Malik stared down at the map before him. Lines and spots of ink running along the pages. It’s ruined. It’s inaccurate. The measurements aren’t aligned, he realised he labelled a street wrong, and perhaps he miscalculated the scale. This is the third time today. A mistake is one thing. Consistent mistakes? Of the same mistakes? That’s just not like Malik. Normally, he would reprimand those who didn’t learn from their mistakes, failing to amend such simple things… And yet he stood there, leaning over his counter, with proof of his negligence.
A wandered mind hurt his soul. Reminiscing of a past where he didn’t feel lonely, Malik’s grip on the pen tightened. But it was no use. He couldn’t bring back the snarky comments, the playful banter, the amused smirk. There was no rattling of intelligence, no broadening of minds, no battle of wits. The tangent boredom melded with the fear… of what? Of not being able to see him again? Of news that he may return dead? Malik’s mind plagued with vague anxiety. There was no basis to his growing fears, only that he felt it strongly after months of silence. Altaïr was needed where he was needed. Malik wouldn’t make qualms with that. Or rather he couldn’t. He couldn’t follow Altaïr, nor help him, nor trouble him. There was no device that let him speak across towns and cities and oceans. Stuck, confined, in the same walls, distant chatter and flocking of civilians echoing through. Though Malik wasn’t particularly fond of killing someone, target or otherwise, he would at least be free. Free to run and jump along the roofs. Wind ruffling his robes, as he leapt and clambered, eventually diving into a haystack, heart in his mouth. He could do things. Do things like they used to together.
Altaïr tells him to leave. To get out of the prison he has made for himself. But would it be the same? Could he run or leap the same? Of course not. He may have lost an arm but he has only bound himself to inferiority. Malik is proficient enough in getting in and out of the bureau, but he does so with the ladder provided along the side of the building. He doesn’t miss the way it takes him an extra second to close the bureau, every single time. And these measly young assassins give him reason to do so often enough.
Malik shakes his head, even when thinking about the young assassins does his heart ache more. For he was a young assassin once, to learn what it meant to be a killer, to justify what it meant to be a killer, to repress the feelings that came from being a killer. Maybe that was one of the reasons he hated Altaïr. He made it look so easy, to take a life without even flinching. How could he be so heartless? Though it’s not a lack of heart that gives Altaïr his famed stoicism and horrible attitude. No, Malik learnt that quickly after the… incident at Solomon’s temple. No, Altaïr’s repression was all he knew. He had not known what it was to feel disgust and anger outwardly. Malik saw it once, when Altaïr thought he was asleep. Rather he heard it. With his eyes closed, breathing shallowed, Malik felt a presence lean over him. At that time, he didn’t know what to think, but now… He knew better, it didn’t surprise him that Altaïr would break down into a sob. It infuriated him then, he wanted to hear an apology, he wanted to hear how sorry Altaïr was. For a while, he imagined that Altaïr realised he was actually awake, he wouldn’t put it past him. But no, Altaïr was too disoriented, too sloppy. Altaïr didn’t speak a single word at the time. He just cried. Sobbed. Heaved over Malik like a dead body lay before him. Months had passed since Kadar’s death, Malik couldn’t even shed another tear, he had cried out so many. It didn’t occur to him that Altaïr was almost in the same position, that he had ever cared. But he did. Of course he did. All Altaïr did was care, about so many things both big and small. The next target, dates that were on sale, a new political figure, a hole in Malik’s robe. Altaïr proved to him that he cared.
Malik looked at the doorway. Bright light burned orange, a candle in the wind telling him he still had time. Leaving his equipment at the counter, he steps over. It was so quiet inside, he was so used to hearing the domestic joy people had found themselves in. Maghrib prayer had ended. People are returning home. The day is practically over. Malik latches onto the frame leading to the exit. He hauls himself up. It’s awkward and he has to catch himself but luckily it’s a short distance, a distance he’s grown accustomed to.
Finally reaching the top, firmly on his feet, he saw the Sun dip beneath the buildings. The greyed streets burned brightly, entrancing a brighter happiness on the people’s faces. Had he not lost so much, could he have been like them? Bread in hand, eating his way back home. Racing Altaïr on horseback back home. Could he go home with the same comforting feeling? Malik didn’t even take a second glance at Kadar’s bed since he had to clear his stuff. Just stuff he couldn’t bring himself to throw away, littered throughout Malik’s own room and in the bureau. Altaïr always made sure they weren’t trampled on though he always seemed to have a fondness for a certain pillow. They were similar like that.
The wind was starting to pick up as he remembered three young boys running through the streets. Kadar would call out for them to slow down. Malik did. Altaïr didn’t. Altaïr would always stand above them with a wide grin and a taunt on his lips. That image seemed so foreign now. Malik couldn’t remember the last time Altaïr’s lips widened past an actual smile let alone a grin. Kadar, at least, never needed a real reason for one.
He forgot to pin his robe today, he realised, as the wind threatened to take it away. Unusual, he didn’t have Altaïr to tease him about it, maybe that’s why. That thought left Malik between minor offence and emptiness. He shouldn’t need Altaïr to remind him, but god did he wish he did. Guards on surrounding roofs began to stir. He could feel a few getting closer. Maybe it’s best to head back in.
Malik drops inside with a grunt. Fixing his robes more comfortably, he steps behind the counter. What had he been doing? All day, that bastard was weighing on his mind. Weeks and weeks of silence, no letter, no drop-ins, no message from a third person. It angered him. To be left in the dark so callously, the nerve for no one to tell him, Malik was possibly losing his mind. Was this an addiction? To long for the presence of a man he should want no part of, yet there he stood. The ruined map reminding him of his failures that day. Malik missed Altaïr. Deeply. Gravely. It was a sickening emotion, stirring, waiting for him to throw it up.
His eyes blurred with tears. Looking up, he couldn’t let himself wallow in misery. The tears reduced, his face remained dry. Let him forget just for a moment, so he can find peace. But peace was where Altaïr sat in the corner. Peace was indulging in pastries. Peace was there when Altaïr helped Malik pin his robe, slender hands brushing along the breast of a lovesick heart. Tender muscles tensed as Altaïr pat his shoulders. He didn’t want to pin his robe. He didn’t want to draw maps. He didn’t want to spend his days in mind numbing silence. He wanted Altaïr. His throat tightened, dry, almost hoarse, at the reminder that he's spent weeks, months without him.
The emptiness in him was still. His mind couldn't conjure up anymore pathetic thoughts about the man he was longing for. Malik had been doing that all day. All week and for however long the cushions in his corner remained cold. He crumples up the paper, as best as one hand can do. Throwing it to the side, without even gracing it with a second glance, Malik slides another sheet towards him. The rustle just barely masks the footsteps.
Malik looks up from his desk just as the shadow passes over. This must be those same footsteps, the same heaviness, the same boots clacking against the rooftop. And then came an 'oof'. Malik stopped himself, he didn't want to hope. He had been hoping for months like a dog waiting for it's owner.
More steps follow before the shadow finally entered the room. At the shadow's foot was the discarded scrap of paper, he looks up from it.
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