Send me a ❖ and my muse will kiss yours.
Darkness had fallen by time the white-clad assassin had returned to the bureau in Jerusalem, and he entirely expected the Rafiq to already be at rest for the night; it surprised him to find otherwise to be true: Malik was up, working on his maps by the light of an old candle that cried fat drops of dirty white wax.
“Safety and peace." Altair greeted his fellow assassin from the doorway, standing there a moment before entering the inner sanctum of the sanctuary. The Rafiq looked up, a scowl crossing his features as he straightened.
“You’re late, Altair." The man said, and the assassin dipped his head in acknowledgement of the fact, his blood stained fingers clenching into fists at his sides. Seemingly the other assassin caught the movement and huffed impatiently, expecting a response.
“Nothing could be done of it; at least my target is dead." He finally replied, withdrawing a blood-soaked feather from within his robes. Malik nodded, though he continued to scowl.
“Something can always be done, Altair, but fine." The Rafiq responded, waving his one hand in a gesture of irritation at the novice’s thoughts on the matter. Once more Altair dipped his head in respect for the man’s words, but still he lingered. Exasperated, Malik continued. ”I excuse you to your rest now; you can leave in the morning for Masyaf, but I shouldn’t have to tell you that, should I?” At his words the assassin gave a scowl of his own beneath his hood but for the moment said nothing. Sensing his discontentment the Rafiq huffed once more, then set back to his work.
Altair lingered awhile, not saying anything. Then, finally, he approached the desk at which the other assassin worked and stood there. With another huff Malik looked up at him, a scowl still marring his face. ”Yes novice?” He asked bitterly, and the assassin bit his lip, shaking his head.
“Nothing." What was he so nervous about? Why didn’t he just leave? The other man continued to grimace at the assassin, watching him as if expecting him to start bleating like a goat. Then, after a long moment of this watchfulness, he returned to his work. Silence settled over them again, that was, until Altair reached out grasped the Rafiq’s hand, drawing the man’s attention once more back to him.
When Malik looked up again the assassin leaned forward, catching his mouth in his own for a long kiss. The other assassin stiffened, eyes wide, and Altair could feel the thrum of the other’s heart between the fabric of their robes. They remained locked like that for a few moments more, and then the Syrian pulled away, a sheepish look momentarily crossing his features.
“What was that for?" The Rafiq demanded angrily, though the assassin could sense a tone of uncertainty in his voice. Why? Surely Malik didn’t share his feelings…? Or maybe… he did? Shaking the thought from his head, the assassin stepped away, then turned without answering and went to the door.
That night he didn’t sleep, but instead listened to Malik working in the other room, and when morning came he left early for Masyaf, always thinking about the kiss and how the other assassin hadn’t pulled away.
