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The drums pulse through the stone walls of his bureau.
He couldn't say what festivities thrum through the streets — he never leaves, nor does he care. It's noise. It isn't annoying, but it's noise nevertheless. He finds himself unconsciously drumming against the desk's worn surface; it's a whimsical rhythm with a set beat, so he imagines there is dancing. Normally he would scoff at the idea of celebration, of such frivolity, during volatile times as these, but he doesn't.
After a while, he's no longer content with just rapping his nails against the wood top of his desk, so he taps his feet as well.
And after his feet, his hips.
And after his hips, his legs.
The Rafiq is by no means a dancer. There were times he'd attempted to mimic what he's seen performers do, because he finds fascination and allure in the way their bodies move. It is always movements he could never hope to copy completely though, with a sturdy body like his. His center of gravity is in the wrong place. His legs and hips lack grace. It is absurd enough that he, a powerful assassin, standing alone in his bureau, is flailing about to muffled drums like some child.
His hips sway and his body twirls. His feet shuffle and every so often give him a light hop. His one arm moves with his body and he's sure this would appear so much more graceful if he still had two. His dark robes ripple and ruffle with his movement, perhaps almost capturing the fluid drama of a dancer's skirt.
For those short moments, he is careless; happy.
He's so focused on his body's movement that he doesn't hear boots slam against his bureau floor.
"Malik."
His movements freeze like water and he feels his face ignite in flame. His eyes sharpen into daggers, and when he speaks, his voice carries all the affronted dignity of a maiden caught changing:
"Altaïr! What do you want?!"
Malik can see a smirk forming on the assassin's face from beneath the shadows of his hood.
"Do not let my presence disturb you," Altaïr insists playfully, "You are good. Please — continue at will."