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It’s absolutely ridiculous, Altaїr thinks.
There’s no reason he should find it impossible to walk past Malik without trailing his fingers across the other man’s arm, or back, or waist. There’s no reason why he should feel warmth settle deep in his chest when Malik leans easily into the touch and smiles.
He is an assassin.
He’s not built for this. He’s built for punches and kicks. He’s trained for the sound of steel cutting through the air and his own flesh if he’s not careful enough, and he knows he rarely is. He was never designed to withstand the devastating blow that comes with Malik’s fingertips dancing over the hard line of his jaw like it’s nothing.
Maybe it is nothing, and this is how it’s supposed to be.
He knows, oh he knows, how ludicrous it seems to question whether lovers are meant to behave like this. If they are supposed to rest hands on arms and wind fingers together, or sit close enough so thighs brush every time they move. He can’t stop wondering, even when he reads all the terrible love poetry he can find, because he just can’t make sense of it all.
He’s the Eagle of Masyaf.
There’s no reason that even the quickest and most chaste of kisses should feel like flying. Altaїr knows that feeling. It’s etched into his very bones. The tiny press of scarred lips to softer, fuller ones shouldn’t bring with it what only the wild rush of air does. There’s also no reason why those longer and less innocent kisses should feel like falling. Altaїr knows that feeling too, but this version is different. He knows how to fall so he can keep running afterwards, but one taste of Malik and he forgets why he should even land at all.
Maybe he shouldn’t, Altaїr begins to think, because maybe trying to land has been the problem all along.
So he lets himself fall. He falls until there’s no air left to fall through, until he understands every line of those awful poems, until the kisses and touches are as natural as breathing or the weight of the blade at his wrist. He falls until he knows every inch of Malik’s skin and every little sound he can pull from his throat, like his very body and voice are made of the streets and deserts and rivers he has memorised. He falls until he can't remember where he ends and Malik begins, until their lips are swollen and throats full of half-formed words mangled by broken moans. He falls until all there’s left to do is cling helplessly to crumbled sheets and scream as they both learn what it feels like to burn alive.
He falls until he thinks he can fall no further, and then one morning he watches the sunrise paint a halo around Malik’s head and he realises he may never actually stop.