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The morning sun in Jerusalem is cool and kind; with a soft breeze bristling in through the window in Malik’s quarters. The city is only beginning to wake up; the shuffling and running, the cries, laughter and barking are muffled and distant. It must be early, always is when Altair wakes up, but he doesn’t mind. It’s his favourite time of the day.
Beside him, Malik is still fast asleep. During the night the blanket has slipped down to his hip, exposing his naked, well-toned torso and arms. He is a slender man with narrow shoulders, a little shorter than Altair, but even these days with his life of an assassin long past he makes sure that he keeps in shape. Whether it is merely a habit that has remained or something else Altair cannot say; they talk little about these things.
Malik has rolled over to his side so that he can use his arm for a pillow. His breathing is slow and steady and Altair loves listening to it. He could do it for hours, maybe even days. Malik’s back brushes against Altair’s shoulder – he is lying on his back – and he loves that, too. The casualness in the touch, the reassurance of each other’s presence. In their line of work, these are the things that can be taken away from a person in the blink of an eye. The threat that by tomorrow either of them – but probably Altair – might be dead is quite real and their constant companion. Maybe this is why Altair cherishes the mornings so much. They belong to the two of them, are unspoiled by whatever task lies ahead that day.
Gently, Altair rolls over and tucks his forehead in that spot between Malik’s shoulder blades. Under his touch Malik stirs, and Altair can tell he is about to wake up but not quite yet. He inhales and takes in the other man’s scent. Malik smells like paper and candles, like jasmine and the desert. It is an odd mixture and one that Altair finds impossible to resist.
He moves his head up slightly so that he can almost bury his face in Malik’s raven hair. It too smells like herbs and jasmine and feels silky to the touch. With the smallest of movements, Altair places his lips on the back of the other man’s head. Suddenly, he feels nothing but gratitude.
„Had I any wish to be woken early, I would have obtained a cat,“ Malik says but Altair can hear the smile in his voice, the kindness.
„Instead, you caught yourself an eagle,“ he answers.
Malik chuckles, his shoulders shaking slightly as he does. „That I have.“
Altair closes his eyes and moves his forehead back tot he spot between Malik’s shoulders, and for a while they lie there in silence, in the comfortable stillness that needs no words.
The sun rises higher and as he does, he fills the quarters with light and warmth. Altair places his arm over Malik’s waist and begins to place a couple of kisses on the man’s shoulder.
„The pigeons will start coming in soon,“ he says and Malik nods quietly. Messages from Masyaf, assassination contracts and the like. Altair and Malik have been asked to return to Masyaf and rebuild the Order, even take Al Mualim’s place. Altair knows he will have to do it, but still he doesn’t particularly like the idea. He feels much more comfortable like this, in the big city where the mornings are his and Malik’s; where he can roam the streets and gather information, and Malik runs the bureau like some kind of shopkeeper. Where, ultimately, it is just the two of them.
He lets his hand wander up Malik’s waist until it reaches the stump of Malik’s maimed arm. The one he lost because of Altair’s pride, a sin which nonetheless the other man found himself capable of forgiving. Proving once and for all that between the two of them, Malik is the better, greater man.
Gently, Altair places his hand on the crippled left arm, the rough bandage that Malik always keeps it in. The wound is long healed, yet Malik makes sure that the stump is never exposed, always covered. Whether he is ashamed or whether he simply does not want to remind the assassin of his trespasses, Altair cannot say. He doesn’t even know if he would actually want to see it, but he wishes Malik would feel comfortable enough to not hide it. The maimed arm is a reminder of what Malik has survived, a testament to his will and strength.
He lets his fingers run over the fabric and feels Malik tense beside him. One day he will ask Malik if he can undress the stump, and he will cover it in kisses, but not today. Slightly shifting his position, he wraps his arm tightly around Malik’s waist and the other man – his friend, brother, lover – moves as well, pressing his back against Altair tightly.
Malik barely shows any weakness; he does not like to be seen as vulnerable, even more so since the loss of his arm. But when he is around Altair, in blessed moments like these, he lets down his guard and allows himself to be held, and loved, and caressed.
And then, he even turns over in Altair’s embrace, tucks his head in that little nook between Altair’s chin and throat. His soft hair brushes against Altair’s face and he closes his eyes. He hears Malik exhale softly.
„I do not want to get up,“ he mutters sleepily. „But we shall have to, in a bit.“
Altair lets his head rest against Malik’s and then places a kiss right above the other man’s ear. Malik shifts contently, allowing yet another sigh to escape his lips.
Though they are of same age, Malik seems older than his years. The way he holds himself, moves and speaks radiates wisdom and experience, unusual for a man so young. Altair is the only one who knows there is a young man behind the words and the books, and when Malik permits Altair to hold him like this, he suddenly looks very young, innocent almost. Another wave of gratitude washes over Altair.
Malik drapes his good arm over Altair’s chest and for a brief moment, the world is perfect. Nothing matters but this room, this morning, the other man pressed next to him, peacefully asleep. For a brief moment, the world is still, at ease.
Then, the flapping of wings and cooing.
„The carrier pigeons have arrived,“ Malik murmurs. Even in his sleep, he is always ready to fulfill his duty, it appears.
Altair sighs and nods. There is no point in trying to convince Malik that work can just wait for another hour. Already Malik is pushing back the blanket and sitting up. His back is now turned to Altair again and he can see the scars from stab wounds, the cuts and scratches. Altair surpresses the urge to reach out and trace his fingers along those lines and markings. Instead, he sighs, gets up and reaches for his robes to get dressed.
When Altair is finished he makes for the door to head for the dovecote to retrieve the day’s messages and missions. As he steps outside their bedroom, he hears Malik’s voice, low and sounding very, very sincere.
„Safety and peace, brother.“
Altair halts. „Safety and peace.“
He turns to look at Malik and they share a smile, A smile that says „I love you“ and „Please come home safely.“
The moment is over too soon. Altair turns around again and is on his way to the dovecote. Already he is thinking of tomorrow morning, when the world is perfect again and for a short while, when Malik and he are safe and sound in each other’s arms and nothing else matters.
-end-