[drabbles] ac
The Map
(gen, PG, kinkmeme prompt: a story told from an object's POV)
The map was left unfinished at the desk at night, held at the corners by two inkpots. It had the beginnings of a city, and a stylized compass rose already finished at the bottom right corner, along with a legend and a key. The whisper of its brothers and sisters called and taunted from the shelves, boasting of their beautiful coasts and fluid calligraphy, and of their creators who had long since left the land they committed to paper. The unfinished map tried to curl inward, but the inkpots were heavy and stable.
In the morning, the cartographer would come in with a bundle of sharpened quills and lay out his tools with an air of dutiful resignation. The man would remain standing, which was puzzling, since all the map ever did was lay there on the desk while the cartographer did all the work.
It didn’t seem fair, somehow.
The cartographer never smiled at the map, never appeared to be very happy to stare down at it, fingers running down the invisible lines that had yet to be drawn. He was skilled, though, and if not skilled then focused and attentive to detail. The lines he drew were straight and precise, the curves even and unwavering. When he depicted buildings, he drew patterns that were simple yet elegant, and the higher the building, the more his hand lingered over the shadings, wistful and, at the same time, frustrated; the cartographer had broken three quills that way, for sometimes he would grip them too tightly while circling the symbol of a tiny bird. (An Eagle Point, the key would say.)
The map was only halfway finished, but it now bore the recognizable marks of Jerusalem, the Holy City. The cartographer had been neglectful that day, too infuriated by an arrogant man in white robes to concentrate on the map. He had hunched over his desk, clutching the quill and making motions to drag its tip along the faint outlines. When he did, the ink left tiny splatters, the parchment soaked up ink and tore, and the cartographer threw down his quill, giving up.
“Safety and peace, brother.”
“Your presence deprives me of both!” he had shouted to the other man.
Again, the map would be left alone at night, and the whispers from the other maps would resume. Too slow, they would rustle, the new cartographer works too slowly.
He would work until the candle wore halfway down, leaving the quills on the desk to attend to his other duties. Occasionally, he would be interrupted by bloody men in white or grey robes, though the man who had angered the cartographer did not come back for days. The others were given the same treatment as the map, efficient but unsmiling. The only difference was the map was privy to the quieter and private moments, like when the cartographer fell so far into his work that he forgot himself, stuck the tip of his tongue out in concentration or shook out his hand to ease a cramp, flicking droplets at his own face.
“Damn,” the cartographer said, wiping his cheek, but the corner of his mouth twitched and he stuck out his tongue once more at the map.
It was not a smile, and the map possessed neither heart nor mind to treasure the expression, but the cartographer’s hand became gentle and the parchment did not tear, the ink did not splatter.
The days wore on until, finally, the cartographer laid down his quill, leaned back, and tilted his head to the side as if observing the map for the first time. It was not the first time such a look crossed his features-he had done it just the day before, staring when the man in the white robes had his back turned. The gaze was measured and thoughtful, trying to pick out faults that were previously there but no longer mattered in the end.
He reached for the bowl of sand, sprinkling a thin layer over the parchment, and stopped with a frown. The map glistened, still wet from wet ink. With a shake of his head, the cartographer picked up the sharpest quill, dipped in, and at the center-the heart, scratched a ‘مـ’ in between the patterned lines of one of Jerusalem’s buildings, tiny and hidden except to those who sought it. The map knew the cartographer did not often indulge in vanity, but he had pride in the map; he would have not initialized and claimed it his if it was not so.
The feathered tip of his quill brushed over his chin and Malik smiled, leaning in close as if wary the world would see. The map curled its corners, shielding it as best as it could before Malik drew away.
The rest of the sand was dusted on and the finished map was left out to dry. At night, the shelves rustled with approval, and the map joined them in the morning.
untitled
(Altair/Malik, PG, bloodplay-but-totally-not)
Malik liked to think that he was not prone to doing foolish things (at least not without reason) but there was always an exception with Altair (who should never, ever be considered a valid reason in any sane case). It only ever occurred to Malik just a second too late - this time, the very moment he leaned over Altair’s sleeping form, almost close enough to kiss at some indiscriminate spot on his brow, which had been the original intention. Affectionate as it was, it was still an incredibly idiotic thing to do to a slumbering Assassin.
Altair opened his eyes, still glassy from sleep, and without a word or sound, threw his fist towards Malik’s face. Malik jerked back and, just as fast, caught Altair’s wrist, though he did not brace his arm enough to completely stop the blow.
It was a sad but true fact that Malik had been punched enough times in the face during his youth to know what to expect. Granted, he had not been punched quite like that in some time, so he allowed himself to make a little warble noise of distress before letting go of Altair’s wrist to hold his throbbing nose.
He was about to speak, wanting Altair to hold off his apologies or questions, but the warm, coppery tang of blood trailed into his mouth, flecking tiny drops as he exhaled sharply. With a groan, he tilted his head and used the end of his sleeve to staunch the flow.
“What were you even doing?” Altair asked, no longer half-asleep and hovering over Malik’s shoulder - his own special brand of being apologetic. The question itself was largely rhetorical since he knew Malik would not answer, and the answer was already clear besides. Altair offered his own sleeve in silent consolation - because, inexplicably between the two of them, neither could be bothered to retrieve a spare rag - and sat back when it was evident that his fussing would only cause a second bloody nose for him.
“No, Altair,” Malik growled when Altair glanced at the blanket. He removed his hand, stained bright red, and looked past it. “See? It’s stopped-” and clamped his nose again to catch the blood.
Altair snorted and leaned closer, still looking a little sleepy despite his initial alarm. He took one end of the crimson sash around his waist and made dabbing motions around Malik’s fingers until Malik relented and let his hand drop so that Altair could tip his head forward and pinch below the bridge of his nose.
They had seen each other bleed countless times, everything from sword wounds to papercuts, so the embarrassment was minimal. Whatever embarrassment that was there was hidden beneath the smear of blood over Malik’s cheeks and the steadfast downward tilt of his head. He supposed he should be glad that Altair had enough sense to not use the grandmaster’s robes or the clean whites of his tunic instead, though Malik was at fault for resting his bloody hand on Altair’s thigh, so his clothes did not remain all that white in the end.
“Couldn’t you have waited until I was awake?” was Altair’s only complaint, curious and failing entirely to sound stern.
“If I did,” Malik said, his voice thick and muffled, “then you would know, and what would be the point?”
“Yes, what would be the point,” Altair repeated dryly. He lowered the sash, checking to see if Malik still bled.
When he did not, Malik lifted his head, pulling away from Altair’s hands, and frowned. “Because if I did this,” he began, placing a kiss at the corner of Altair’s mouth and turning as Altair leaned in to chase it, “you would do that, which would lead to-” a hand around his waist, lips at his neck, “and-” Altair on his back, hair mussed, and his tunic slipped over one shoulder and covered in red fingerprints. “Now look where we are.”
“Back where we started,” Altair agreed, looking up with a pleased expression, and added, “You’re bleeding again.”
Malik’s arm was otherwise occupied, bracing over Altair, so he sniffed, craning his neck to the side to wipe the excess on his other shoulder.
“Of course,” he muttered, his face flushed and heated. “And you’re not helping things.”
Not bothering to hide his look of delight, Altair dragged Malik down for another kiss, indifferent of the blood, having dealt with it long enough to not mind the taste or smell, but at the same time, did not seek it out for the very same reasons. When he was done, Altair laughed and pinched Malik’s nose again, the flow becoming too much to for them to handle without prudence taking over. It was unnecessarily sordid, and Malik did not enjoy the idea of fainting if they continued, unlikely as it was.
“Later then,” Altair promised and sat up to wipe his mouth with one hand while the other idly tugged Malik back and forth by the nose, forcing him to sway from side to side.
“Altair,” Malik warned, no longer distracted from the soreness of receiving the blow that had started it. “I will hit you and drag you around by the nose as well if you don’t stop.”
And if that was the excuse they needed to stay where they were, sticky with blood and pushing each other down, Altair gladly took it.
Intersect
(Altair/Malik, PG, kinkmeme prompt: Mind link)
It took Altair several moments of staring up at the wide, blue sky before he realized he was lying on the ground, the morning dew from the grass soaking into his robes, chilling his skin. He tried to steady his breathing, but his heart was still beating erratically, and everything else seemed to hurt along with it. He had looked too far into Malik, trying to uncover the cause of the troubled look that seemed to show too often these days. In some back part of his mind - the part where Malik’s emotions did not tangle with his - he knew, and should have known better, how much it must have hurt, and how much of it still did.
Guilt, he could easily recognize (always), and he was familiar with fear, even though he had never felt it in such a way that would make his blood freeze and the air from his lungs rush out in a silent scream. No, it was the ugly, festering emotion he had mistaken for his own self-loathing that overwhelmed him. Altair could, at least, deal with his own guilt, his own fears, and his own hatred, but when the hatred belonged to Malik, Altair had slowly choked on it for days, ever since the Apple had linked them in ways that were more dangerous than just their minds, but their hearts as well.
It was Malik, and everything he had felt after Solomon’s temple. And maybe Altair would have not been surprised in the end, but it was also Malik’s hand that gripped his, sending reassuring waves of affection and genuine warmth, even though Malik’s fingers were cold and he did not touch Altair anywhere else.
“Altair,” Malik said, looking down. His expression betrayed nothing, but Altair could feel the anxiety that surrounded his name, frayed and seeped with Malik’s own guilt.
There was no use lying; Malik would sense it, just as he sensed Altair’s fleeting consideration of lying. Altair shut his eyes again. The anger was no longer there, but the remnants of it ached and Altair was having a difficult time discerning which were his and which were Malik’s.
“I’m sorry,” Malik said, even though the sharp, unwavering feeling of his apology came minutes before the actual words, the moment Altair had stumbled and fell. There were no need for to say it aloud, really, but they had both understood that certain things needed to be said. Now, the act of speaking was more important for when their emotions could not be kept private, something had to be acknowledged on both their parts.
But, sometimes, words failed, and Altair could not even find the right ones to describe, apologize, or ask.
“You hate me,” he eventually said, simple and unadorned, all the complexities that Malik felt, whittled away into one, single emotion.
“I hate some of the things you’ve done,” Malik corrected, a cold prickle of anger worming its way through the bond, making Altair flinch, but Malik’s grip on his hand was stronger, and a flood of heated, raw emotion followed right after, chasing away the cold. “But I don’t hate you. Do you understand?”
With an abrupt motion, he knelt down, kissing Altair with deliberate slowness, mouth closed and lips dry so that it did not kindle the wayward, superficial lust of their bodies, but kept the uncomplicated pleasure and wonder until Altair could feel nothing but Malik’s love and the underlying desperation to have it returned, imperfections and all.
“Why else did you think I was so angry about the Apple connecting us?” Malik continued, speaking quietly. “I did not mind the sharing. It’s only...” and he trailed off.
“That one,” Altair finished. “The one you didn’t want to share.” He opened his eyes, struggling to comprehend this strange dichotomy, and curled his arm over Malik’s shoulder, keeping him close for when he tilted his head away to speak. “How do you do it?”
It wasn’t like using his second vision, where everyone shone a constant color and Altair simply knew what to expect. Even when Malik did hate Altair, long ago, he had glowed blue, and would still glow blue. Through the Apple’s link, Malik was ever changing, his moods, his thoughts, and Altair didn’t know which to ignore or to embrace or to question. Sometimes, he was beginning to realize, it was better to just listen, even when Malik did not say anything.
The older man stared back, his mind briefly flitting into Altair’s before he stopped himself. “I’m still figuring it out myself, but I am happy, for the most part. You can sense that, at least, right?”
Altair did, though he didn’t need the mental link to see Malik’s rare smile or hear it in his voice. It was always there, just like his bright, blue glow. But because it was always there, it was the sort of feeling that Altair overlooked in the face of everything else Malik felt.
“You are no less complicated than me, you know.” Malik said, jolting him from his thoughts with a sharp mental poke of annoyance. “It is hard to keep track when you start thinking like that.”
The last sentence was said with a mutter, embarrassment coloring Malik’s mind and intensifying the longer Altair stared at him.
“Is it something I need to say?”
There was uncertainty in both their minds, synchronized for just a moment, and, unbelievably, it was what made Altair smile and sit up, trying to clear the cobweb of his thoughts. He drew Malik in with a single, silent request, though neither of them had moved.
“No,” he replied, and Malik let go of his hand without having to say anything.
(gen, PG, kinkmeme prompt: a story told from an object's POV)
The map was left unfinished at the desk at night, held at the corners by two inkpots. It had the beginnings of a city, and a stylized compass rose already finished at the bottom right corner, along with a legend and a key. The whisper of its brothers and sisters called and taunted from the shelves, boasting of their beautiful coasts and fluid calligraphy, and of their creators who had long since left the land they committed to paper. The unfinished map tried to curl inward, but the inkpots were heavy and stable.
In the morning, the cartographer would come in with a bundle of sharpened quills and lay out his tools with an air of dutiful resignation. The man would remain standing, which was puzzling, since all the map ever did was lay there on the desk while the cartographer did all the work.
It didn’t seem fair, somehow.
The cartographer never smiled at the map, never appeared to be very happy to stare down at it, fingers running down the invisible lines that had yet to be drawn. He was skilled, though, and if not skilled then focused and attentive to detail. The lines he drew were straight and precise, the curves even and unwavering. When he depicted buildings, he drew patterns that were simple yet elegant, and the higher the building, the more his hand lingered over the shadings, wistful and, at the same time, frustrated; the cartographer had broken three quills that way, for sometimes he would grip them too tightly while circling the symbol of a tiny bird. (An Eagle Point, the key would say.)
The map was only halfway finished, but it now bore the recognizable marks of Jerusalem, the Holy City. The cartographer had been neglectful that day, too infuriated by an arrogant man in white robes to concentrate on the map. He had hunched over his desk, clutching the quill and making motions to drag its tip along the faint outlines. When he did, the ink left tiny splatters, the parchment soaked up ink and tore, and the cartographer threw down his quill, giving up.
“Safety and peace, brother.”
“Your presence deprives me of both!” he had shouted to the other man.
Again, the map would be left alone at night, and the whispers from the other maps would resume. Too slow, they would rustle, the new cartographer works too slowly.
He would work until the candle wore halfway down, leaving the quills on the desk to attend to his other duties. Occasionally, he would be interrupted by bloody men in white or grey robes, though the man who had angered the cartographer did not come back for days. The others were given the same treatment as the map, efficient but unsmiling. The only difference was the map was privy to the quieter and private moments, like when the cartographer fell so far into his work that he forgot himself, stuck the tip of his tongue out in concentration or shook out his hand to ease a cramp, flicking droplets at his own face.
“Damn,” the cartographer said, wiping his cheek, but the corner of his mouth twitched and he stuck out his tongue once more at the map.
It was not a smile, and the map possessed neither heart nor mind to treasure the expression, but the cartographer’s hand became gentle and the parchment did not tear, the ink did not splatter.
The days wore on until, finally, the cartographer laid down his quill, leaned back, and tilted his head to the side as if observing the map for the first time. It was not the first time such a look crossed his features-he had done it just the day before, staring when the man in the white robes had his back turned. The gaze was measured and thoughtful, trying to pick out faults that were previously there but no longer mattered in the end.
He reached for the bowl of sand, sprinkling a thin layer over the parchment, and stopped with a frown. The map glistened, still wet from wet ink. With a shake of his head, the cartographer picked up the sharpest quill, dipped in, and at the center-the heart, scratched a ‘مـ’ in between the patterned lines of one of Jerusalem’s buildings, tiny and hidden except to those who sought it. The map knew the cartographer did not often indulge in vanity, but he had pride in the map; he would have not initialized and claimed it his if it was not so.
The feathered tip of his quill brushed over his chin and Malik smiled, leaning in close as if wary the world would see. The map curled its corners, shielding it as best as it could before Malik drew away.
The rest of the sand was dusted on and the finished map was left out to dry. At night, the shelves rustled with approval, and the map joined them in the morning.
untitled
(Altair/Malik, PG, bloodplay-but-totally-not)
Malik liked to think that he was not prone to doing foolish things (at least not without reason) but there was always an exception with Altair (who should never, ever be considered a valid reason in any sane case). It only ever occurred to Malik just a second too late - this time, the very moment he leaned over Altair’s sleeping form, almost close enough to kiss at some indiscriminate spot on his brow, which had been the original intention. Affectionate as it was, it was still an incredibly idiotic thing to do to a slumbering Assassin.
Altair opened his eyes, still glassy from sleep, and without a word or sound, threw his fist towards Malik’s face. Malik jerked back and, just as fast, caught Altair’s wrist, though he did not brace his arm enough to completely stop the blow.
It was a sad but true fact that Malik had been punched enough times in the face during his youth to know what to expect. Granted, he had not been punched quite like that in some time, so he allowed himself to make a little warble noise of distress before letting go of Altair’s wrist to hold his throbbing nose.
He was about to speak, wanting Altair to hold off his apologies or questions, but the warm, coppery tang of blood trailed into his mouth, flecking tiny drops as he exhaled sharply. With a groan, he tilted his head and used the end of his sleeve to staunch the flow.
“What were you even doing?” Altair asked, no longer half-asleep and hovering over Malik’s shoulder - his own special brand of being apologetic. The question itself was largely rhetorical since he knew Malik would not answer, and the answer was already clear besides. Altair offered his own sleeve in silent consolation - because, inexplicably between the two of them, neither could be bothered to retrieve a spare rag - and sat back when it was evident that his fussing would only cause a second bloody nose for him.
“No, Altair,” Malik growled when Altair glanced at the blanket. He removed his hand, stained bright red, and looked past it. “See? It’s stopped-” and clamped his nose again to catch the blood.
Altair snorted and leaned closer, still looking a little sleepy despite his initial alarm. He took one end of the crimson sash around his waist and made dabbing motions around Malik’s fingers until Malik relented and let his hand drop so that Altair could tip his head forward and pinch below the bridge of his nose.
They had seen each other bleed countless times, everything from sword wounds to papercuts, so the embarrassment was minimal. Whatever embarrassment that was there was hidden beneath the smear of blood over Malik’s cheeks and the steadfast downward tilt of his head. He supposed he should be glad that Altair had enough sense to not use the grandmaster’s robes or the clean whites of his tunic instead, though Malik was at fault for resting his bloody hand on Altair’s thigh, so his clothes did not remain all that white in the end.
“Couldn’t you have waited until I was awake?” was Altair’s only complaint, curious and failing entirely to sound stern.
“If I did,” Malik said, his voice thick and muffled, “then you would know, and what would be the point?”
“Yes, what would be the point,” Altair repeated dryly. He lowered the sash, checking to see if Malik still bled.
When he did not, Malik lifted his head, pulling away from Altair’s hands, and frowned. “Because if I did this,” he began, placing a kiss at the corner of Altair’s mouth and turning as Altair leaned in to chase it, “you would do that, which would lead to-” a hand around his waist, lips at his neck, “and-” Altair on his back, hair mussed, and his tunic slipped over one shoulder and covered in red fingerprints. “Now look where we are.”
“Back where we started,” Altair agreed, looking up with a pleased expression, and added, “You’re bleeding again.”
Malik’s arm was otherwise occupied, bracing over Altair, so he sniffed, craning his neck to the side to wipe the excess on his other shoulder.
“Of course,” he muttered, his face flushed and heated. “And you’re not helping things.”
Not bothering to hide his look of delight, Altair dragged Malik down for another kiss, indifferent of the blood, having dealt with it long enough to not mind the taste or smell, but at the same time, did not seek it out for the very same reasons. When he was done, Altair laughed and pinched Malik’s nose again, the flow becoming too much to for them to handle without prudence taking over. It was unnecessarily sordid, and Malik did not enjoy the idea of fainting if they continued, unlikely as it was.
“Later then,” Altair promised and sat up to wipe his mouth with one hand while the other idly tugged Malik back and forth by the nose, forcing him to sway from side to side.
“Altair,” Malik warned, no longer distracted from the soreness of receiving the blow that had started it. “I will hit you and drag you around by the nose as well if you don’t stop.”
And if that was the excuse they needed to stay where they were, sticky with blood and pushing each other down, Altair gladly took it.
Intersect
(Altair/Malik, PG, kinkmeme prompt: Mind link)
It took Altair several moments of staring up at the wide, blue sky before he realized he was lying on the ground, the morning dew from the grass soaking into his robes, chilling his skin. He tried to steady his breathing, but his heart was still beating erratically, and everything else seemed to hurt along with it. He had looked too far into Malik, trying to uncover the cause of the troubled look that seemed to show too often these days. In some back part of his mind - the part where Malik’s emotions did not tangle with his - he knew, and should have known better, how much it must have hurt, and how much of it still did.
Guilt, he could easily recognize (always), and he was familiar with fear, even though he had never felt it in such a way that would make his blood freeze and the air from his lungs rush out in a silent scream. No, it was the ugly, festering emotion he had mistaken for his own self-loathing that overwhelmed him. Altair could, at least, deal with his own guilt, his own fears, and his own hatred, but when the hatred belonged to Malik, Altair had slowly choked on it for days, ever since the Apple had linked them in ways that were more dangerous than just their minds, but their hearts as well.
It was Malik, and everything he had felt after Solomon’s temple. And maybe Altair would have not been surprised in the end, but it was also Malik’s hand that gripped his, sending reassuring waves of affection and genuine warmth, even though Malik’s fingers were cold and he did not touch Altair anywhere else.
“Altair,” Malik said, looking down. His expression betrayed nothing, but Altair could feel the anxiety that surrounded his name, frayed and seeped with Malik’s own guilt.
There was no use lying; Malik would sense it, just as he sensed Altair’s fleeting consideration of lying. Altair shut his eyes again. The anger was no longer there, but the remnants of it ached and Altair was having a difficult time discerning which were his and which were Malik’s.
“I’m sorry,” Malik said, even though the sharp, unwavering feeling of his apology came minutes before the actual words, the moment Altair had stumbled and fell. There were no need for to say it aloud, really, but they had both understood that certain things needed to be said. Now, the act of speaking was more important for when their emotions could not be kept private, something had to be acknowledged on both their parts.
But, sometimes, words failed, and Altair could not even find the right ones to describe, apologize, or ask.
“You hate me,” he eventually said, simple and unadorned, all the complexities that Malik felt, whittled away into one, single emotion.
“I hate some of the things you’ve done,” Malik corrected, a cold prickle of anger worming its way through the bond, making Altair flinch, but Malik’s grip on his hand was stronger, and a flood of heated, raw emotion followed right after, chasing away the cold. “But I don’t hate you. Do you understand?”
With an abrupt motion, he knelt down, kissing Altair with deliberate slowness, mouth closed and lips dry so that it did not kindle the wayward, superficial lust of their bodies, but kept the uncomplicated pleasure and wonder until Altair could feel nothing but Malik’s love and the underlying desperation to have it returned, imperfections and all.
“Why else did you think I was so angry about the Apple connecting us?” Malik continued, speaking quietly. “I did not mind the sharing. It’s only...” and he trailed off.
“That one,” Altair finished. “The one you didn’t want to share.” He opened his eyes, struggling to comprehend this strange dichotomy, and curled his arm over Malik’s shoulder, keeping him close for when he tilted his head away to speak. “How do you do it?”
It wasn’t like using his second vision, where everyone shone a constant color and Altair simply knew what to expect. Even when Malik did hate Altair, long ago, he had glowed blue, and would still glow blue. Through the Apple’s link, Malik was ever changing, his moods, his thoughts, and Altair didn’t know which to ignore or to embrace or to question. Sometimes, he was beginning to realize, it was better to just listen, even when Malik did not say anything.
The older man stared back, his mind briefly flitting into Altair’s before he stopped himself. “I’m still figuring it out myself, but I am happy, for the most part. You can sense that, at least, right?”
Altair did, though he didn’t need the mental link to see Malik’s rare smile or hear it in his voice. It was always there, just like his bright, blue glow. But because it was always there, it was the sort of feeling that Altair overlooked in the face of everything else Malik felt.
“You are no less complicated than me, you know.” Malik said, jolting him from his thoughts with a sharp mental poke of annoyance. “It is hard to keep track when you start thinking like that.”
The last sentence was said with a mutter, embarrassment coloring Malik’s mind and intensifying the longer Altair stared at him.
“Is it something I need to say?”
There was uncertainty in both their minds, synchronized for just a moment, and, unbelievably, it was what made Altair smile and sit up, trying to clear the cobweb of his thoughts. He drew Malik in with a single, silent request, though neither of them had moved.
“No,” he replied, and Malik let go of his hand without having to say anything.