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Heat radiated off of the sun-baked tiles. The thick fabrics covering the cushions sucked in the bloomed heat of the early afternoon. Purple-red shadows bruised the stone and the tangle of the men’s bodies hiding in its respite of the sun. The air stuck to the inside of their throats, only tempered by the gentle wetting of the air from the bureau’s small fountain.
Sweat slicked the curled body hair against any skin it touched. Sharp smell, though not unpleasant, stuck against each other where their limbs interlocked. Altaïr shifted his hips, trying to press even more of his skin against Malik. Quietly trying to chase more contact with the other man.
“It is too hot for your nonsense.” Malik’s words lacked any true bite, and he didn’t make any motion to move away from Altaïr’s body. He stretched out his free leg, trying to press the skin of it against any cooled stone it could find, and sighed. Annoyed with the summer sun.
“What nonsense?” Altaïr asked while he pressed closer to the other. One of his calloused hands pressed against Malik’s shoulder, pressing the dark hair growing in haphazard swirls closer against the sheened skin as he dragged his hand over the other’s arm. Hesitant when it approached the roped scars covering the healed site of a hasty amputation.
Feeling the other’s muscles tense and still as he approached his thick scars, his own muscle trembling under the other’s fingers, Malik pushed a scoff through his damp throat. “Stop building ghosts from guilt.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re only a good liar to others, Altaïr,” Malik’s voice was level, carefully annoyed, “I am not fooled.”
Altaïr sat up. Legs still staying tangled up with the other man. He turned his face away.
The heat of the day pushed around them, a small breeze tunnelling down from the latticework above them.
Malik opened his mouth to speak again.
“I wish I had listened to you then.” Altaïr’s voice was quiet, rumbling like a confessional. He hung his head lower. Stared holes into the tiles.
“You should have.” Malik pushed himself up so he faced Altaïr’s back. “I would still be in the field, and Kadar would still be alive.”
Altaïr’s shoulders raised as he tried to curl into himself. The thwip of his feet drawing up close against his thighs the only sound from him.
“But you are not that man anymore.” Malik pressed a gentle kiss to Altaïr’s shoulder, pushing the curled hair down into the sweat-sheened skin again. The sharp scent of the other clung to his facial hair. “And that man was not you now.”
“Malik—”
Malik continued, not acknowledging the beginning of Altaïr’s protest. “I had hid behind the creed. Out of cowardice, not duty.” He rest his cheek against the crook of Altaïr’s neck, breathing in the sun-baked smell of his skin. “I should have done more as well.”
“I wasn’t going to listen, no matter what reasoning you gave me.” Altaïr leaned his head against the heat of Malik’s black hair. “I was arrogant.”
“Yes.”
The word hung in the thick air.
“‘Was’.” Malik pressed against Altaïr’s back. The word pushed through his teeth with ease. “We aren’t the same men as then. You nor me.” Altaïr could feel the shake in Malik’s breath as he continued. “I miss my brother, that will never change. But it was Al Mualim that sent all of us to die. Not you. Not me. Not Kadar.”
Altaïr opened his mouth to respond, inhaling before pausing. Silence between them comfortable even through the peaking orange heat. His shoulders relaxed. Malik pressed his face in closer.
“You’re getting soft in your retirement already,” the smile lilted his words. A small puff of a laugh making Malik’s facial hair tickle against his bare skin.
“You’re the reason I’m in retirement this early,” Malik shot back, bite barely sharpening his words, “Go prepare some arak for your hand in it.”