Title: Splinter

Fandom: Assassin's Creed

Pairing: Malik/Altaïr (in which Malik is dominant...finally), references to one-sided Kadar/Altaïr

Genre: Angst, General

Rating: M for a smut-based concretion with a dash of language. Because I can. And it makes things more exciting.

Summary: Altaïr regrets what he's done to Malik, but Malik can't absolve a man who isn't entirely at fault. Malik/Altaïr, references to one-sided Kadar/Altaïr. Oneshot. Darkfic. Mostly punitive sex and melancholic thoughts and nostalgic memories.

Disclaimer: I own none of the four characters presented and/or referenced in this story. If I did, Malik/Altaïr would be canon, and the training ring in Masyaf would be used for exploiting one's nimble body and/or dancing skills, not swordplay.

Foreword: This idea originally surfaced on my second playthrough of Assassin's Creed about a year ago. I had written it out on paper and thought it was really good...and then the paper disappeared. This piece is an attempted recollection of its predecessor and may pale in comparison to the previous draft. Also, I was listening to Sonic Syndicate when I was re-editing this and realized that "My Escape"...'s lyrics are synonymous with the overall idea of the story; it's a great song, my personal favorite from the band, and I suggest listening to it. Furthermore, my sentence structure may seem a little strange to some because I have a habit of using excessive amounts of asyndetons and polysyndetons when I write, so...for some, it may be best to be read slowly. Last of all, this piece is my first post here – and my first lemon. I've been visiting this website for many years now – nearly a decade – and finally summoned the courage to sign up. I've got quite a little collection of stories for multiple fandoms; when I find them, I'll get around to posting them. ...And then everyone will be happy! :D

If there is anything Altaïr longs for, it is to be forgiven. Forgiven by Malik for actions that had been performed without any thought, without any consideration, and ultimately resulted in the loss of the man's younger brother, his left arm, his rank and respect in the Brotherhood, and his future as an able-bodied person; in a single day, Altaïr had ruined Malik's life, robbed him of his happiness and everything he had held so dear, believes that everything that has happened since that day in Solomon's Temple is his fault, and just wants relief, wants that knot in his stomach to dissipate. He realizes that it is selfish, realizes that this guilt is something he should bear until the day he dies, but does not think he can live with those fingers wrapped around his throat, is unable to draw oxygen into his lungs in a pool of cold water. Altaïr is a changed man. He wants Malik to see, wants to hold all the changes he has made in his hands and show them to his foster brother just like he used to show him bugs he found while playing in the dirt as a child, say, "Look at what I have," and see the amused smile in the man's dark eyes. Altaïr wants Malik's forgiveness, wants him to wipe away the dirt on his face and clean the blood from his hands.

But Malik can already tell Altaïr is a changed man. Can tell by how still, silent, almost placid, he is as he drives his cock in and out of his naked body that lies perhaps a little too still beneath him; clothes were discarded some time ago, are now assembled in a haphazard pile next to an abundance of blades that had been sheathed in boots, strapped to thighs, bound against hips, and everywhere else. Altaïr does nothing but breathe and grip the wooden countertop he is bent over as Malik digs his fingernails into his hip and buries himself in tight heat over and over again in whatever manner pleases him. Malik moves hard and deep, trying to make Altaïr moan or gasp or sigh by angling his hips to brush that spot inside him, drags his tongue along the younger man's exposed neck, nipping the skin there just to see if the other will react. Malik wants to break him, wants to make tears appear in dark cerulean eyes and to urge him to mourn and lament his actions and to hear Altaïr beg for his remission, thinks it will ease the smoldering anger in his chest and cleanse the bitter taste of sorrow in his mouth. But aside from the occasional forced exhale, no moans, no gasps, no tears, no confessions escape the other's throat, so Malik thrusts harder, sucks the skin on his neck into his mouth, trying to wash out all that sorrow with the piquant taste of Altaïr on his tongue, and clamps down with his teeth, even brings his hand down hard against the younger man's ass several times, loud slaps echoing off the walls in the bureau, until the flesh there glows red and radiates heat.

He earns a breathy exhale. But that is all. Altaïr does not shudder under him, does not jerk his hips backward to meet his, does not reward him with a low moan like so many would have in response to his touch. The exhale does not please Malik, does not satiate his hunger, but he speculates it is a start.

Given the quietness of their actions, it sounds awfully strange for Malik to hear himself panting lightly as he drives in and out, in and out of the other man who breathes so quietly, almost inaudibly, beneath him. The silence is not something Malik is accustomed to; Malik is used to women who cry out and writhe and tremble, women who drag their fingernails down his back and wrap their legs around his hips to urge him harderfasterdeeper, women without the muscles and the scars and the heightened sense of awareness Altaïr has. While Malik is not new to indulging in the warmth of a man's skin and the pleasures that it brings – there were several previous encounters in earlier years – he cannot place Altaïr in any sort of familiar category, cannot classify him as anything other than miscellaneous, and that bothers him in a way that he cannot discern. He thinks that, perhaps, the discomfort should not even be there in regard to dominating this man he considers arrogant, untrustworthy, and indubitably worthless when his fire burns out, this man whom he has known since childhood, had been there to take under his roof when his Christian mother was lost to illness, had raised as best he could beside Kadar. Poor, poor Kadar.

Eventually, Malik decides that looking at his face will tell him why the discomfort is there, that looking into his eyes will reveal everything to him like they always have, slows his pace before pulling out and detaching his mouth from his neck. He moves his hand from Altaïr's hip to his shoulder, and the younger man tenses under his touch; Malik can sense his uncertainty, his mild curiosity over his intentions, and an obscure willingness to comply. Malik commands in a low voice for him to turn over.

Altaïr's back cracks as he straightens himself and turns to face Malik, his head downward and eyes to the floor, and lays back over the counter. Said counter does not have the width to accommodate his long torso, so he shifts his hips lower and bends his back into a modest bow, veers his weight on one elbow in a position that is stable enough to prevent him from falling off, and places his other arm in an uncoordinated space on the counter. The position is awkward, strains and cramps different muscles, but he supposes it is something he deserves for hurting the older man, accepts it as a form of punishment, and files the aches somewhere in the back of his mind. Once he is situated, he parts his knees and waits for Malik to return to him.

Altaïr's face is as blank as it has been since he left his home to join the Brotherhood, and while Malik sees no answer to his own discomfort in the other man's angular features, he is able to discern a mild determination – for what, he does not know, nor care, only wants to see wetness in his eyes and hear the regret in his voice.

Malik's warmth emanates from his skin over Altaïr's inner thighs the very same way Altaïr's does over his, igniting fire in his veins that disseminates throughout his entire body, making him feel hot, and he tries to imagine that that is the reason why Altaïr, despite how punitive Malik has been, is aroused. The older man works himself in his hand and scrutinizes the evidence of the other's enjoyment of this situation with dark eyes, wondering how he can like being fucked hard against splintering wood, and Altaïr notices his hesitation, knows he is somehow mildly perplexed to find that he is swollen in arousal, and turns his flushed face away from Malik's gaze. He stares at the incense at the end of the counter, watches its smoke twist into wisps and disperse in the air.

Malik steps closer and guides himself back into the younger man, observing how Altaïr's lean abdominal muscles contract and his cock twitches upon being penetrated again. He leans over him, kisses his jaw, trails open-mouthed kisses down the exposed skin on his neck, and lets his hand return to Altaïr's hip as he instigates a less brutal pace than before, searching for the gland that will make the body beneath him sing. He is not sure what to think about the younger man's erect cock as he feels its moistened tip graze his toned abdomen with every thrust, feels as though it should not be there because Altaïr is not supposed to find pleasure in this, but is nevertheless inspired by the other's stringent exhales to evoke more sounds from him. He figures he can get what he wants in this way; Altaïr just needs a little push. Or a few quick strokes to his arousal.

When he wraps his fingers around the cock between their stomachs, Altaïr jerks, his elbow giving out under him, and he tries to recover his previous position, but is unable to for the reason that his entire body tenses and is unwilling to obey as Malik strokes him several times before chuckling deep in his throat and releasing his grip around his cock to pull his hips further down the counter; this allows Altaïr to rest his head without it hanging off the side, allows him to relax the muscles in his arms and let them lay perpendicular to his torso like he is a bird spreading his wings, ready to take flight, or a bird laying motionless on its back, staring up at the sky with unblinking, lifeless eyes. Malik continues driving his cock in and out of the man beneath him, the angle enabling him to thrust deeper and brush against that spot again. His hand returns to stroke Altaïr's arousal, and his mouth seals itself over the junction between the latter's neck and shoulder, tasting horripilated skin against his tongue in addition to the salt from the thin sheet of sweat enveloping their bodies.

A shudder. And then, at last, "Aaahhhh…"

Malik hears it, thinks, finally, and intensifies his movements, earning another quiet moan from Altaïr. "Yesss," He breathes in return and crushes his hips harder against Altaïr's ass, looking up at the younger man's countenance and seeing his head tilted backward, lips parted in a gasp, eyes screwed shut. Malik runs his thumb over the weeping slit of Altaïr's cock, is rewarded with a sharp inhale and a weak "ohhh," and presses a murmur to his open mouth, tells him to keep his eyes open.

Altaïr does as he is told, but stares up at the ceiling of the bureau to avoid Malik's scrutiny.

Malik decides that this will not do, decides that he wants to look into those depths that been so bright and pure during childhood, wants to see if there is any of that innocence left in there, if Altaïr is the same ten-year-old boy who feared what his mind saw when his eyes were closed and would crawl into his bed late at night to bury his face against his neck, speaking incoherently of his mother and demons and nightmares. Malik thinks that that little boy is either lost or dead, thinks that Altaïr learned how to deal with those memories that torment him during the first night he spent alone in a bed in Masyaf, away from Malik's watchful gaze and Kadar's lopsided grin. But he demands Altaïr to look at him anyway.

Dark cerulean eyes meet his, and suddenly Altaïr becomes quiet again as Malik leans closer so that he is only a few inches above the younger man's face. Altaïr looks up at him in such a way that suggests he is devoid of emotion, but Malik knows the man well enough to see the tension behind the facade, learned long ago how to read the other's eyes as well as those old, damaged textbooks. He stares into those dark depths and moves his hand to grab Altaïr's jaw in a firm grip, initiates an angry kiss that is all lips and teeth and tongue and devoid of what matters most, what makes people stupid and weak. Malik holds the younger man's insipid gaze in a cold yet infuriatingly warm stare, irritated by Altaïr's unresponsiveness in the kiss, and murmurs for him to use his goddamn tongue. The other wordlessly assents to his order, participates in a cruel dance with him, feels himself growing close to physical completion and further away from mental absolution. His orgasm draws near. He sighs.

Before long, Malik abruptly ends the kiss when rage builds up in his stomach, erupts his throat, and he is no longer able to savor Altaïr on his tongue, the man's taste supplemented by nostalgia and resentment. He chuckles cynically upon remembering his younger brother's infatuation for this man whom he hates, says bitterly that Kadar would have done anything to be with Altaïr in this way, to have the younger man moaning and writhing beneath him as he is pleasured, feeling his sweat-slicked skin gliding against his, laying claim to his body in a manner that is both similar and different to the way Malik is now; Kadar would have been gentler, would have focused on the feeling of ecstasy numbing his nerves instead of the anger smoldering in his chest.

Something akin to anguish ignites as a blue flame in Altaïr's eyes, gives him a tiny bit of life, and his Adam's apple bobs up and then down as he swallows hard.

Malik thinks he already knows the answers, but asks anyway if Altaïr knew that Kadar admired him as a child and idolized him as a teenager and loved him as an adult, asks if Altaïr ever felt his eyes on him when his back was turned, if Altaïr knew how distraught Kadar was the night he left to become an assassin, if he knew that Kadar only joined the Brotherhood in order to be close to him.

Altaïr looks into Malik's eyes for a long time, feels the pain and the rage and the sorrow there swallow him whole before he nods weakly against the hand gripping his jaw, says that yes, he did know Kadar was in love with him when he sees that this is what Malik wants.

Malik's harsh gaze does not leave his as he inquires if Altaïr ever returned his love, ever considered Kadar's infatuation for him, ever thought about how crushed Kadar must have been before he died to have been put into danger by a man he loved his entire life, asks him what he thinks is the ultimate form of betrayal, and all Altaïr can do is stare up into Malik's eyes with a gaze that suggests he is too hurt to speak, his erection softening against Malik's stomach before the older man moves his hand to stroke up and down his length to prolong this moment of rectitude, thrusting hard against that spot deep inside the man beneath him.

Altaïr does not think he can ever contemplate too much about what happened at Solomon's Temple or the years he spent growing up with Malik and Kadar, responds by shaking his head no with the vision of wrestling with Kadar in green grass and Malik, so young and yet so old, watching over both of them like the father Altaïr never had and the mother who had slipped away so quietly in the night, thinks that the man has always been the epitome of stability and integrity and loyalty. Altaïr bites his lip, feels the way he did when Malik used to scold him as a boy, vulnerable and small and inadequate in comparison to his wisdom.

Malik kisses him on the lips again, and this time Altaïr opens his mouth like a starving man and tries to illustrate to the other that he has not forgotten any of the sacrifices or solemn promises Malik made for Kadar and him, nor any of the days spent happy and nights slept warm in the small home of the brothers' dead parents, with the green grass and the black dirt and the fig tree that always bore so much fruit in the summers, absent of all things harsh in the city where he had lived with his mother. Altaïr tries to put into the kiss his appreciation for everything Malik and Kadar have ever done for him, but knows it will never be enough as tears gather at the corners of his eyes and the man above him pulls away.

Malik feels his orgasm approaching, pounds harder and faster into the body beneath him, works his hand up and down Altaïr's arousal, questions if the other is sorry for what he has done, if the reason why he is allowing Malik to fuck him is because he wants his forgiveness.

Altaïr pants, "Yes…" and shudders, his eyes rolling back into his head, the muscles in his stomach contracting as he nears his own climax; he thinks that he can heal and mend and be free of the hands around his throat once he hears Malik absolve him for his actions. He hears the man sigh, feels his thrusts grow inconsistent, erratic, and arches his back, sucks in breaths of air. "Please…"

And as Malik looks down at him with furrowed brows and parted lips, for a moment, he begins to consider letting go of the grudge he holds against him, realizes how broken the man has become, thinks that Altaïr has already suffered enough and how it would be cruel for him to deny him his release.

Altaïr feels teeth against his jugular, sighs. "Ask me louder," is breathed against his neck, and his stomach tightens in anticipation and pre-orgasmic bliss; he slings his right arm around the older man's neck, cups the side of his face with his left hand, the absence of his ring finger disregarded, and presses a chaste kiss to Malik's lips; it is the first time he has initiated a touch since his chest was turned against the counter, since their hands awkwardly met in the process of hastily removing clothes. He blinks back tears, struggles to keep his voice steady. "Malik, please…"

The other leans in for an additional kiss, drags his tongue along Altaïr's lower lip, tastes the ridge of the scar, thrusts his tongue into his mouth, and tightens his fingers around the base of Altaïr's cock when it swells in his hand and the body beneath him tenses, moans against the other's gasp when he feels long digits slink into his hair. "Mmmm, louder…"

"Oh, Malik," Altaïr says desperately, thighs trembling against the counter, leanly muscled stomach tensing repeatedly; he lifts his gaze to meet the other's, moving his hand to rest over the hand wrapped firmly around his arousal, denying him his climax. "Please… I need it – to hear you say it… Please, Malik… Liberate me…"

It is then, when Malik looks into Altaïr's eyes and sees the pure and innocent glint of the long lost boy in those depths that he realizes he cannot forgive Altaïr – even despite how repentant he is – for his actions, cannot forgive the man whom he had taken in and had come to consider a younger brother long before he became an assassin, cannot absolve what the latter is not entirely culpable for. Among the thoughts in his head that tangle and coalesce into his body's natural desire for release, he remembers lunging at Altaïr in Solomon's Temple, throwing off his balance just enough so that Robert de Sable was able to catch his wrist and throw him from the room, the wall crumbling behind him, and realizes that, perhaps, he is also responsible for Kadar's death, along with everything else that has happened.

The words in his throat burn worse than the anger that had been there only seconds before. His mind stops, but his body does not. "I…I can't. I want to – but I can't. …You just have to forgive yourself."

Altaïr looks at him for a moment longer before nodding and pulling away, allowing his back to rest against the counter again. He thinks he understands why Malik cannot forgive him, thinks that if he were the older man, he would not forgive the person responsible for ruining his life, either, but does not, cannot hope to understand the complexity surrounding the guilt that slowly transfers to the other's stomach and burns him alive. His erection flags, and no matter how fast Malik strokes it or swipes his thumb across the slit or thrusts hard against his prostate, Altaïr is as silent and unresponsive as a dead bird looking up at an invisible sky.

When the tears weld up in the corners of his eyes, the first one that spills out catches Malik's attention, and, with a shaky exhale, he bucks his hips and comes, emptying himself into Altaïr's body with a series of low moans and sharp gasps as he continues to rock his hips against the younger man's backside; when he is finished, he sees Altaïr's tears with a different mind, one that is subject to pity and remorse as he becomes so achingly aware of the softened cock in between their stomachs. He then slumps over the body beneath him, sighing when the other refuses to meet his gaze, and tries to hold the broken man as best he can with one arm. He whispers comforting words that ring hollow in Altaïr's ears, brushes his lips gently against ones that refuse to part, speaks softly of dreams and nightmares and reality the way he did to the boy who had so often crawled into his bed with wet eyes.

But Altaïr does not dream anymore, stopped dreaming long ago when he fell from the nest and landed on his back in the courtyard of Masyaf's castle.

Finis.

Afterword: Not bad for my first lemon, eh? And, as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Especially if you want to console poor Altaïr. Criticism is welcome, too, unless it's something that demonstrates that you have the intelligence of my couch that wants to sink in at the middle, the damn thing. :( Also, if you spot any grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc. mistakes, give me a heads-up. I won't bite. I promise. :)

-Jessica