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If you give Altaïr an inch, he will take a mile. It’s his way. He likes to push, likes to find out how far things can go, how to get what he wants out of the situation. His stubbornness is legendary.
Which must be why he lies in Malik’s lap and refuses to move.
“I have work to do, Altaïr.”
“It can’t be that important.”
“I have responsibilities. You remember what those are, yes? Responsibilities? They’re the thing you usually do instead of lying about here, playing at being a dog.”
He answers with a noncommittal hum, which could be an agreement or a rejection or even just Altaïr making a sound for the sake of it. “Dogs get affection.”
“And is it working, novice?”
“I want it to.” Altaïr sighs and rolls onto his side, nuzzling into his friend’s stomach. A new habit he’s become fond of in the past few weeks: rubbing his face on whatever part of Malik is closest, often without warning and barely out of view.
Malik shuts his book and sets it aside. He can’t focus on it with Altaïr laying there, and regardless, it wouldn’t hold his attention if he were locked in a bare cell. He’d be more inclined to gnaw at the bars than subject himself to another moment of dry philosophy. If he truly wants a study on the strangeness of men, there’s one laying on his lap. He stares down at the assassin. “What is this about, Altaïr? Truly?”
There’s only silence for a moment.
“Altaïr.”
“…A mission. My target is outside of Jerusalem. Some ways away from the city.”
Ah. “Are you concerned I might forget about you? Or perhaps that things will become too peaceful?”
“I don’t—You wouldn’t forget me,” Altaïr replies, though he forgets that without his hood, the furrow between his eyes is all too obvious. “I annoy you too much. You wouldn’t…forget me.” Every word sounds less sure. Guilt presses into Malik for a moment, at the idea he may have only added to the concern, instead of easing it away. But Altair repeats himself, more surely. “You won’t forget me. It won’t be that long.”
“Then what is it, novice? What has you making that face?”
He shrugs, that furrow becoming more pronounced as he turns to face Malik properly. “That’s the problem. I’m not sure. It’s the idea of leaving that...” Another shrug. “I don’t know.”
“You’re nervous about it.” About leaving the bureau. About…leaving Malik? For a moment, he feels a flare of something competitive— something indignant that has led him to bruised knuckles and bloodied noses before. Once with Altaïr, even. But then he catches the guilty look on Altaïr’s face and realises how it must have sounded. “…I know that isn’t what you mean. You know better. But that implies that what you mean is that you’ve taken issue with leaving me.”
Altaïr doesn’t respond. He seems to think that avoids answering the question in its entirety, but the two of them have known each other long enough for Malik to recognize his tells. Namely, the absence of any. He has to concentrate to keep himself from giving things away. It makes him an excellent liar to most. To those who haven’t bothered learning better, Altaïr is impassive, the picture of innocence. To Malik, he’s visibly holding himself still, controlling even the motion of his chest as he breathes. There’s no need to be evasive if he truly doesn’t know the source of his unease. Which likely means he knows- or at least, suspects it. “Novice. Explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain. I told you, I don’t know what it is.” His fingers twitch slightly. He laces them together atop his own chest.
“Then what do you think?”
“I...It’s not- I know you can take care of yourself.”
Malik raises an eyebrow. Strange way to start. But Altaïr isn’t looking at him, so he doesn’t truly feel the effect. “And yet?”
“I’m—If someone breaks in while you sleep. Or if the bureau is raided by our enemies. In numbers, too many for you to defeat alone—” He begins in mechanical, pared-back terms. Simple worries. Easily dismissed. But once the dam is broken, everything pours free, and the concerns grow claws and teeth. Dozens and then seemingly hundreds of them; dreams of death, dreams of fire, rivers of blood staining the bureau forever. It might be the first time he’s ever pitied Altaïr. Whatever compelled him to such thoughts, they would have to talk about it at length another time. Tear it out at the root.
Now is perhaps not the time, though. Not when it has Altaïr so thoroughly ensnared. Malik sets his hand on top of Altaïr’s, effectively silencing his outpour, and waits for Altaïr to turn a confused gaze his way.
“You worry because you care for me.”
Things flit across his expression. Words tangle themselves together, and from the way Altaïr silently opens and closes his mouth, it’s clear he isn’t sure how to reply. So Malik frees him from the obligation by repeating: “You worry because you care.”
“...And not because there is something to fear.”
“Precisely.” For this, Malik makes no attempt to conceal his own concern, nor his smile. “And we will discuss such things. We will talk about it, and you will tell me the things you have not shared today.” But not today. Today, they have only the evening together, and it pours past the horizon as sand in an hourglass. Altaïr leaves at first light. Malik is determined to fill those hours with peace and contentment.
He leans down to press a kiss between Altaïr’s eyes. “I understand. And I will confess my own concerns. When you leave for your missions. When you arrive with your robes soaked in blood. Every time I have heard the bells toll in Jerusalem, I fear for you, Altaïr. But it would not do to waste the time I have you in my arms on worries about when you leave. Do you understand?”
Altair follows the chaste kiss with a decidedly less innocent kiss of his own. When he falls back into Malik’s lap, his eyes sparkle like sunlight on the water. “I fell for a poet.”
If only he knew the things Malik hasn’t said. Instead of saying that, he leans down to kiss the assassin again. “May you never forget your luck," he says. “May you never forget you’re loved.”
“With you by my side, how could I?”