Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, they belong to Ubisoft; the title is from 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane.

Pairing: Desmond/Altair (unrequited), Shaun/Desmond (somehow)

Rating: M

Summary: Desmond Bleeds and falls in love with someone who does not exist. Shaun decides to help, but it really just makes things worse.

Loving the Absent

It should have been easier to ignore it, to dismiss it as something trivial, to pretend that it wasn't what he thought it was, but Desmond was unable, and in a masochistic streak (he had a lot of those) unwilling to let it go. He had told Shaun about it once. He had thought Shaun's impeccable rationality would be able to knock some sense into him. He had thought being ridiculed about it would force him into denial. He had been wrong.

"Desmond, just listen to yourself, will you? From what you're telling me, it is obvious that you have no grasp on love and what the word actually implies."

But Shaun was wrong. Desmond knew what love was. He had experienced it enough times; more than anyone should. His first love was Malik; he had lived through all the agony Altair endured; the agony of secret admiration, lonely orgasms, silent love. He had looked at Malik through the golden eyes of a man burning with a feeling greater than revenge, and drowned; drowned in the emptiness of the clay walls enclosing him in their tomb-like embrace. It was a love drenched in loneliness; it hurt like hell; bled all over his sanity as freely as the blood oozing from a bullet wound. And Desmond could do nothing about it. He was stuck in Altair's body like a nightmare; he tried to scream but no sound passed through his lips. He tried to shake him awake, but the love was a drug; a poisonous one. It was killing him slowly, and one night, Altair simply did not wake up any more. For him, it was easier this way. He locked the door from inside, and waited for the walls to collapse on him. It was easier this way. He kept saying this so many times that Desmond finally believed him. And stopped trying.

"I don't think it's love. How could it be? It's just a childish obsession. And it will pass. Worrying your pea-sized brain over this will only make the matters worse."

His second love was less painful, but still as overwhelming and grand; fanciful like magic, like a child's dream. Leonardo. Ezio would fall in love with every woman he slept with, in a chivalric manner that was almost ridiculous, but mostly endearing, but it was always Leonardo he kept coming back to. Leonardo was his fix, and Ezio enjoyed every drugged moment with the genius artist. For Desmond, those were the happier times. It was true that Leonardo was not his to love; it was true that he was still as lonely and uncared for as a diseased, stray cat, but Ezio's love for Leonardo was beautiful, and Desmond had always had a selfless appreciation for beauty.

"That's preposterous, Desmond. You can't possibly fall in love with someone that doesn't exist. Just what kind of drugs are you on?"

His third (and Desmond did not know why he felt so depressed thinking that it was his, not Altair's nor Ezio's) was Lucy. Lucy Stillman. At times, his love for Lucy and that for Leonardo would overlap. At times, he would feel as if he was betraying one by loving the other. At times, he would go completely insane, trying to remember that Leonardo had been dead for more than five centuries, and that he had never met him, had never really loved him, did not know the taste of his lips, or the scent of his skin. Lucy was real, but at times, her presence felt less convincing than that of the dead artist. At times, Desmond was almost convinced that there was no difference between loving Leonardo and loving Lucy. They were both untouchable, a world apart from him, delusional patterns of comfort and familiarity, but nothing more than that, never solid enough for him to feel. At times, Desmond would feel desperate enough to let go. At times, he actually did.

"Listen to me, Desmond. This is just a temporary state. You just hang in there, and it'll soon be over. We've wasted enough precious time as it is because of your childish behavior."

The first time he saw him was on the tower. He saw him in his dream, chased after him, watched him as he kissed Maria full on the mouth and made love to her in such a gentle way it almost moistened his eyes just looking at it. After that dream, he had been having visions of Altair every single day. Suddenly, he was everywhere: hovering by the window, crouching on the rooftop, in all the deserted rooms in the Monteriggioni Vila that Desmond entered. In his dreams, in his waking hours, those golden, somber eyes seemed to follow him everywhere. Like a shadow, with muted footsteps, the white-robed assassin trailed behind him. Like a mirror, with hollowed, haunted eyes, he stood before him, sometimes compelling him to look away, sometimes pleading with him to stay and stare at the faded lines that made his face; the traces of pain and an infinite solitude etched around the corners of his eyes like crow's feet. Desmond would almost, always, break.

"I have a theory, Desmond. From what I can tell, you haven't got laid for a long time. I would have suggested Lucy, or even Rebecca, but seeing as it is Altair haunting your dreams, I think it's pretty safe to assume you're gay. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't like you. But if it helps speeding things along, so be it."

Shaun believed that Altair was never really there; it was just something Desmond had made up; a hallucination; the kind of which schizophrenics had, and that the Bleeding Effect might have had a part in it. He had interpreted his visions as an outlet for his sexual frustration, and even though Desmond could not remember the last time he had sex, he did not agree with Shaun. What he felt for Altair was tragic. Lust could never be tragic; only love was. He politely turned down Shaun's generous helping hand. If he had offered him love instead, perhaps…

No; he didn't need Shaun's love. He had had enough love to last him a lifelong. He was done with it.

He had searched Lucy's purse for them, but in the end, he found them in the inner pocket of Rebecca's discarded jacket. Who would have thought the laidback 'Becca needed pills to fall asleep?

Altair was sitting on his makeshift bed, playing absentmindedly with his hidden blade, but tonight, Desmond thought, he would ignore him. He hadn't slept for two weeks; somehow, he found it safer for his sanity to have Altair silently hovering around him while awake, than having him make slow, sensuous love to him in his dreams; just like the way he did with Maria. And it all felt so real; the feathery touch of those calloused hands on his naked form, the musky scent of that tanned skin; he could taste the mournful smile on the corner of those warm lips as they pressed to his. He could hear the rhythmic heartbeats ringing into his ears, so loud and clear as if they were his own. Desmond could not touch Altair when he was awake; he could not call to him, Altair would not respond, he did not hear him, he did not see him. But in the dreams, Altair was solid. Altair made love to him so gently that Desmond could almost believe that he was in love with him. It was only when he woke up that he would realize nothing was true. Altair did not love him. Altair did not know him. Altair was never really there. Sometimes Desmond would dry sob just thinking about him. There was something so utterly miserable and pitiful about himself that broke him in ways nothing else had ever done.

When he sat down on his bed, Altair slowly dissolved into thin air, leaving a faint scent of ancientness in his wake. The pills had slowed down his reactions, and he could barely feel his limbs. He didn't have enough energy to pull the blanket over his curved figure, yet his mind was fully awake. It bothered him to the point of insanity. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular, but for some reason, in his head, he was having a rather sophisticated conversation with himself in perfect Arabic. He was sure he could not make such complex sentences while awake; yet, everything he said made perfect sense in his mind. It was maddening. He was desperate to do anything, if only he could just shut up and fall asleep. He remembered that as a teenager, he was always tired and drowsy after masturbation. He was as loose and boneless as a dead, limbs weightless and jelly-like, but somehow he managed to pull his jeans and boxers down his hips and grab his limp cock in his hand. He tried to think of Altair, to remember his pained and lonely face that resembled his own in more than just the physical level, but the pictures escaped him. He tried and tried, because he always got off on tragedy, but that face, that epitome of all things tragic, was missing. In the end, he settled for just whispering the man's name under his breath, over and over like a mantra, like a curse, and before he could even bring himself to orgasm, he fell asleep.

When he woke up, he found Shaun straddling his hips, jerking him off so nonchalantly, as if they had been bed partners for years and this was how Shaun was used to rousing him from his deep slumber. Desmond whimpered, like a wounded animal, and bucked up his hips, like a whore, at that moment so immersed in the overwhelming pleasure he could almost die. Shaun's grasp was firm, almost vengeful, so unlike the way Altair handled his cock. He was jerking him off furiously, as if he was in a hurry and could care less about Desmond's comfort, but Desmond did not complain. He didn't even stop him. There was something so justifiable in what Shaun was doing, something as unquestionable as divine judgment, that had rendered Desmond weak and submissive. He came hard, with a sob that tore at his throat, and tears spilled from his eyes. His black T-shirt was completely drenched in cum and sweat, and he hazily registered his boxers and jeans pooling around his ankles, his feet still clad in his worn out sneakers. Shaun wiped his hand on Desmond's T-shirt that was already ruined, and climbed out of the bed. Desmond was slowly coming down from his high, feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. Part of him wanted to scream at Shaun, to shout swear words at him and kick him out of the room, because hadn't he said he didn't want Shaun's help? He hadn't asked for this, then how dared he do this to him? But Desmond was depressed. The greater part of him just wanted to shut down and rot away; to curl around himself until the world disappeared, and there was nothing but an abyss that would finally swallow him up and throw up his dissected limbs. He felt cheated, but self-guilt was his forte. It was easier for him to reprehend himself than Shaun; he had more reasons to.

Shaun was standing in the doorframe, with a smug expression on his face, as if he had the answers to all the questions in the universe, as if he knew everything. But what did Desmond know? Maybe he did.

"Come on, you shiftless waste of space. The Animus is calling."

Desmond groaned and buried his face into his pillow. The smell of his semen was overpowering; it was all over him, like a brand. What did Shaun know about failure? What did he know about guilt and the inability to make things right? What did he know about loving the absent? What did he know?

Altair looked miserable; proud, and yet a wretched thing*. Desmond lifted a hand to touch his cheek, to comfort him, to apologize, to make him understand, to make him smile like the way he never did. But his hand, of course, never made contact with anything solid. Just air. Altair was not physically there, but his pain, his endless loneliness, was suffocating Desmond.

"Altair…I'm sorry."

Altair did not respond. Not that Desmond was expecting him to. But somehow, his passiveness, like a blade, still managed to pierce Desmond's heart and tear it into shreds. Desmond was not sure if Altair was sad about what had happened between him and Shaun earlier that morning (because Desmond could keep telling himself he hadn't agreed to it, but damn if he hadn't enjoyed it nevertheless), or if it was Malik. It was almost always Malik. Everything was about him. Desmond once loved that man; as passionately and tragically as Altair did. Right now he hated him, even if he had been dead for centuries, and had no idea who Desmond was and how he felt; just like how he never realized how Altair felt about him. Everyday, looking at Altair, Altair looking right through him, burned like an urge, left Desmond yearning for something he could never have; yearning not for a kiss, or sex, but yearning to hear a simple 'I love you' from those unmoving lips. Desmond's world was so small, and yet he had no place in it.

"Altair…please."

No one could have loved him as much as he did. No one had ever been this miserable for just loving a man. No one could have ever been like Desmond. Why Altair did not understand?

Altair was fading, like a silent movie coming to an end, and Desmond had a sinking feeling that this was for the last time. Was he happy that Shaun's little trick had worked? Was he relieved to see that his beloved hallucination was going away? Could he sleep now, knowing Altair's ghost was no longer watching over him, or slipping into his dreams, invading his thoughts, poisoning his heart, slowly killing him?

No.

Desmond was terrified. Altair was walking out on him, and Desmond did not want him to; not like this, never like this.

"Altair…"

Desmond loved his Eagle Vision . There were times colors exhausted him; there were so many colors around, some of which Desmond could not even name, and they hurt his eyes. There were times Desmond wanted to go colorblind; to look at the walls, the paintings, the sky, the traffic, and only see gray. A widespread shade of gray. It calmed him. The occasional blue, red, golden and white sometimes unsettled him, but he could live with that. His world, the world of gray, the world of indefinable figures and indiscernible lines, the world of his own, the way he liked to see it. And no one else had a part in it; the world of solitude. The gray of loneliness.

That morning, when he went to see Shaun, he looked at him through the Eagle Vision. This way, he could not see that smug face, worse of all, that knowing-all smirk. Shaun was but a bolt of blue, an ally, and that was all Desmond wanted to see him as: an ally; nothing more, nothing less.

Shaun was at his computer, his back to him. He didn't even turn around when Desmond entered. When he talked, Desmond, despite himself, could picture the smirk on his face.

"So, did it work? No visits from the dead, this morning?"

Desmond stood there for a moment, staring at the wall; the gray wall, the gray world. He felt safer this way, surrounded by all this grayness.

"No visits." He finally confirmed, in a low, yet steady voice. He said it like he meant it. He said it with a clear conscience, a clear head. He said it like it did not matter, like it did not hurt.

He lied.

I'm dying for one who doesn't care
I'm dying for one who doesn't know

you're breaking me

Speak
Speak
Speak **

* John Davies

** 4.48 Psychosis, Sarah Kane