[drabbles] ac, leandros
I had some drabbles I wrote in my notebook during midterms and recently went back to polish them off. The amount of fluff is proportional to how stressed I was feeling. That is to say, I was feeling very, very stressed.
untitled (1)
(Assassin's Creed, PG, Altair/Malik)
It was easy to tell when Malik was angry or frustrated. Altair could recognize it in an instant-from the way his eyes narrowed, the sharpness of his voice, or how his left shoulder would tense as if clenching a fist that was not there. It was something that could be seen and heard, and even when Malik was keeping his temper in check, it was still a palpable feeling between them, heavy in the air and in their minds until the eventual confrontation that was never violent, not anymore, but had words that bit and snarled, just as good as any physical blow.
Altair had yet to learn all the convoluted paths that would lead to Malik’s ire, and he doubt he ever would, try as he might to sneak pass them. It was rather hard to remember all the details (like not running into fights where he was outnumbered ten to one, or going on missions by himself without telling anyone, or spending too much time with the Apple, or forgetting to eat when he did), but he was getting better. Malik still yelled at him, of course, but he was beginning to think that it was more out of habit than actual reason.
So, really, he couldn’t exactly be blamed for his surprise each time Malik would pull close to deliver a quick peck at the corner of his mouth, sudden and unexpected, then draw away with a smile that showed more in his eyes than the curve of his lips. Recognizing happiness on Malik, Altair thought, was a different matter all together.
“You were saying?”
The silence had stretched out, but before Malik could prompt him again, Altair hastily made his reply. “Er, the walls,“ he said, gesturing in a vague direction behind him. It seemed to linger as well, the smile, the kiss, and Altair felt it prickle at the bottom point of his scar while he spoke, off-centered and fading slowly. He didn’t think Malik cared for consistency, the little imperfections in placement or that sometimes he would push too hard or too lightly. It was odd, considering that it was Malik, who was careful and deliberate in nearly everything he did, so his impulsiveness remained a mystery to Altair.
But, thankfully, the Grandmaster had recovered the rest of his previous thoughts in time, as they were fairly important, and he continued, “I was saying the walls would need to be rebuilt at the western end, though it will put a strain on our funds, as I understand it.”
“Yes,” Malik said, looking down from where the two of them stood on Masyaf’s highest tower, still hazy with the early morning fog. “But it needs to be done. I will consult the records and see if it is feasible with our resources.” He glanced back at Altair, his solemn words not quite matching up with the slight tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips.
“Nafi would know.”
“Then I will go to him,” Malik said, turning towards the ladder, but before he could put his foot on the topmost rung, Altair’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, stopping him.
“You don’t have to go now,” the Grandmaster said, withdrawing his hand, determined and shy all at once. He felt his face heat up when Malik laughed. “What?”
The other man remained where he was, looking amused and maybe even a little puzzled. “Nothing. But I have never known you to be a timid person. What makes this different?”
“I think it should be obvious,” Altair said, because he damn well wasn’t going to admit it, yet. “And since were you so brazen?”
“Since you,” Malik replied, and Altair was beginning to wonder if such words always came easy for him-but, of course, they did, if Malik was able to yell at him without reserve, so it was only natural that he didn’t have a problem telling Altair his thoughts, whether they were said in anger or with love.
Still, Altair did not know what to say to that, and found himself unable to in any case, with Malik covering his mouth, dragging out whatever it was Altair meant to say from his lungs, his heart, until he felt breathless enough that he could have been screaming it for hours, and the need for words became obsolete.
untitled (2)
(Assassin's Creed, PG, Altair/Malik, prompt: Altair-not-really-sleeping)
Malik didn’t know why he put up with Altair at night, given that the man was already difficult enough to deal with during the day. He shifted upward, trying to pillow his head against the cushions so that it didn’t hit the wall, but movement was near impossible with Altair hugging close to his body, which had happened some time during the night. It was puzzling because they had started at the far ends of the sleeping pallets and Malik knew the other man was capable of sleeping without the need to flail around. He had seen proof of it on nights when he came into Altair’s chambers later than usual or on afternoons when he would find Altair dozing on top of the parapets high above the ground. Supposedly being the Grandmaster of the entire Assassin Order factored in with the ability to sleep silent and still like the dead, and yet the moment Malik went down beside him, Altair would roll and drape over him like an oversized cat, curling a fist in Malik’s tunic and pressing his face on Malik’s shoulder. It was infuriating and bewildering and not actually unpleasant, but sometimes Malik needed to breathe.
“Move,” he hissed, kicking the other man off him. With a grunt, Altair shifted, but Malik did not even have to wait a full minute before he was smacked in the face by a flopping arm, and once more Altair was slotted beside him, mumbling indistinctly into his neck.
The pilot light was dim at the far corner of the room, flickering and halfway gone, but still gave Malik the faint outline of the top of Altair’s head, the wayward tuffs of hair and curve of his ear. He blew a puff air, which did little to disturb the sleeping man.
“You are insufferable and selfish,” Malik sighed, bringing his hand up to poke Altair’s cheek, and was not surprised when he did not wake. Closing his eyes, Malik muttered into the top of Altair’s head, “Did it not ever occur to you that I might want to do the same?”
“Only once or twice,” was Altair’s mumbled reply, but his smug tone was clear enough. “But it’s your fault for being too slow.”
untitled (3)
(Leandros Series, T, Robin/Ishiah)
They are in bed when Robin whispers into Ishiah’s ear, brushing away the loose strands of blond hair and looking down at him with a smile.
“Someday,” he murmurs, so earnest that it pains them both, “I will leave you.”
But he doesn’t go on to say that he will never, ever stop loving Ishiah, even when, one morning, he’ll tire of waking up next to another body that he already knows inside and out, tire of the feathers drifting in every corner of his apartment, tire of the way Ishiah looks after him with nothing but his whole heart in his eyes. He doesn’t say because it’s obvious; he’ll fall out of love with Ishiah, but it doesn’t mean he’ll never fall in again.
It’s something neither of them can help, the upturned hourglass of their relationship, nothing but a trickle of sand waiting to run out. Sometimes, Robin wonders what it is like, to be able to devote your whole being to one, single person forever, and not want anyone else. The concept is fascinating to him, because he has all the time in the world to love whoever he wants, if only they would allow him to love others as well, though it doesn’t excuse Ishiah either, who is just as immortal as he is, only without the wanderlust.
Ishiah opens his eyes, and it worries Robin that he can read everything in them-the irritation, the impending misery, and the happiness despite it all.
“I know. You know I know. Why are you worrying about this?”
It’s priceless, Ishiah telling him not to worry, when all Ishiah does is worry too much. Robin buries his face into the pillow to stifle his laughter and avoid the heavy hand that comes to press the back of his head. Yes, Ishiah knows, probably more so than Robin himself. It shows when he’s walking around Robin’s apartment, naked and unashamed, and lets Robin stare at him without a word. His messy blond hair would be tied up, exposing the red, crescent-shaped marks of teeth and nails at his neck, his shoulders, all the way down to his bruised hips and thighs. His wings flutter and shift, and the golden feathers always seem to catch Robin’s attention.
Look at me, Ishiah seems to say, look at how much you want me.
And, sometimes, he walks up to Robin, reaching out to twine their fingers and kiss his forehead; look how much I want you, too.
Today, Robin smiles and tilts his head, appreciative and grateful, but whether it’s tomorrow or a hundred years from now, he will eventually stop reaching back, put up his hands and grin with all his teeth, shaking his head.
“I’ll wait,” Ishiah says to him, lifting his hand from Robin’s face to return the gesture, threading his fingers through the short brown curls. His wings are out, splayed over one side of the bed, gently swaying to his steady breathing. They don’t twitch or disappear, and Ishiah’s voice is calm when he murmurs, “When you leave, I will wait for you.”
“And if I never come back?” Robin asks, because he will always be difficult, though Ishiah is not without his stubbornness and pride either, and their relationship was never one-sided.
“You will,” Ishiah says, utterly confident. “Why else would you be worrying? When you come back, I’ll still be here.”
“I’m not worrying.”
Ishiah smiles and closes his eyes, already knowing that he’s won the argument. “Not anymore, you aren’t.”
untitled (1)
(Assassin's Creed, PG, Altair/Malik)
It was easy to tell when Malik was angry or frustrated. Altair could recognize it in an instant-from the way his eyes narrowed, the sharpness of his voice, or how his left shoulder would tense as if clenching a fist that was not there. It was something that could be seen and heard, and even when Malik was keeping his temper in check, it was still a palpable feeling between them, heavy in the air and in their minds until the eventual confrontation that was never violent, not anymore, but had words that bit and snarled, just as good as any physical blow.
Altair had yet to learn all the convoluted paths that would lead to Malik’s ire, and he doubt he ever would, try as he might to sneak pass them. It was rather hard to remember all the details (like not running into fights where he was outnumbered ten to one, or going on missions by himself without telling anyone, or spending too much time with the Apple, or forgetting to eat when he did), but he was getting better. Malik still yelled at him, of course, but he was beginning to think that it was more out of habit than actual reason.
So, really, he couldn’t exactly be blamed for his surprise each time Malik would pull close to deliver a quick peck at the corner of his mouth, sudden and unexpected, then draw away with a smile that showed more in his eyes than the curve of his lips. Recognizing happiness on Malik, Altair thought, was a different matter all together.
“You were saying?”
The silence had stretched out, but before Malik could prompt him again, Altair hastily made his reply. “Er, the walls,“ he said, gesturing in a vague direction behind him. It seemed to linger as well, the smile, the kiss, and Altair felt it prickle at the bottom point of his scar while he spoke, off-centered and fading slowly. He didn’t think Malik cared for consistency, the little imperfections in placement or that sometimes he would push too hard or too lightly. It was odd, considering that it was Malik, who was careful and deliberate in nearly everything he did, so his impulsiveness remained a mystery to Altair.
But, thankfully, the Grandmaster had recovered the rest of his previous thoughts in time, as they were fairly important, and he continued, “I was saying the walls would need to be rebuilt at the western end, though it will put a strain on our funds, as I understand it.”
“Yes,” Malik said, looking down from where the two of them stood on Masyaf’s highest tower, still hazy with the early morning fog. “But it needs to be done. I will consult the records and see if it is feasible with our resources.” He glanced back at Altair, his solemn words not quite matching up with the slight tilt of his head and the quirk of his lips.
“Nafi would know.”
“Then I will go to him,” Malik said, turning towards the ladder, but before he could put his foot on the topmost rung, Altair’s fingers brushed against the back of his neck, stopping him.
“You don’t have to go now,” the Grandmaster said, withdrawing his hand, determined and shy all at once. He felt his face heat up when Malik laughed. “What?”
The other man remained where he was, looking amused and maybe even a little puzzled. “Nothing. But I have never known you to be a timid person. What makes this different?”
“I think it should be obvious,” Altair said, because he damn well wasn’t going to admit it, yet. “And since were you so brazen?”
“Since you,” Malik replied, and Altair was beginning to wonder if such words always came easy for him-but, of course, they did, if Malik was able to yell at him without reserve, so it was only natural that he didn’t have a problem telling Altair his thoughts, whether they were said in anger or with love.
Still, Altair did not know what to say to that, and found himself unable to in any case, with Malik covering his mouth, dragging out whatever it was Altair meant to say from his lungs, his heart, until he felt breathless enough that he could have been screaming it for hours, and the need for words became obsolete.
untitled (2)
(Assassin's Creed, PG, Altair/Malik, prompt: Altair-not-really-sleeping)
Malik didn’t know why he put up with Altair at night, given that the man was already difficult enough to deal with during the day. He shifted upward, trying to pillow his head against the cushions so that it didn’t hit the wall, but movement was near impossible with Altair hugging close to his body, which had happened some time during the night. It was puzzling because they had started at the far ends of the sleeping pallets and Malik knew the other man was capable of sleeping without the need to flail around. He had seen proof of it on nights when he came into Altair’s chambers later than usual or on afternoons when he would find Altair dozing on top of the parapets high above the ground. Supposedly being the Grandmaster of the entire Assassin Order factored in with the ability to sleep silent and still like the dead, and yet the moment Malik went down beside him, Altair would roll and drape over him like an oversized cat, curling a fist in Malik’s tunic and pressing his face on Malik’s shoulder. It was infuriating and bewildering and not actually unpleasant, but sometimes Malik needed to breathe.
“Move,” he hissed, kicking the other man off him. With a grunt, Altair shifted, but Malik did not even have to wait a full minute before he was smacked in the face by a flopping arm, and once more Altair was slotted beside him, mumbling indistinctly into his neck.
The pilot light was dim at the far corner of the room, flickering and halfway gone, but still gave Malik the faint outline of the top of Altair’s head, the wayward tuffs of hair and curve of his ear. He blew a puff air, which did little to disturb the sleeping man.
“You are insufferable and selfish,” Malik sighed, bringing his hand up to poke Altair’s cheek, and was not surprised when he did not wake. Closing his eyes, Malik muttered into the top of Altair’s head, “Did it not ever occur to you that I might want to do the same?”
“Only once or twice,” was Altair’s mumbled reply, but his smug tone was clear enough. “But it’s your fault for being too slow.”
untitled (3)
(Leandros Series, T, Robin/Ishiah)
They are in bed when Robin whispers into Ishiah’s ear, brushing away the loose strands of blond hair and looking down at him with a smile.
“Someday,” he murmurs, so earnest that it pains them both, “I will leave you.”
But he doesn’t go on to say that he will never, ever stop loving Ishiah, even when, one morning, he’ll tire of waking up next to another body that he already knows inside and out, tire of the feathers drifting in every corner of his apartment, tire of the way Ishiah looks after him with nothing but his whole heart in his eyes. He doesn’t say because it’s obvious; he’ll fall out of love with Ishiah, but it doesn’t mean he’ll never fall in again.
It’s something neither of them can help, the upturned hourglass of their relationship, nothing but a trickle of sand waiting to run out. Sometimes, Robin wonders what it is like, to be able to devote your whole being to one, single person forever, and not want anyone else. The concept is fascinating to him, because he has all the time in the world to love whoever he wants, if only they would allow him to love others as well, though it doesn’t excuse Ishiah either, who is just as immortal as he is, only without the wanderlust.
Ishiah opens his eyes, and it worries Robin that he can read everything in them-the irritation, the impending misery, and the happiness despite it all.
“I know. You know I know. Why are you worrying about this?”
It’s priceless, Ishiah telling him not to worry, when all Ishiah does is worry too much. Robin buries his face into the pillow to stifle his laughter and avoid the heavy hand that comes to press the back of his head. Yes, Ishiah knows, probably more so than Robin himself. It shows when he’s walking around Robin’s apartment, naked and unashamed, and lets Robin stare at him without a word. His messy blond hair would be tied up, exposing the red, crescent-shaped marks of teeth and nails at his neck, his shoulders, all the way down to his bruised hips and thighs. His wings flutter and shift, and the golden feathers always seem to catch Robin’s attention.
Look at me, Ishiah seems to say, look at how much you want me.
And, sometimes, he walks up to Robin, reaching out to twine their fingers and kiss his forehead; look how much I want you, too.
Today, Robin smiles and tilts his head, appreciative and grateful, but whether it’s tomorrow or a hundred years from now, he will eventually stop reaching back, put up his hands and grin with all his teeth, shaking his head.
“I’ll wait,” Ishiah says to him, lifting his hand from Robin’s face to return the gesture, threading his fingers through the short brown curls. His wings are out, splayed over one side of the bed, gently swaying to his steady breathing. They don’t twitch or disappear, and Ishiah’s voice is calm when he murmurs, “When you leave, I will wait for you.”
“And if I never come back?” Robin asks, because he will always be difficult, though Ishiah is not without his stubbornness and pride either, and their relationship was never one-sided.
“You will,” Ishiah says, utterly confident. “Why else would you be worrying? When you come back, I’ll still be here.”
“I’m not worrying.”
Ishiah smiles and closes his eyes, already knowing that he’s won the argument. “Not anymore, you aren’t.”