#autistic altair ibn la'ahad

[noficbyhalves]

I'm not dead, I was just eaten by the brain weasels. Everything is fine and I really meant for this to be over 5k :/

I would also like the record to state that I did finish this last night, I just chose sleep instead of staying up til 4am formatting it and fighting with tumblr about Malik's fucking name. So my Valentine's Day one shot was toooootally on time shut up don't look at me.

In other news febuwhump is looking more like it'll be whumpril but *gestures at the length of this monstrosity* y'all can deal. (If my life is enough of a disaster maybe my brain autofilling it as whumptober will be accurate! T_T)

Anyway!

Content warning for panic attacks, implications of past abuse, light internalized homophobia, vague allusions to sexual acts, a lot of profanity, and Altaïr being horny on main

Flowers, or A First Valentine's

(or, Altaïr's biggest enemy is actually the closet in this essay I will-):

Altaïr was very careful to avoid looking at Malik when the mail appeared, or he was certain his face would give him away. He knew what was going to appear anyway, had spent a week and a half overthinking it to death. Malik may not have thought much of the holiday, but Altaïr didn't feel right doing nothing at all. He had settled on a dozen red roses - simple, tasteful, impossible to misinterpret - with a note smothered in so many layers of handwriting charms so as to make it functionally anonymous.

Thankfully a convenient distraction materialized in front of him, in the form of the rapidly growing pile of envelopes addressed to him. Altaïr was considerably less thankful the second he looked closer, realizing they were dozens and dozens of Valentine's notes. He recognized some of the handwriting - the purple one was definitely Katerina, and he noticed Rhona's loopy script, which was baffling for numerous reasons - but there were many of them that he didn't in the slightest. He gingerly pulled one open, increasingly alarmed to find a love letter as long as his arm from some lady he had never met.

Malik still hadn't said anything, which would have stressed Altaïr much more if Malik's ankle wasn't pressed against his under the table. He couldn't have still been reading the note, it was barely two sentences, and even that Altaïr had spent days agonizing over, whether it was too much or not enough. If he had tried to write something half as long as the monstrosity in his hand, he'd have given up and flung himself into the lake. He had the words on it burned into his brain:

My Vega, May your day be as bright as your smile Happy Valentine's Day - Your not-so-secret admirer

Curiosity got the better of him. He dared to glance over at Malik, and for a second everything stopped. Because Malik was looking at the note, yes, but he was also trying and failing to hide a bashful smile in his hand. There was a blush blooming on his cheeks, a sparkle in his eyes. And if Altaïr was walking on air then, the moment Malik looked up and locked eyes with him stole the very breath from his lungs. He had to bite down on his tongue until it hurt, so he didn't say something out loud where other people could hear (something like help I'm so fucking in love with you).

The words that came out of Malik's mouth were not thank you or I love you (as Altaïr's daydreams where everyone else in the great hall suddenly disappeared would have gone). Instead they were, "What in the hell?"

At which point Altaïr remembered he was, in fact, holding a letter from a crazy woman, sitting next to a pile of similarly unhinged mail. "I... this lady sent me a Valentine's... essay? I have no idea who she is." He skimmed further through the letter, but each subsequent sentence made him more uncomfortable than the last.

"Well you are a public figure, I guess. Ladies love a war hero...?" Malik trailed off in a shrug.

Altaïr winced. "She's, uh, really into me having been a Templar, actually." That part was deeply weird on multiple levels, not least of which was the interpretation that any of it had been a deliberate ideological choice, as opposed to Altaïr being backed into approximately six different corners.

"What. You're joking," Malik looked as dumbfounded as Altaïr felt. His bafflement turned to outrage when Altaïr didn't break. "Who's screening these things?"

He had an awful suspicion the answer was nobody, or at least not for anything that wasn't a death threat. Not for the first time, Altaïr was very glad they had conspired to keep Malik out of the public eye. It was bad enough with all of this addressed to only one of them. "No, apparently she wants to-" He squinted as he searched for the correct line. "-heal the wounds on my soul with the power of her love?"

The noise that came out of Malik's mouth was somewhere between a gag and a laugh. "Oh my god that's terrible. What else did she write."

"Something about wanting a summer wedding..." Altaïr adjusted the parchment so he could double check the woman's name. "I don't know who this person is, why...?"

Malik had dissolved into laughter, and it took him a few moments to compose himself. "Read the rest of it," he said, wheedling when Altaïr balked at the idea. "C'mon, give her the dramatic reading she deserves."

Altaïr opened his mouth, closed it. Considered the merits of fleeing into the woods never to return. He quite frankly didn't want to read another word of the letter, much less out loud.

Malik seemed to catch that, at least, and had switched tactics to reaching out for the letter, slightly wiggling his fingers in the please give me that thing way (rather than the wands are for amateurs way, which he was also prone to doing). His eyes were wide in an approximation of an innocent look that Altaïr knew was total bullshit, but it wasn't like he could deny Malik anything on a good day.

He sighed, and handed it over. "You do it."

Malik's expression grew gleeful (not benevolent, not by a long shot, but gleeful). He started to read but immediately choked on a laugh, trying and failing to muffle it into his elbow. "She spelled your name wrong," he wheezed.

Altaïr had noticed the writer had used his grandfather's surname instead of the one he had chosen, but hadn't thought it was that funny.

"No, look," Malik said, turning the parchment around and showing him. Sure enough, the top of the letter had Altear scrawled on it. Altaïr let out a huff of laughter.

Malik pulled the letter back and cleared his throat, beginning to read in a deeply overblown falsetto. "My dear Alteeeer Wrong-Last-Name," he said, before switching back to his normal voice, "you're not even good at being deranged and obsessive, honestly..."

Altaïr snorted. "Is that the offensive part to you?"

"It's not wrong to expect a base level of competency. If you can't trust your stalker to get your name right, who can you trust?"

Altaïr decided there was no good response to that, and tore open a different envelope.

The falsetto was back. "I am writing this letter to tell you that I am madly in love with you. I had a vision you see, months ago, foretelling that you and I are destined to be soulmates." Malik rolled his eyes, "see, this is why divination is bullshit."

"That's not how divination works," Altaïr said tiredly, pulling out what appeared to be a normal card, along with a little bag of chocolates. "What are the odds these are laced, d'you think?"

"Too high to risk it. Novice, do not."

"I wasn't going to!" He insisted. Malik gave him a doubtful look. The problem, Altaïr thought, with Malik famously being half of his impulse control, was people refusing to believe that he was capable of the other half.

They steadily worked through the pile like that, Altaïr putting anything edible directly into the baskets that vanished garbage, and Malik providing scathing commentary on the letter all the while. It helped, having Malik there, the grounding contact under the table and the reassurance that "oh, ew!" was a reasonable response to someone telling him she wanted to lick his scars what the fuck.

He had gotten down to the last few envelopes when he dared to look at the one from Rhona again. Altaïr couldn't fathom why she would write to him. He was pretty sure there was no possible combination of words that wouldn't be weird. Would an apology be better or worse than none at all?

Malik had paused, eyeing the note in his hand, but didn't say anything. He just sipped at his coffee and let Altaïr sort it out in his own head.

That, more than anything, made up Altaïr's mind. "Mal?" he said.

"Yeah?" He frowned when Altaïr held the envelope out to him. "Is that what I think it is?"

Altaïr nodded. "Can you burn this for me?"

"I'm not a fucking matchbook," he grumbled under his breath, but flicked his wrist regardless. The paper caught in an instant, flames licking up the edges. It was ash before it hit the table, vaporizing in the scorching heat that merely felt pleasantly warm against Altaïr's fingers.

***

By the time they had gotten midway through the day, Altaïr was already cracking at the seams. He couldn't make a beeline directly for the secret passageway down to the second floor, no matter how much he wanted to. Malik had been giving little pleased smiles (pointedly at the flowers, not at him) all through class and making his heart flutter every time. If he couldn't get a second alone to kiss his fucking boyfriend, Altaïr was going to go insane.

Malik caught on anyway, steering away from the main stairs without Altaïr having to say a word. He was talking about the Runes essay he had due later that week in a way that was clearly intended to be space filler, so Altaïr let the words fade into comforting white noise. He made affirmative noises at the right times, used to the steady rise and fall of Malik's tone as he more-or-less monologued.

By the time they reached the tapestry hiding the entrance, the hallway had emptied around them. Altaïr dared to reach out and grab Malik's hand. The bright smile Malik turned on him when he threaded their fingers together made his heart skip in his chest. He sped up, towing Malik along behind him, shoving the tapestry aside with more force than necessary.

 "Slow down!" Malik laughed.

The lack of light in the passage left him briefly blinded, operating mostly on muscle memory to pull Malik forward without running into a wall. If they had twenty feet or so of distance, they'd be hidden enough and Altaïr could finally kiss him.

When his vision adjusted, he froze. Just ahead of them in the corridor (twenty feet from the entrance that's enough space not to get caught) were two other students - a boy and a girl, a couple years younger than them - locked at the lips. He dropped Malik's hand like it had burned him, and he must have made some sort of noise because they suddenly sprang apart, staring at him.

Oh fuck they had seen them. Anyone could have seen. Other people used this passage. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

"So much for that shortcut," he distantly heard Malik huff, through the ringing in his ears. There was a hand tugging at his elbow, pulling him back out into the sunlight. "C'mon Altaïr, don't be a creep."

Anyone could have seen them. Altaïr would've been too wrapped up in Malik to notice. How many times had he closed his eyes in hidden corridors, trusting that they were alone?

His head was full of static. Everything was too loud but indistinct and blurry. Malik was talking but he couldn't make out the words. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his robes. It didn't help. The only solid thing in the world was Malik's steadfast grip on his arm, tugging him forward.

They could've seen anything. Altaïr kissing Malik, fuck, Altaïr on his knees. Everyone would know, his grandfather would find out. A blasting hex would be the least of his worries, with a stain on the family name like that-

"Oi, habibi!"

Altaïr startled. They had stopped walking, and Malik was snapping his fingers in front of Altaïr's face, looking at him with poorly disguised concern. The floor was swaying beneath him, shit they were on one of the moving staircases how the hell had they gotten there. He surreptitiously glanced around them, at all the other people on the landings and other flights of stairs. "Don't say that here!" he hissed.

"Unless half the school became fluent in Arabic overnight, I think we're fine," Malik said dryly.

Altaïr blinked. On second thought, fair. The tone of voice Malik had used was more in tune with calling him shithead than darling (though with Malik the line between insult and term of endearment had always been very thin).

"Are you okay?" Malik asked, stepping back to a more respectable distance.

Altaïr clutched onto the banister as the stairs began to pivot. He didn't want to lie to Malik, but the weight of the proverbial gaze of the entire school kept him from admitting just how shaken he felt. He settled for a wobbly so-so gesture and whatever the hell his face was doing.

"I can spin Berg some excuse if you need to go back to the dorm."

The offer was tempting, but he knew Malik couldn't join him if Altaïr didn't want anyone to suspect anything, especially not today of all days. Sitting alone with his thoughts for a few hours would probably be a bad idea right now, at least going to Alchemy would give him something to do with his hands. "No," he cleared his throat. "No, I'm good."

Malik's flat look clearly expressed his doubt on that front. "Am I going to regret handing you a knife?"

"I'm fine, Malik. I'm not going to cut off a finger."

Malik's face contorted as he tried to fight a smile. "You're not funny, novice."

***

Alchemy helped, for the most part. With a little breathing space, his panic felt slightly ridiculous (his grandfather had been dead for months, he wasn't sure why his brain had jumped to that). No one had stumbled across the two of them, or there would have been rumours or gossip or worse. Instead, Katerina was trying to bat her eyelashes at him from across the room, looking rather like she had been hit with a twitching jinx, while he was struggling not to stare too blatantly at Malik.

The heat and humidity in the Alchemy classroom worked unfairly well for him. With his sleeve pushed up and his hair mussed and his dark eyes focused intently on wandlessly adjusting the flame beneath their cauldron, he looked a bit like if a fire elemental had a ridiculously gorgeous human form. Altaïr, in comparison, felt a bit like a drowned rat. (A drowned rat that really should be paying more attention to the herbs he was mincing; if he actually injured himself, Malik would be pissed and worried and also would never ever let him live it down.)

Malik straightened, content with the temperature, and reached past Altaïr to write something down. Malik had been the dedicated notetaker in Alchemy for basically forever - for a myriad of reasons, including but not limited to the weird language of symbols he used to delineate changes in fire spells that only made sense to him, his handwriting was generally neater, and the fact that Altaïr never remembered to bring pencils instead of quills on Alchemy days. The problem was that he was so close Altaïr could feel the heat of him, and on any other day that would only be mildly distracting. On any other day Altaïr wouldn't feel quite as flayed open, equal parts desperate for contact and terrified of being too close. It just wasn't fair.

"Those, then the moth wings, then the gold dust. Ninety seconds between each of them," Malik muttered, reading out of the textbook. It snapped Altaïr back to the task at hand.

He frowned. "Shouldn't that be gold dust first? For stabilization?"

"Quote-" Malik flipped a few pages. "Nicholas Flamel, goddammit, gold dust is last."

Altaïr knew the rant that was brewing there quite well - he internally called it the "you idiots have trains (why is progress scary to you)" rant, after a particularly inspired rendition several years ago. Malik probably had three or four multi-hour lectures worth of content for it in his back pocket at all times. As entertaining as it usually was, Altaïr was still puzzling out the gold dust thing. "No, shush," he said, running back through the contents of their cauldron in his head.

The look Malik leveled him with would have caught a lesser man's hair on fire. Altaïr was more than willing to blame the heat in his cheeks on that. (It was, on occasion, reassuring that his taste in women was not so diametrically different from his attraction to Malik. This was not one of those times.)

"It shouldn't mess up the xanthosization, if anything it'll give us a wider window. Three minutes, maybe four?" Now that Altaïr thought about it, they could probably rework the whole recipe, cut the brewing time, maybe improve the potency?

"Makes sense," Malik said, jolting him out of his scheming. He dropped the bag of gold dust next to Altaïr's hand, where he hadn't realized he started drumming his fingers against the table.

Altaïr glanced up at Berg, who was standing across the room, scowling at another student's cauldron, and not paying them any attention whatsoever. Perfect.

"Don't fuck up," Malik said in an undertone, as he scattered the gold dust into the steaming liquid. The slight curl of his smile belied the severity of his words.

"Gee, thanks." Altaïr thought he did remarkably well at keeping his voice even, though Malik would probably be the only one who would notice. It took all of his concentration not to fumble into an overpour, with the way his heart was hammering. Malik was moving over to his right, grabbing the herbs, leaning into Altaïr's shoulder as he did. He was so close, Altaïr could slide an arm around his waist and hold him. Maybe if he was quick, no one would notice him kissing Malik's cheek. Maybe they could-

Maybe he needed to add the moth wings.

Malik plucked the stirring stick out of his hand when he did, taking over now that he was empty-handed. Altaïr could see his pinky twitch as the fire beneath the cauldron grew steadily, until the elixir was hot enough to bubble merrily.

They had half an hour or so until the filtration step, which left them sprawled in the chairs around their clean workstation. Malik had pulled out the project notebook and, based on the runes scrawled all over the pages, was trying to sort out the last set of enchantments for the map. Altaïr was tilted back in his chair, twisting his sash over his fingers since Rosa had glared at him when he was audibly tapping a few minutes ago. (And wasn't that interesting, how when it was Rosa it was just kind of uncomfortable, but when it was Malik it made him want to- nope.)

He had counted the number of cracks in this part of the ceiling months ago, and though he had a History essay he could be editing he deeply did not want to. He couldn't really help Malik - while Altaïr could probably pass a Runes exam based solely on several years of listening to Malik chattering about it, that didn't mean he could make heads or tails of whatever hellish combination of that and numerology that Malik had been beating his head against for months. Something about a youclid and a quantum whatsit? It made his head hurt, was the point. And trying also ran the risk of someone noticing the amount of enamored staring he would inevitably devolve into once he stopped being able to say anything meaningful.

Their elixir had been getting bluer by the minute but wasn't done yet. Which left looking blankly around the room, avoiding making eye contact with Berg lest he decide Altaïr looked too bored and made him grade essays or something. No one was doing much of anything interesting, only one other pair hadn't gotten to the simmering stage yet, but they weren't messing up in any interesting ways. Katerina had been distracted by her brewing partner, at least, so she wasn't trying to convince him to... canoodle with her or something. Whatever that couple in the corner was doing whenever Berg wasn't looking directly at them - Altaïr was not going to examine them closely enough to check. Though, speaking of-

"Hey, Malik?"

Malik glanced up at him, twirling his pencil around in his hand.

"Why didn't you tell off those kids, in the corridor?"

It took a couple blinks for Malik to catch where his train of thought had wandered. "It would be a pretty futile endeavor? I mean it is Valentines," he said, as if Altaïr were particularly oblivious. As if he hadn't been the reason for the flowers tucked into Malik's bag, as if seeing every couple in the castle didn't feel like they were flaunting it in Altaïr's face, as if it didn't make him want to scream. "They'd just go make out somewhere else." He shrugged.

Wasn't that the point? Altaïr thought but could not say. It wasn't like kicking them out would have stopped him from spiraling, but at least away from prying eyes Malik could have held him. "It's definitely not allowed, though," he said petulantly.

"They weren't doing any harm," Malik's tone softened. He flicked his gaze deliberately over to his schoolbag, with the roses peeking out from where they sat just inside the flap.

And Altaïr knew that logically. They hadn't set out to hurt him, to mess with his brain. They were not unlike the two of them, looking for a safe place away from prying eyes, and clever enough to know at least a couple secret passages. If Altaïr hadn't been so in his own head they probably could have just passed each other in the dark, not a notable encounter in the slightest.

"Besides," the corners of Malik's mouth tipped up ever so slightly, "I'd be a massive hypocrite if I did."

Altaïr was very glad for the roaring flames masking the flush in his cheeks.

***

The rest of the day dragged on. When they finally made it back to the dormitory that evening, Altaïr could barely wait for the door to be shut before he was pushing Malik up against it to kiss him. Malik breathed a laugh into his mouth and tugged him closer, draping his arm around Altaïr's shoulders. He tasted like sunshine, like warmth and fire and home.

Altaïr only broke the kiss when air became an issue, leaning back just far enough to notice Malik's breathless grin. He was sure it was mirrored on his own face.

"Holding that in all day, were you?"

"Yeah," he croaked. His cheeks heated with the heady mix of embarrassment and arousal he found all-too-common around Malik.

And he knew it was his own fault, that there was a very simple solution to this problem. If the idea didn't scare him so badly, they could have spent the whole day hand in hand, sneaking kisses in alcoves without caring if others knew.

Malik didn't bring it up at least, despite the easy opening to mock him. He just kissed Altaïr again, slow and deep, stealing the breath from his lungs. One of his hands slid down Malik's torso to clutch at his hip, his fingers fitting into place like they belonged there. Like his hands were crafted to fit Malik, and vice versa.

The idea of soulmates had seemed silly from the mouth (quill?) of a stranger that morning. It seemed a little bit less so now. Soul magic didn't work like that (he knew in excruciating detail how little it worked like that), but Altaïr knew without a shadow of a doubt that Malik would be the other half of him if it did. He felt more calm than he had all day, having wasted the morning tying himself up in knots over the flowers.

Speaking of... "They were okay? They weren't..." too much not enough somehow both. He asked, when they separated again.

It took Malik a few seconds to catch up. "Oh, the flowers." He smiled. "They were very sweet. Thoroughly unnecessary, but sweet."

Altaïr blinked. "Unnecessary?"

Malik let go of his shoulder to cradle his face. "You don't need to give me flowers to keep me, habibi. I'm already here." He kissed Altaïr's nose.

"That's not, I don't..." he trailed off, struggling to phrase the feeling that had been clanging around his head the whole week. Malik waited for him, held him tight and didn't bat an eye when the implication of his gaze became too much and Altaïr had to bury his face in Malik's shoulder. "...I just, I want to do more than just necessary. I want to do this right, I guess?"

"So which phase of doing it right is breaking blood curses, exactly? In case it comes up," Malik said. Altaïr couldn't see his face from this angle, but he could perfectly picture his shit-eating grin.

He jabbed Malik in the side, making him twitch and curse at him. "You know what I mean," Altaïr grumbled.

"I can't say I do, actually."

"Maliiiiiik," he whined.

"Should I expect a candlelight dinner and rose petals next year?"

Altaïr snickered, but he couldn't help but get stuck on that thought. It felt a little crazy, talking about next year as something attainable. Making plans with the expectation that the world wouldn't burn down in the interim, and there being an actual chance of being right. "...Yeah," he mumbled into Malik's jaw, "next year."

"Novice, that was a joke, don't-"

"Too late"

"Altaïr-"

"'M gonna romance the shit out of you." It was starting to take form in his head, an image of when they'd have their own space and he wouldn't have to smother his feelings outside these four walls.

Malik let out a massive sigh and let his head thunk back against the door. "Why do I have a feeling I'll regret this."

Altaïr pulled back so he could kiss him again. "Because you're being melodramatic?" he teased.

"Rude. Also, hypocrite."

"I have never once acted like flower petals were the end of the world."

"They're not the end of the world, I'll just genuinely be annoyed with you if you fling them around."

Altaïr squinted at him, attempting to make sense of that logic. Malik was deeply opinionated, sure, but there was usually at least some amount of internal consistency in those opinions. For the life of him, Altaïr could not parse how rose petals were that meaningfully different from roses themselves.

Maybe it was another don't treat me like a girl thing? But that missed the point, that when Altaïr imagined a nebulous future, a place that he shared with someone, where the idea of scattering rose petals on their bed felt indulgent instead of fake and performative, there had only ever been Malik in that image. (Truthfully, even just the idea of sharing a bed with someone long-term had been only Malik in his head for an embarrassingly long time.) "...what?"

"It's messy, and wasteful, for something that looks nice for what? Thirty seconds?"

"I... magic? You're a fucking wizard, Malik, come on." Malik's insistence on ignoring magic as a solution still blindsided him sometimes.

"That's still wasteful!"

"How?!" Altaïr fished his wand out of this sleeve to better make his point... somehow, and realized halfway through that nothing was stopping him from demonstrating right that moment. Unfortunately, Malik could read him like a book and immediately made a grab for it.

Any advantage Altaïr may have had by being right-handed (and therefore giving Malik fuckall for leverage), was swiftly countered by the fact that Malik had never once fought fair in his goddamn life. Malik dragged him into a truly filthy kiss, which made it difficult to focus on much of anything except Malik's tongue in his mouth, Malik's body pressed against his. Malik's fingers sunk into his hair, lightly tugging with just the right amount of pressure to make Altaïr's brain go fuzzy. A moan bubbled out of his throat, entirely against his will, as he melted into it.

Altaïr's hands fumbled of their own accord, clinging to Malik's shoulders, dragging him closer by the small of his back. He wasn't sure how exactly he could get closer, only that he needed to. That every inch of distance was unbearable, with how his blood was singing in his veins.

Malik shifted slightly, and Altaïr dimly realized he had been played when his wand was knocked out of his grip. Faced with the decision of letting it drop or letting go of Malik, he opted to pin his boyfriend harder against the door. Finding his wand - wherever it rolled after he heard it hit the floor - in the morning would be annoying, but if Malik stopped touching him Altaïr might actually die.

Altaïr pulled his lips back just a hairsbreadth, Malik nipping at him as he went. "You're an asshole," he panted.

He couldn't physically see Malik's eyeroll, but it was thoroughly implied. "Pot, cauldron." Altaïr was a bit appeased that Malik sounded just as out of breath as he did.

He kissed Malik again, just because. One kiss turned into two, turned into more, turned into Altaïr pressing his hips flush with Malik's, devouring the quiet groan that came out of his mouth. Kissing Malik was unfairly distracting. "Just because you're hot doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"If I concede to the dinner date will you shut up about the fucking petals? Oh my god." Malik growled at him.

Altaïr was tempted to ask Malik to convince him, but knew that was the kind of incentive that would make Malik turn him into a little puddle of goo on the floor. While that was a very appealing prospect, he did have a point to make. "Depends, will you let me be romantic or will you bitch about it the whole time?"

"I can multitask."

"Malik."

"Yes, fine," Malik huffed. "I will let you be as sappy as you like on this hypothetical dinner date that would require being out in public."

Altaïr watched Malik wince as his conscience caught up with his mouth. It happened more often than people thought; Altaïr did wonder sometimes whether Malik's instinct to poke and prod and needle was actually stronger than his instinct to breathe. The criticism wasn't completely out of line, though. If Altaïr had been frustrated with how the day went, it must have been eight times worse for Malik. He shrugged. "That's why it's next year," he said quietly.

"Shit, I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry,"

Altaïr scattered kisses on his cheeks. "Don't worry about it."

"You really don't need-"

Altaïr cradled his face in both palms, looking him dead in the eyes. "Malik, I want to," he said. "I just... I can't. Right now."

Malik's gaze was so fond it made his teeth ache. "I don't want to rush you, is all."

Altaïr had no way to put it into words, that the tightrope he was fumbling across was in no way Malik's fault. That it was his own fear and chagrin that had him stuck like this, and he was so sick of being stuck. He desperately wanted to wake up one morning, forward in time to where it was all out in the open and whatever chaos that caused had blown over. "You're not," he said, glancing away, but it seemed deeply inadequate. "Besides, where would we even go right now?"

"If you take me to that awful cafe that is allegedly the height of romance, I will break up with you on the spot."

Altaïr laughed. "No, no way. I can still smell the incense in my nightmares."

"Eugh, I had forgotten about that part. Why is everything magicside like this."

"Yeah... it might have to be somewhere over the line," he admitted. Malik had been thoroughly right about it being less terrifying over there, where no one knew his name or his family or what he had done. Where he could just be Malik's boyfriend Altaïr, one person in a sea of strangers. "But I'll get there, by next year. Promise."

Malik smiled at him so softly, brushed his fingers over Altaïr's cheek. If he kept looking at Altaïr like that he was going to break in half. He looked like he was about to say something, was deliberately choosing how to say it best, which with Malik usually only took milliseconds.

Altaïr had a pretty strong suspicion of what it could be, and headed it off at the pass the second Malik opened his mouth. "If you say 'I don't have to' one more time I swear to Merlin I'll-"

Malik's snort of laughter cut him off. "I was going to say I love you, birdbrain."

"Oh." Altaïr could feel the heat flood his cheeks.

"Yeah, oh." Malik pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another. "You going to finish that threat?"

Altaïr, who hadn't really planned the end of that sentence even as it was coming out of his own mouth, shrugged.

"I mean... you don't have to finish it..." Malik said.

At which point Altaïr had no choice but bodily picking him up - ignoring Malik's startled squawk and flailing of limbs - and crossing the room to toss him onto the bed.

"I feel very discouraged, bravo." Malik's tone was undercut by his barely suppressed giddy laughter. "Get over here."

And when he tugged Altaïr down on the bed with him, Altaïr couldn't say he minded in the slightest.

[greenlaut]

yusuf (son of the sea) — assassin's creed oc

(this oc is a persona of myself but as the son of altaïr and malik. for fun purposes ehe.)

backstory under the cut

cw: implied child abuse, violence

yusuf heralds from akka harbour in the middle district. he had a content and fulfilling childhood with his father (a sailor), mother, and two you ger siblings. however, when he was 7 his father got caught in a brawl with drunk sailors, thus causing a conflict that killed his family. yusuf survived because he was out fishing when it occurred.

as an orphan, he was thrown into an orphanage. the orphanage couldn't afford the upkeep and soon enough it was bought by a slaver who profited off child-brides. yusuf escaped again; he'd rather die in the streets than bound to gross men.

he was severely malnourished and cold when altaïr first found him. the master assassin just finished up a kill and was making his way home. altaïr wrapped him up in a thick scarf and offered some bread. when the assassin tried to take yusuf to an orphanage, yusuf slipped away. yusuf was not a master assassin, but he was small and quick—easily weaving in and out of crowds and wagons. it took altaïr an embarassing amount of time (an hour, longer than it should've taken him to hunt down a target) to chase down the child. at the end of it, altaïr was impressed enough that he brought yusuf along.

altaïr thought of taking yusuf to masyaf, then forgone it, and instead dropped him off without much explanation in jerusalem with malik (much to the da'i's shock, confusion, and annoyance) before he continued on his mission. malik was apprehensive at first and was about to leave yusuf in one of the orphanages in jerusalem if altaïr never return to pick up the child back. but yusuf was a nice company to have around (compared to most of the air-headed novices he had to face—the bar is low) while malik worked. the child was witty, blunt, and reminded malik of young altaïr there wasn't any formalities when yusuf got taken in by malik—he just was.

during his stay with malik, yusuf preferred to be referred as a boy or child and acted much like any other boy. yusuf was born and raised in his family as a woman, and whilst he was in the streets he didn't care much about how people view him than to survive. one day malik asked him—the da'i glanced at yusuf whilst keeping his hands on the open map before him—if yusuf would rather be identified as a man or a woman. yusuf replied that he (is) very much a boy without looking up from his needlework (he was stitching his torn pants). malik nodded and that was that.

years later, when yusuf was of age; malik took it upon himself to unearth a merchant who sold medicines for men ailed with impotency. the da'i upheld his reputation as the most feared rafiq with the exchange. since then, yusuf has had no problems with getting his (gender-affirming) medicines regularly.

then al-mualim happened and altaïr rose up as a grandmaster. yusuf stayed with malik in jerusalem until he was of age to become a novice. until that time, altaïr would visit jerusalem regularly to check in on his ward and his friend—and to escape the unbearable stuffiness that is grandmaster work. altaïr taught yusuf how to hone his strength in stealth and agility. malik taught him how to read and write. during this time, they discovered yusuf was nearsighted due to him being severely malnourished in the past (and it also stunted his growth). but yusuf was able to hid it for so long since he had been using his second vision to cover up for his nearsightedness. (altaïr was rather delighted to find someone else sharing his trait. they bonded over their shared dislike of people labeled as enemies in their eagle vision).

they keep this strange bonding activity far off into yusuf's adulthood. they sit together and view into their second vision to ruminate over people. malik would scold both of them if he catches them in the act, saying that it's impolite and dishonourable. but after one attempts too many on altaïr's well-being, he understands the need. and sometimes, he'll sit with them and ask for names. altaïr has learned how to avoid dropping names to malik. yusuf hasn't—and the assassin isn't going to try and find out what malik will do (or has done) to them.

when yusuf became a novice, malik half-jokingly told yusuf to keep an eye on altaïr for him. and so he did; whilst he worked under the tutelage of the mentors, he would check in (read: harass) on altaïr in his study. while yusuf was not the brightest novice; he kept altaïr sane and feeling human enough through the trials of leadership.

yusuf eventually finishes his training as an assassin (not master assassin). altaïr oversaw his hidden blade initiation personally out of fondness. he has no intent of becoming a mentor, and so he takes his time to loiter around masyaf and jerusalem to keep an eye for both of his pseudo-fathers. taking up available missions or errands to run without caring for ranks.

he excels in stealthwork and free-running. to deal with his eyesight, yusuf tends to find viewpoints from the highest landmark first to check with his second vision before dealing with his target. contrary to his fathers, yusuf's swordmanship is minimum. he avoids conflict when he can, and prefers to escape (by running or blending in) or stealth-kill when facing enemy soldiers.

fin.

[safetyandpeacenovice]

Malik: You’re completely literal. Metaphors go right over your head, don’t they?

Altair: Nothing goes over my head. My reflexes are too fast. I would catch it.

[i-really-hate-creating-usernames]

I think one of my deepest existential questions is why everyone in the universe seems to insist that altair is constantly smirking. The dude spends most of his time mildly uncomfortable or excited about philosphy

[shrimp-gender]

Literally everyone writes Altair as autistic even if they don’t know they’re doing it, because he just IS 

[shrimp-gender]

Altair is autistic