïr's palm in a flirty touch. His eyes dart up to his face to focus on his mouth, still drenched in a smile while Malik's own waters with want. He inspects Altaïr, monitors the way his lips move, the way his body responds to Malik’s signs. Maybe Altaïr can feel when he is looking at him, it never occurred to him before.

"Sometimes I still think French kissing is like sex."

Malik would best like to hide the way his breathing deepens with nervy excitement. His mind is too muddled to recognize if Altaïr's words are laden with sexual tension or if imagination and wishful thinking are playing tricks on him. Maybe Altaïr’s words are layered with some distant or curvy double meaning, or maybe Malik is just starting to fall for the charms of optimism, which would be a first.

He stares at Altaïr's upturned palm pensively for a short while before he angles his head over Altaïr's chest, listens to his heartbeat to quell the riot inside him.

Altaïr tilts his head down in a silent question, because Malik had never before assumed such physical proximity.

Altaïr’s lips are so very close to his now, so very exhilarating and rich, and delicious.

Malik lifts himself on his elbow, stills Altaïr’s face in the cradle of his other hand.

When he moves in, he does it without so much as a cursory thought.

He leans in to close the small gap he has created between them, finds the corner of Altaïr’s lips with a touch of lips and navigates from there into a kiss.

He doesn’t know what force moves him to these actions, what makes his heart hammer inside his chest.

Altaïr grows frigid under him. Malik doesn’t cease and kisses on, softly and without tongue, with a gentle press into the cushion of Altaïr’s unmoving lips, until the lack response is a nagging worry at the back of his head.

He screwed up. That’s it. He fucked it up, he crossed the line—

The warm drop that nestles onto the thumb of his hand that cradles Altaïr’s face Malik feels far too late.

Altaïr is crying.

When Malik pulls back Altaïr draws in a long, deep, tremulous breath he’s been holding back.

Altaïr is crying like Malik cries.

There’s only tears. A stray breath which breaks through the barriers of his clogged throat.

Malik’s thoughts are frozen and body benumbed, his movement rendered powerless in face of Altaïr’s mute tears. Altaïr doesn’t speak, doesn’t force his vocal chords to work, and for once, neither of them can speak.

Malik feels a sharp shooting of pain in his chest and stomach while he lets Altaïr silently cry into his unmoving hand.

Nary a word is said.

Malik doesn't initiate their next meeting. He doesn't call on Altaïr.

He walls himself inside his home and comes out by necessity only.

He is afraid and struck by the grotesqueness of life without Altaïr, but he can't move himself to face him.

Until Altaïr shows up at his doorstep a few days later uninvited, stubbly, and very much in anger. The first thought that surfaces from the sea of instincts is to clap the door closed and hide, but Altaïr holds it open, snarls until Malik admits him inside.

"Why did you do it?" Altaïr asks, firmly, with a hand already outstretched. Malik has missed this hand.

He knows he is juggling with chance when he tries the oblivious route. Maybe it would work.

'You trespassed.'

"No, that's not what I meant." Altaïr hurries to interrupt him.

'Don't know what you're talking about.'

"Bullshit, and you know it." Altaïr growls. Well, the ignorance play apparently won’t work.

'I don’t know.' Malik writes slowly, choosing his words with care, 'There isn’t always an explanation for everything.'

"Don’t lie." Altaïr doesn’t growl this time. Something breaks in his voice and he stops.

An uncomfortable void of speech stretches between them.

"Do you love me?" Altaïr wants to know. Malik doesn’t know what he wants with knowledge like this. He stares at Altaïr’s offered hand and for the first time doesn’t want to write his secrets into it.

In the very fragile silence that takes over once more, neither of them dares to breathe.

"Because I love you, Malik."

Malik's gaze shoots up from Altaïr's hand to his face in the fraction of a second. He doesn’t dare to get his hopes up. This could be a trap. It has to be.

"Ever since you first offered to shave me."

Shock prompts Malik into movement.

'What?' He can’t dig hard enough into the soft tissue of his Venus mound to scream the question marks, 'That was almost two years ago!' Malik scratches across his skin furiously, 'Why didn’t you tell me?'

There’s a smile on Altaïr’s face when he gets his tacit admittance of mutual affection. He seems to have abdicated all responsibility for the damage with his little confession.

"For the same reason you didn’t tell me. Because we are so fucking stupid in the most humanly ways."

"Malik?"

Malik doesn’t move from where he’s inelegantly draped across Altaïr’s side and nuzzled into his throat. The best he can offer is a squeeze where he intertwined their fingers and a lazy caress over knuckles.

"Nothing. Just wanted to feel your touch."

Malik molds himself further against Altaïr’s side and lets his scent mix with a mountain breeze tanged with smell of popcorn and cut grass.

They lie in silence on their grassy knoll while day swaps place with night.

When Altaïr’s nose bumps against his forehead affectionately, Malik tilts his head up to kiss him. Altaïr’s lips melt into his own and their tender touch snatches the remnants of the chill of so many lonely hours in the past.

They lie thus, nestled against each other like two puzzle pieces, breathing each other’s breaths and occasionally dipping in for a kiss, a lick, or a teasing nip.

Altaïr's arm is draped across his shoulder, roaming over his back when Malik distractedly touches Altaïr, draws nonsense shapes and hearts across his chest, feels the shape of his bones and muscles beneath his shirt and skin, until he has Altaïr’s body under his fingertips.

His touch is playful and affectionate more than anything else while he traces the contours of Altaïr's body which creates a vista of exciting landscape against the setting sun in the background, but once the vast canopy of stars stretches overhead, a sliver of hunger enters Malik's exploration and he begins to wander around, and lower.

Malik lies on his side, his leg drawn slightly up and hooked into the bend of Altaïr's knee. His hand crawls down across his hipbone and towards his crotch where the fabric of Altaïr's shorts is bunched from the bend of legs and revealing a portion of his upper thigh. With his fingertips he starts to trace patterns on Altaïr’s bare leg, there where he can reach without forfeiting his snug position. Altaïr is not ticklish at all, but he is sensitive to each and every little way of Malik’s fingers and his body reacts to Malik's proximity to his groin. On the back of his hand he feels Altaïr’s hardness, brushes furtively along it, but doesn’t touch.

He had decided to wait a bit before reintroducing his body to the carnal delights of sex.

His fingers resume a brief journey up and down his thigh before he travels up, ‘accidentally’ catching in the elastic band of shorts, and Altaïr’s hips give a small jolt at the tantalizing shift of fabric.

A smirk, naughty and mischievous, blooms across Malik’s smug face. Altaïr feels its stretch in the join of his neck and shoulder, but he clearly enjoys Malik’s teasing. Malik imagines Altaïr must be into long foreplays and a flutter of desire moves him to press a kiss into Altaïr’s neck. There’s something to look forward to with great eagerness.

Altaïr’s hand glides up inside Malik's shirt and across the small of his back, tracing the curve of his spine until he realizes what he is doing and he pulls it out.

"Apologies…" He mumbles so very quietly.

Malik tugs his other hand over to speak.

‘Put your hand back in.’ He writes, sets the smile of his lips and his eyes to a joined mingle. When Altaïr’s warm touch returns beneath his shirt, he tilts his head again to search out Altaïr’s mouth, licks at the seam of his bottom lip, slowly, without any hesitation, and falls into sweet kisses. Altaïr tightens his hold and digs into his flank, draws him further into himself until Malik’s kiss is deeper and Altaïr moans into it. Malik will break down in sweat if it need be only to hear more of them in future, he’ll drop over dead from effort if he must only to hear Altaïr keen and groan in pleasure. On some sensual or poetic level, Altaïr is giving Malik his voice back by giving him his.

His mind is in a whirl from the ecstasy of being so… loved. This is what he had longed for without knowing, the one missing element in his life he hadn't known was empty until it was filled.

It’s the backbone of his happiness, sugary as it is. A man who gives him voice, a kiss that speaks feelings so much sweeter than lust.

When they part, Malik pillows his head on Altaïr’s shoulder and watches the night.

'I used to bark and howl at the stars as a kid.' He tells Altaïr.

The silence that fleetingly stretches between them is pregnant with an odd suspense, an air of anticipation before Altaïr barks his first ‘woof’.

When a long scratchy howl rips from Altaïr’s throat Malik erupts into a continuous shake of chuckle and ripples with mute mirth.

He closes his eyes and listens to Altaïr howl at the stars for him until his yawps become much softer and dwindle into a peaceful quietude.

"I wish I could see them myself." He admits in a hoarse whisper.

Malik opens his eyes to search out the dazzling beauty of the skies. Tonight, Altair is as bright as Altaïr’s smile.

Malik positions his hand right above Altaïr’s heart, marks a starting point with his index finger to signify Altaïr’s namesake and begins to draw a map. He follows the constellation across the clear vastness overhead, a drag of finger for imaginary lines, a press of fingertip to mark a new star, until the entirety of Aquila is sketched across Altaïr’s chest.

Altaïr closes his eyes and listens to Malik gaze at the stars for him.

Malik resumes painting constellations he knows, and those he knows less, until the expanse of Altaïr’s torso is covered in starry constellations, from Leo to the Little Bear. When his canvas is filled up he presses his ear to his invisible map of Aquila above Altaïr’s heart.

His heartbeat propels him into thoughts of time ahead.

The future screams louder than ever, and the past is mute.

Chapter Text

“Warm.”

Malik frowns.

The more he rummages around beneath the press of Altaïr’s hospital pillow, the less he finds. He pulls his arm out, with a distinct lack of apple or cola chew candies in hand. He peeks up at Altaïr’s face and on it is only candor. His eyes are closed, his smile subtle—not a jesting one but a smile that speaks amusement at Malik’s inability to locate the hidden candies.

“Cold,” Altaïr corrects.

Malik shifts aim and combs the rest of Altaïr’s hospital bed for clues.

He knows the candies are on the bed, Altaïr couldn’t have left it. Malik was there. Sitting on the chair beside the bed keeping eyes shut when it was Altaïr’s turn to hide them. If not beneath Altaïr’s pillow, then beneath the blanket. Other options elude him. Malik keeps his gaze locked onto Altaïr’s face as he leans sideways in his chair extending his arm towards Altaïr’s feet, patting the mattress from bottom upwards in search for candy. An enigmatic little smile tugs Altaïr’s lips up—maybe he knows that Malik is monitoring the shift of expressions on his face (Malik is ever attentive to it)—but no words leave him, not until Malik touches him.

“Cold,” Altaïr repeats, curls-and-unfurls his toes when Malik strays to an impromptu rub down the inner side of his socked foot. Somewhere between the end of bed and the pillow, the candy is waiting for Malik’s discovery. Malik’s hand slips beneath the blanket while he feels slowly along the side of Altaïr’s body, following the entire length up to his hips, the tips of his fingers crawl up-and-higher confused between caressing and rifling this side of body for unusual bumps where Altaïr could have wedged the candy between it and the mattress. He reaches Altaïr’s hips with no find, nothing but the texture of his hospital pajamas—rougher than the pajamas Malik had bought him, the ones whose texture Malik knows inside out from spooning Altaïr in sleep.

“Cold.”

He teases. He smirks at Malik’s sweet plight. Malik repeats the same, along the other side of his body—the results are matching. Altaïr’s mischievous smirk widens a sliver before Malik realizes that he was supposed to search for it between Altaïr’s legs all along.

Malik allows him this game, for three simple reasons. In the hospital room are but the two of them. He wishes to distract Altaïr from the upcoming operation. He wishes to distract himself. Malik craves distraction from these and other, graver worries. He is foolishly eager to escape. He escapes, for one mindless moment, between Altaïr’s ankles, and up. Up. Up.

“Warm,” Altaïr whispers.

Malik is between Altaïr’s knees before he can quell the thudding of heart against ribcage, he makes no attempt to conquer his own excitement as he ventures past this point.

“Warmer.”

Malik crawls up the side of Altaïr’s inner thigh, allows the warmth to engulf his hand, Altaïr’s smile stretches bright while Malik advances and by the time he settles right below his crotch, Altaïr’s grin is blinding him. The thunder of his heartbeat rocks his entire chest. Even after all this time, touching his boyfriend, now fiancé, never ceased to provide a flurry of excited unrest inside him. He tugs at Altaïr’s idle hand with his other one, the one not warmed between Altaïr’s thighs, he turns his hand over to open up his canvas.

‘Don’t tell me you put them inside your boxers.’

“Incredibly warm.”

Malik smacks his palm against his forehead and Altaïr barks a laugh at the sound that breaks the silence of the hospital room.

‘I can’t believe this.’

Malik writes into Altaïr’s offered palm even as he hesitantly pulls the blanket up to hide what he’s about to do, because the blanket slipped down Altaïr’s chest and shirred into lap during this propped sitting on bed. He writes nonsense, he is used to writing with one hand and getting things done with the other, but he hooks a finger into the band of Altaïr’s pajamas and drags it down until he encounters the tighter band of his boxers and pulls at this joined obstacle until he feels the bump of candy and hears the familiar crinkle of wrapping paper.

“Hot,” Altaïr husks above and Malik has no choice but to delve inside to get it.

His canvas is usurped as Altaïr solders his fist trapping Malik’s hand into his, and Malik is inside his boxers when Altaïr’s other hand clasps at Malik’s nape to bring him up. Malik is compelled into lifting himself from the sit, forced to abandon the chair to accommodate Altaïr’s sudden impulse, and Altaïr guides him into a kiss. Malik opens up to it before Altaïr himself can manage.

Malik never intended to swerve into the realms of sex, not here, not now, but Altaïr alleviates worries through the soothing embrace of intimacy, and Altaïr’s worries are more violent than Malik’s. At least that is what Altaïr believes. The truth escapes him at present and Malik doesn’t want to present Altaïr with the full weight of his own worries, he will spare Altaïr the burden and lift Altaïr’s with what little strength he has left.

Malik never intended to love Altaïr either. Perhaps it's true that sickness doesn’t choose, but love is even more fickle. Malik lived only two times. Once when he was born. The next when he was reborn, when he began to love. To the one who helped him up from ashes of his first death, he can’t deny anything. Not even the indecency of touching on a hospital bed. Not when Altaïr needs to distract thoughts from gloomier subjects that will assail him all night. This much he is willing to give, public decency be damned to Jahannam.

He is pliant in kiss, assertive in touch. Where Altaïr’s hand angles him into a better hold for the man’s own pleasure, Malik’s hand plucks the candies, removes them, leaves them for Altaïr to eat in the loneliness of a hospital room, and gives Altaïr the touch he seeks. Altaïr’s mouth tastes of chew candy and fear. The breaths that spill from Altaïr’s mouth between kisses taste of panic. Arousal and dread make an odd mix, less pleasant for Malik, barely passable for Altaïr.

He doesn’t want Malik to leave him to the silence of this bedroom, and Malik doesn’t want to sleep in the silence of theirs. It’s equally ghastly. He can’t remember the last time he slept without Altaïr. Not one morning where he doesn’t pull the man from slumber’s claws through a barrage of kisses, down the column of his neck, down the spot he loves most, only to have Altaïr’s moan be the first sound he hears before embarking into a new day. That one voice that gave him respite from losing his own.

Malik’s hand freezes, a branching chill is wrung from the depths of his belly as the door behind him opens, the sole reason for this public indecency remaining secret is Malik’s frame fortunately shielding Altaïr’s lap and the hand currently frozen inside the patient’s boxers.

“Mr. Al-Sayf,” she urges.

In spite of a gross overstepping in visiting time, she doesn’t drag him out, her tone doesn’t morph into unpleasantness. She must be hoping for Malik to bribe her again. She needs the money. Malik feels less than guilty for resorting to bribery to have her allow him staying many hours past his usual work day. He isn’t swarming with money, not now that he spent the entirety of his inheritance on this operation to return to Altaïr the vision he once lost, to give him this birthday present long after the man got used to his impairment.

Malik doesn’t budge, he instills much calmness into his expression while he watches her, but he won’t pull his hand out for the snap of elastic band that threatens to smack through the silence nestled between the three of them. He doesn’t pull out, but he nods and she retreats. She tiptoes out hoping Malik would either follow closely or offer further bribe—either of the two would favor her, though the latter she prefers.

Malik makes the first move to remove his hand from the territory of Altaïr’s underwear but Altaïr resorts to bolder method, he takes Malik by the wrist, and though he does finish what Malik has already set into motion, he tugs him closer, until he is sure Malik is sitting up on the mattress, until he’s sure Malik won’t leave, not yet. Malik expects him to mask his fear with silence or honesty, but Altaïr doesn’t stray to admitting fear of surgery.

“First thing I do when I get my sight, you know what it will be?”

Malik shakes his head and that’s all movement Altaïr requires, he is cradling Malik’s jaw in his palm. Malik expects several things, none of which match Altaïr’s desires. The man smirks, he knows now for sure that Malik is watching and he maintains every confidence as he leans in, as he angles Malik’s jaw to whisper into his ear:

“I’ll watch you ride me.”

There is a swallow, followed by a blush. Malik has to put a cork on his artless blushing, now that Altaïr is a step away from having visual access to it. He needn’t know that Malik never tamed the heat that suffuses his neck, his cheeks and temples, when promises are whispered into his ear.

To have Altaïr see him is a blessing, a curse. It could be both.

Malik turns aside and Altaïr’s smirk chases after this motion falling from the man’s lips.

“Malik?” He inquires into this oddity, and when Malik doesn’t return to him he makes another attempt with intention firm in mind. He frames his face pulling him in again, until they can share breath, until Malik has nowhere to run.

“I didn’t mean to drive you away,” Altaïr husks, a breath of a voice, and the pain that stitches itself into Malik’s features mirrors Altaïr’s own, Altaïr feels each shift of Malik’s face beneath his fingers.

You didn’t drive me away, he wants to write, I’m driving myself away. He doesn’t move to bring his canvas closer. He never intended to share his own fears. Not while he still fears how Altaïr will accept him with renewed sight.

The thumb on his left cheek kicks off the first moments of petting, the first caress across his skin, and for a moment Malik berates himself for not having shaved his stubble off instead of allowing himself into this petting. Altaïr doesn’t mind. Malik knows he never does, nor did. Still such blatant disregard for grooming his own face seeps into the way he gives himself to Altaïr, he is tense, his neck is stiff, and Altaïr strokes over his skin and down his cheeks and jaw until it’s fruitless, until it’s apparent that Malik won’t unwind and relax into his touch. He holds his jaw in place and Malik follows the familiar motion as Altaïr angles his own face and leans in to peck his lips. This, at least, he does allow with no hesitance.

When Altaïr removes the warm hold of his hands they settle into his lap between them and Malik watches them but for a few moments before he nudges the curl of his fingers apart to reveal his canvas.

‘Rock-paper-scissors?’

He has barely extracted the blunt edge of his nail from the cushion of Altaïr’s Venus mound, barely found rest in Altaïr’s warm palm after this question mark, when Altaïr refuses his offer. He is not game to distract himself through mindlessness anymore. It almost seems as if they will now, at last, after all swerving from joint and mute worry, delve into the gravity of the operation that awaits tomorrow, but Malik’s suspicion is sooner ended than awakened.

“I’d draw, if you lend me a hand.”

He need not ask. Malik always does.

It has been short into their relationship when Altaïr imparted unto Malik a knowledge forgotten and recovered in the coziness of Malik’s presence. The uncovered truth was that Altaïr possesses a keen eye for drawing, for sketching, or at least he used to. Malik gazed upon the rare glimpse of Altaïr’s lost talent, on occasions when he tried to guide Altaïr’s hand across canvas sans his own influence. A task bound for repeated failure, but no less fond.

Malik needn’t be asked twice.

From the pristine white bed stand—the small thing hosting big amounts of fruit and candy and other pleasantries to ease the tedium of waiting—Malik takes a pen. From his briefcase, he takes a blank piece of paper, and newspapers to set as stabilizer beneath. Instead of facing Altaïr, he seats himself into the warmed spot Altaïr forfeited as he shifted across the bed, and they sit lining their shoulders into the briefest touch before Malik slips his hand—the clean one, the one that didn’t stray into Altaïr’s boxers—between Altaïr’s side and arm, right below his armpit, he has to climb further up onto the bed and Altaïr has to slide further down the mattress to accommodate, until at last they settle into something that is a mediocre mimic of their usual drawing together. For its intended purpose, it is enough. Malik is half across his back, with chin burrowed into Altaïr’s shoulder and enough length of his right arm protruding that he can guide Altaïr’s hand across the paper.

The lack of time nags incessantly in some remote corner of his mind but he closes his eyes to it, he deprives himself of sight for a few moments while he’s swallowed and chewed out by the comfort of Altaïr’s scent—fabric softener, chew candy, soap. The scent that never changed, never altered its fragrance, never lost impact on Malik. When the motion of Altaïr’s sketching hand or the furious swish of pen across paper yanks him from the embrace of familiarity, Malik peels his eyelids open into mere slits only to adjust Altaïr’s aim or shift him away from the edge of paper, and he then sinks into this scent of home and coziness. It’s where the escape is.

Altaïr doesn’t speak, entrapped as he is in his disarranged sketching, not even when Malik slants his face to side, not even when he nuzzles into his neck to keep himself just beyond the grasp of slumber, not even as he appends this affection with a smacking kiss or a graze of lips.

A stir of a stiff shoulder upsets the ease of Malik’s rest and it’s a silent call, to nudge Malik into looking down. Amid Altaïr’s clumsy creation—for not even Malik can correct the content of Altaïr’s drawings where he can right him back on track—an innocent I love you hides looped by a messy sketch, nearly swallowed by a disorderly tangle of lines.

The letters jerk Malik’s insides into a heat and his heart thuds treacherously against Altaïr’s back, the words carry across violently a message long learned, as it’s not the first time nor the last time they are written. Or so he hopes. He wants to speak. To rip his chest open and confess. To tell Altaïr all that ails him. To let him know he fears Altaïr’s recovered vision as much as he anticipates it. Because he fears Altaïr might not like him when he sees him. Because—

The door opens. That’s how the nurse finds them.

“Mr. Al-Sayf,” she begs.

This time, he can’t prolong parting.

Malik knows what lying in the numbing air of a hospital means, what it feels like. Not so long ago, he was on the hospital bed himself, his voice taken from him. A loss overcome through the presence of this single man. He is far from eager to leave him in the stillness of a solitary hospital room. A look of panic passes over his face when he is reminded of the surgery that awaits him tomorrow and Malik reaches out to still his face and stroke down his cheek as he stands there beside the bed again, feels his insides being ripped in shreds when Altaïr removes it from his cheek to press lips into the engagement ring on Malik’s finger.

“I’ll call tonight,” he says, even as he hates calling. Where their communication is difficult, their phone calls are near impossible. It’s one man asking questions and one man tapping against the speaker for yes or no.

Malik turns to leave, to pick his briefcase up and pick himself up and out, but Altaïr holds selfishly onto his hand and there is more he has to say. A last attempt at distraction.

“After I watch you ride, I’ll draw a real picture.”

The words haunt him long after Altaïr whispers a good night after Malik’s last tap against the phone speaker, the promise won’t sweeten his insomnia. Fears pursue him long after he settles into the emptiness of their bed, long after he turns off the bedside lamp, and he keeps dozing off only to wake with an upset breath during this parody of sleep. Altaïr won’t like him. Altaïr won’t find him attractive. Altaïr will stay with him nonetheless.

He sells himself to hope that this thought will last.

It doesn’t last.

He is frequented by fear before the nurse speaks, by terror as she allows Altaïr to unwind the bandages and gauze patches, by panic as the path to his doom shortens. Altaïr won’t like him, how can he, he’s never seen him. The last coil is being uncoiled, Altaïr soon to be parted from darkness.

Malik feels the reproach of his own conscience, he banishes the thoughts of doubt from his mind as soon as they arise—Altaïr won’t leave him. Even if Altaïr doesn’t find him physically pleasing, he won’t leave. He won’t. He can’t. He mustn’t. Or Malik will die a second time.

A gleam of sense is fitting itself out inside his mind, Malik is glad it’s happened, glad for but a moment before he buckles under the weight of doubt again and he watches the crumbs of illusions lie beneath his feet. Altaïr might remain, disappointed, and Malik will live on disappointed at Altaïr’s disappointment. Altaïr won’t tell him he dislikes him, but Malik will know. He will recognize the disappointment in Altaïr’s eyes, he knows Altaïr’s face as he knows his own.

And his own is tired and groomed. His jaw is shaved, his goatee a dark flawless shape familiar to Altaïr’s fingers, but eyes bereft of sleep, at the mercy of anxiety. Altaïr’s favorite blue cardigan is on him (Prussian blue, but Malik doesn’t argue colors with a blind person), but his body is weary from fear, dread, distress.

To this sight Altaïr opens his eyes.

He closes them soon thereafter, his vision is a fog of haze, he needs time to adjust. His brows crease into the likeness of pain, or vertigo, and Malik forgets himself for a miniscule moment and lays a hand upon the summit of tent Altaïr’s bent knees have created beneath blanket, he seeks out his knee—a helpless gesture of support to guide him through lightheadedness.

In this moment of respite there is enough time for suspicious to alight on him.

He doesn’t want Altaïr to arrest this current image of him as the first sight he will see after a long time. He doesn’t. But Altaïr opens his eyes to it, and Malik finds himself frozen with ugly fear etched into his features and to rectify this ghastly expression, he picks up his other hand and joins both putting them across Altaïr’s covered knee—that one support he can hold onto as teeth tear into the tissue of his lower lip.

Altaïr’s eyes are wide. Wide in their first shock of colors, wide at his fiancé’s visage. No sooner have his eyes adjusted to Malik’s face then he commences a thorough scrutiny of what he imagined for so long.

A flicker of worn anxiety washes over Malik’s face but he pretends to know bravery.

Pretense is bravery on its own.

He doesn’t tighten the hold on Altaïr’s knee while his fingers ache to dig into Altaïr’s skin and bone, he teaches his lungs to breathe when they forget, he hangs his head to avoid Altaïr’s gaze, he flees, wavering—Altaïr won’t say he doesn’t like him, he won’t—his eyes follow the white of the hospital sheet and plummet to Altaïr’s hand before this hand soars up and lingers in mid-air during Altaïr’s mute perplexity.

Malik takes it.

He keeps eyes locked onto his canvas not on the honey core of Altaïr’s wide eyes, not on the disappointment that must reign on Altaïr’s face—Malik knows it’s there, but he can keep Altaïr by showing care and affection. Confined behind the bars of his own disappointment, with no hope of redemption other than dodging Altaïr’s scrutiny, Malik is guided by a gleam of cowardice-not-courage as he bends to write, he bends more than is necessary, to shun the inquisitive gaze, he turns the palm up and traps it beneath his hold, he writes what first comes to mind. He glides between the creases on his palm quickly, he doesn’t know if Altaïr can quite catch the first signs of his breaking.

‘How ar—‘

“You’re...”

Malik ceases. The pause is brief. An eternity for Malik.

“... even more beautiful...”

Malik is breaking. He breaks.

“...than I imagined.”

He breaks.

His hand—a useless tightening of fingers, a tangle of two hands. He sinks down the remaining path, he presses his face into their join of hands to relish in the numbing wave of relief.

Malik once drew Altaïr into his home, into his heart, into its innermost chamber. He drew him in without closing the door.

The sedative of relief has taken effect by now, and Altaïr slips inside again. He re-enters quietly, with Malik’s tears on the back of his hand.

Malik locks the door.

Altaïr remains inside him minutes after they have finished.

Malik is half-mind to write a crude comment about having painted across Altaïr’s chest as well, with materials other than skin paint, but of the two of them, Malik is the messier one. Altaïr links his fingers behind his own head into a makeshift pillow, with an odd mixture of amusement and contentment on his face, and a shade of pride on the side. For the first time since the outset into this unusual tangle of painting and sex, Malik hangs his neck to assess the state of his torso.

Altaïr couldn’t settle on what to try first. The only viable outcome was to connect them into one.

Altaïr’s appetite seems to have doubled with added visuals of Malik’s body, and Malik didn’t protest his whims. Which is why he allowed Altaïr to do his magic while he turned him into a breathing canvas, which is, also, why the source of Malik’s frowning is the painting across the expanse of his chest. As he assesses the span of imperfect green, the changing line of blue, the arranged pattern of tawny-brown above his navel he distinctly remembers Altaïr’s dotting down while the man had him on his back, he recognizes a bench in the latter. Their bench. Their spot in the park. Altaïr had managed, with varying degrees of success, to paint their former meeting spot in the park while they made love on tangled sheets.

“You remember?”

Malik slaps his side for the sheer audacity of asking that question. Altaïr’s body flinches at the affectionate smack, the man beams, he knows without asking that neither can forget where they first met. Altaïr tightens a grip below Malik’s shoulder and glides all the way down to his wrist across skin where only scraps and shapeless stains of paint mar Malik’s limb, until he can tug Malik down.

To let Altaïr’s masterpiece dry across his torso, Malik fits himself along the line of Altaïr’s body, shoulders touching, heads up. The floor is hard but he sinks into the messy, stained tangle of sheets smelling only faintly of lavender now. Fie on them. He can get the smell of lavender in again, but he can’t get the scent of Altaïr’s happiness out of them.

Above them, across the vastness of their bedroom ceiling is a painted night sky. A stretch of constellations done by a professional. To remind Malik of the time he painted imaginary stars on Altaïr’s chest during a summer night that smelled of happiness and Altaïr and mountain breeze and cut grass and popcorn.

Malik bought the body paints for Altaïr’s purpose, not his own.

Yet as his eyes settle on his fiancé’s namesake above them, an intention settles into his mind as well. His body is sated from the glow of bliss, it protests movement, but Malik’s intention is brawny, muscular, a burgeoning thing swelling with each new inch towards the palette of paints.

He is no freer from post-orgasmic bliss than he was before, but he rolls back to sidle up to Altaïr’s side, to lay his head on Altaïr’s shoulder and wait for the man to wind his arm around the back of his neck and splay a hand on Malik’s shoulder as he’s wont to do, he waits for Altaïr to settle in order to put the palette to a balance on Altaïr’s naked hip.

There it rests, all the while he dips his fingers into paints—white for stars, blue for lines—and he maps the entirety of Aquila above Altaïr’s heart, the remaining constellations down the rest of his torso. Altaïr, too, can see them now. But he closes his eyes and lets Malik gaze at the stars for him. Until there’s no untouched dip left, no swell of muscle left ungrazed, no rib unbrushed by his touch.

Until they’re lying nude on tangled sheets with paint smeared over them and stars jotted across Altaïr’s chest. To avoid upsetting his own masterpiece, Malik bends his arm folding it above Altaïr’s collarbone, below his neck. At the end of his forearm, where the tip of his elbow is touching Altaïr’s other shoulder, the man’s skin is colder, his body temperature victim to idleness. Malik lifts his chin up nudging his nose against Altaïr’s cheek, the man glances down at him.

‘Cold?’

He writes slow because it’s not Altaïr’s palm, it’s his shoulder, it will take him longer to decipher Malik’s letters, but Malik sacrifices time for absence of wish to shift his body from where it’s melded against Altaïr’s.

He is willing to shift just enough to drape the loose end of a sheet across their bodies, should Altaïr want it so.

But Altaïr smiles and his face is alive, his eyes ablaze, his whisper hushed.

“Warm.”