He feels as though he has been perched on the minaret for hours, scanning for targets that remain elusive. All he sees in that strange haze of the mraa mn alnsr are the gray, muted figures of the citizenry dotted with the occasional red blur of a guard.

But there! A flash of blue, deeper and more vivid than any other mark Altair has ever sighted, weaves between the crowds of Jerusalem and brings with it the promise of diversion. His vision returns to normal as he climbs down from the spire to the crossbar and lets himself fall forward, hearing the cry of an eagle through the rush of air around him before he lands with a cushioned thump into a pile of hay.

He climbs out and brushes himself off, triangulating his new target's location before making for the rooftops. Normally Altair would have no problem cutting guards down where they stand, but he knows Malik disapproves of his casual flouting of the Creed, and he cannot ensure his robes will remain unsullied. So he darts from building to building, sprinting when he hears voices calling for him to stop, and hiding within one of the rooftop gardens to catch his breath.

Altair peers out from between the curtains, his gaze appearing vacant again as he scans the crowd. He smiles absently when he sees how close he is, then climbs out of the little tent and lands on the street below, ignoring the disconcerted gasps and exclamations around him. He moves like a wraith between vendors clamoring from their stalls, harried women haggling over vegetables while children swarm all around, and cocksure young men testing weapons that will surely land them in trouble.

"Camouflage yourself as you will, Master Assassin, you cannot hide from these eyes." That calm murmur reaches him over the ambient noise of the bazaar, and Altair can't decide whether he's pleased to be in Malik's company, or irritated that his approach was that obvious. "Why do you trouble me today?"

There was a time when he would have met such a greeting with a heated rejoinder, but he now recognizes the shade of indulgence in Malik's voice and is content.

That doesn't mean polite conversation will follow, of course.

"I can only assume you were looking for me, Dai, to relieve the monotony of your day." He falls into step beside him and lowers his voice in a conspiratorial manner. "Or, perhaps, for relief of another kind."

Malik snorts, offended by both suggestions. "Failing to miss your oafish lumbering is not the same as looking for you." He too lowers his voice now. "And I am not sure that relief is what you bring me."

"I was close enough to lighten your coin purse if I so chose before you noticed me," he retorts. Altair likes that they can have two conversations at once, relishes the danger of being overheard as well as the closeness that he refuses to examine. "And relief by way of ecstasy is still relief."

Malik looks at him, eyebrows raised. "You resisted the urge to commit petty larceny. I'm impressed." He pauses a moment before sniffing, "But your arrogance is as off-putting as ever."

"Yes, time in your company has had some effect on me," Altair muses. "I suppose it was someone else I had pinned beneath me, moaning my name last evening." His cocky grin never fails to get a reaction.

Malik's stride falters a bit, and he glares at Altair. Whether he is more upset by his own shameless behavior or the lack of discretion in bringing it up is unclear. He looks forward again, remarking, "Between your maddening smirks and asinine babbling, I'm not sure which I would give up first."

"Fortunate, then, that you need not make that choice," Altair returns easily, still grinning a bit. "Your eyes must be sharp indeed to find me in the crowd so quickly," he comments, scanning the busy marketplace himself for any threats.

Malik bites his tongue on a damning confession and instead says, "I appreciate that it is my excellent vision, and not your incompetence, that allowed this meeting to take place." With a rueful shake of his head, Malik looks up and asks, "Ah, is that the stand where you purchase my figs? They are quite good, perhaps I will pick up some more."

"No." He is startled by the vehemence in Altair's voice, and he finds his arm in the tight grip of three strong fingers. "We cannot go to that stand." Before Malik can ask what unspeakable act Altair has committed, he is steered away decisively.

"What was that about?" Malik queries as they walk towards the bureau.

"Eh…" Altair ducks his head in a rare show of embarrassment. "That vendor… may believe I am married."

"First: what has that to do with me? Second: why would he think that?"

"Well…" That hesitation would be charming if Malik did not know it heralded something unpleasant. "I mentioned that I was shopping for someone else. And before I knew it, I found myself admitting to a wife who… has a fondness for figs."

Malik is silent for a moment; Altair winces. "Is that what you've been telling the merchant to get me fruit? That I'm your wife?"

"No, I've been telling the merchant how much my wife loves figs, and he gives me a small discount." Altair smiles wryly. "It's the look of longing on my face, I'm sure."

"Ass."

"You get the best selection from the cart, I save some money, and everyone's masculinity is preserved. Just as Allah wills it. I do not see the problem."

"No," Malik drawls, "you never see the problem, do you?" He sighs, covering his pained expression with his hand as the bureau comes into view. "Well," he says testily, "this is only further proof that I cannot take my eyes off of you." The two enter the backroom that serves as Malik's sleeping quarters, and the dai begins unpacking his satchel, trying to ignore the sound of clothes being shucked off from the other side of the room.

"So then I was right, hmm?" comes the unrepentant question as a pair of hands reach from behind him, setting his purchases aside in order to peel off his scholar's robe. "You are always looking for me."

Malik stiffens as those deft hands undo the ties on his assassin's robes and cowl, pulling them off in turn. "Do not consider it an honor, fool," he spits. "It is only because I consider you a menace to yourself and everyone around you."

A sharp pinch to his backside makes him yelp, then scowl. He spins around to catch Altair's smirk. "I know I am a menace to your peace of mind, and you cannot forgive me for that." His amber gaze rakes up and down Malik's form, the tunic and breeches leaving little to his imagination. "But if the sight of me is so unbearable…" The paler man picks up an old frayed scholar's robe from the corner of the room and tears a thin strip of fabric from the bottom. "… Allow me to make amends."

"Altair," Malik begins warningly as he sees the other man, clad only in thin breeches himself, advancing on him with intent.

"Do you trust me, Malik?" The assassin slows but does not halt his approach.

"To bungle your missions and bring shame to our Order? Undoubtedly."

"Anything less would be foolish," Altair agrees. "But do you trust me not to harm you?"

"…yes," Malik admits with a harsh sigh. "You would not seek to harm me."

"Then do not worry." Altair pushes Malik down to kneel on the cushions littering the floor. "Sit."

"In general, I find your reassurances more concerning than your threats, novice."

"Hush," Altair says sternly. He draws the deep blue fabric around Malik's eyes, taking his time in adjusting it so that it is snug but not tight. As he works, Malik pipes up, "Remind me once again why I agreed to this." He must have his eyes directed at the ceiling in a dramatic fashion; Altair would wager 2 weeks of guard duty on it. He finishes tying the blind and nips at the juncture of Malik's neck and shoulder.

"Because you know I will make it worth your while." Altair can't hide the leer in his voice as he studies the man before him. Malik sits back on his heels, thighs splayed and head cocked as he focuses on his other senses. He looks like a kept hawk, hooded and taut, ready to take flight if given the chance. Altair will have to handle this carefully.

He reaches out a hand, and the unusual gentleness of his touch startles Malik into drawing back slightly. Altair feels a hint of sorrow at the implication, but pushes him back onto the cushions and continues with a firmer hand. Without Malik's sharp eyes to rush him, he is free to explore parts of the other man's body that are usually passed over: the sweep of his collarbone; the soft skin behind his knee; the firm, ticklish muscle of Malik's lower abdomen.

"Who could this be, touching me with such care?" Malik hopes his teasing question doesn't sound too breathless. "Surely not Altair, the Eagle of Masyaf and continual bane of my existence."

"Are you complaining?" Altair asks, running delicate fingers over the notch at the base of Malik's throat, pleased when he elicits a shudder rather than an instinctual withdrawal. "I could be more forceful." He lets his short nails scrape across the skin there and is taken aback by the quiet groan Malik grants him.

"At least I could be sure of your identity," Malik retorts quickly to mask his mounting desire. "As it is, you could be anyone, even that gullible market vendor."

"Would you let the market vendor do this to you?" Altair keeps one hand braced on Malik's neck and moves his other to cup the bulge in his breeches, forcing a wet gasp from the other man. "Especially if you could not see him?"

"I have little to fear from him," Malik stutters out as he drowns in sensation. He fears to imagine his appearance, pinned with nothing but gentle fingers at his throat and a callused hand pushing his breeches from his hips to take him in hand. When had he let himself become so helpless?

Ah yes, when a pair of amber eyes had lit on him, hot and possessive, as if he were something more than a grey shade passing, unknown and unknowing, through this life. When clever, lethal hands had taken hold of his desire and left him trembling.

"And you fear the Son of None, Malik?" Altair slows and lengthens his strokes, unsettled at the other man's words.

The blindfold shields Malik from the censure or – worse – mockery in Altair's eyes as he gasps, "I fear… what he does to me. Once I have found him… ah, please… my eyes can see… n-nothing else." The hand on his cock ceases its movements entirely, then draws away.

The dai imagines that Altair has gone perfectly still in that peculiar way of his, the coil before the strike. He braces himself for laughter and is met with only silence. The moments stretch out in his mind, becoming minutes and then hours. Has that fool left him sitting alone on the floor, pants undone and fingers clenching in the cushions?

He cannot see himself as Altair does, biting his lip with an uncertainty that is quite enticing. This may be the first time that Malik has regretted anything that he has said – and he has said quite a few things that, at least in Altair's mind, warrant it.

"Brother?" Malik reaches up to pull the blindfold from his eyes, so he is caught off-guard when a misshapen hand grasps his own and an insistent mouth surges onto his, overwhelming him with desperate affection. Altair is grateful that Malik cannot see the warmth in his eyes that has no place – that merits no name - in the life he leads, as the man that he is.

Malik meets his fervor with teeth and tongue, his groans loud enough to surprise even himself. He blames the blind for allowing his reserve to evaporate, but recovers enough to pant, "Well, whoever you are, tell that novice to find somewhere else to stay for the evening. I am occupied."

"That novice is right here," Altair says heatedly. Even when Malik is teasing him, his words find their mark; and now that he has tasted the sweetness of Malik's surrender, he only wants more.

"Perhaps you are right," Malik breathes, his voice none too steady. "Altair has never been able to oversee two activities at once." He withdraws his hand from Altair's hold and slides it down the well-known path of his torso to take himself in hand, sighing into Altair's mouth.

Malik's ploy works brilliantly, as Altair sits back, dumbfounded at how things have spiraled out of his control. Malik would be laughing long and hard at his expression were he able to see it; as it is, Altair has to stifle a moan as he watches Malik pleasure himself, the wantonness of the display heightened by the blush rising on those dark cheeks as he writhes and keens before an unseen audience.

Again Malik bites his lip in a poor attempt to silence himself. It only makes Altair want to do it for him.

He takes advantage of the other's blindness to cup the delicate flesh of Malik's sac and massage it slowly, watching the stroking movements lose their rhythm. Just as quickly, he withdraws his hand and savors the whine this earns him. Next he places a soothing hand at Malik's temple, carding them through his hair. Altair waits until the darker man is almost purring before grabbing the hair at the base of his skull and wrenching his head forward, biting Malik's lip hard enough to draw blood. Malik cries out but doesn't stop his movements; in fact, his hips buck even more strongly.

If Malik wants him to be ruthless, Altair would be hard-pressed to deny him. He keeps his hold on Malik's hair and forces the fingers of his other hand into his mouth, feeling his own length stiffen against his thigh as a hot, flexible tongue laves his fingers. He watches Malik's tongue seek his palm eagerly, and feels as if he might go mad with desire.

The assassin lets go of Malik's hair and places his own hand on his cock, curling slick fingers around the base and moving with slow, even strokes. He grabs the other man's hand as it tries to interfere with his ministrations.

"Novice…" Again, Malik means it to be a warning, Altair knows, but it comes out as a plea, tenuous and aching. He decides that this is not the last time that Malik's body will betray him tonight.

"I'm afraid there is no one who answers to that name here," he hums before he wraps his lips around Malik and applies generous suction that earns a pleading whimper. He lifts his head to say, "But I will entertain requests addressed directly to me," before returning to his task. When he feels the familiar tightening in Malik's thighs and his hand clenches in Altair's own, he halts the movements of his mouth, wrapping firm fingers around the base to deny him release. He does this, again and again, laying caresses and cruelty along the rest of Malik's body until he is a shuddering wreck.

Malik is caught in a web of pleasure, unable to anticipate where he will be touched, whether that hand will be kind or unforgiving, and for once his mouth feels sluggish, unable to form words that should be easy. "Ah –" he gasps, horrified at how close he is to committing the ultimate blasphemy. "Al-"

"Go on, Malik. Call out my name." That deep voice has the same flat tone as ever, as though he is taking a group of new recruits through the same tiresome exercises on the practice field. "That is all I need to hear."

"Al- oh fuck, oh Allah..." The word breaks in the middle, and he curses his traitorous tongue.

"The title is not necessary, but appreciated nonetheless." Malik bares his teeth at his insufferable satisfaction before Altair presses a scorching, open-mouthed kiss to his neck and releases the pressure around the base of his cock. He curls that same hand around his length and twists. Once, twice, root to tip, thrice –

– and it is over for him as a tide of heated darkness swamps him and his whole body arches from the force of it. The pleasure is almost painful, enough to make his eyes sting, and he hears a hoarse cry but can't be sure whose it is. Once his climax subsides, he feels like a piece of seaweed caught in the current, the last waves of his orgasm lapping at him.

Malik keeps his eyes covered for as long as possible, but finally he pulls his hand out of Altair's and tears off the blindfold with a scowl. The other man's expression makes him want to put it back on.

"Al-ta-ir." His scarred lips linger on each syllable as he drawls out his name. He revels in the sight of Malik, eyelashes clinging together wetly and muscles still trembling in the aftermath. "It is easy to confuse the two of us, but my name is Altair."

Malik struggles to speak and catch his breath at the same time, so he settles for striking the side of that smug face soundly with a cushion and knocking him over. "A mere slip of the tongue, that is all," he manages to growl. "Believe me, I can tell the two of you apart."

"Do not worry yourself overmuch, brother." Altair rights himself with a smirk and crawls with a predator's grace to lay the full length of his muscled body against the other man's still heated frame. His tone is offhand, but Malik swallows audibly at his words.

"Next time, I promise that you won't be able to remember your own name, much less mine."

mraa mn alnsr - sight of the eagle