Their target, Abdul-Basir, couldn't necessarily be named an innocent due to his past affiliation with the Templar Order, but Altair had taken it upon himself to condemn the man to death without as much as speaking a word to him. His hidden blade discharged into the juncture between the man's neck and throat, blood spitting out across Altair's robes and down his blade. Basir let out a sickening gurgle before he fell to his knees, then to his face.

Malik stood back in the shadows, arms crossed and questions caught in his throat.

Al Mualim did not specify if he wanted Basir dead or alive, though Malik was sure that their Master would have wanted Basir alive long enough to weed out information on the whereabouts of this 'artifact' he spoke of so often.

The blade retracted and Altair went about rummaging through tomes that littered nearly every inch of the room. He paid no attention to Malik as if he weren't there at all.

Malik's fingers dug into the cloth at his arms, he took a leveling breath before he stepped behind Altair and grabbed at the backside of his hood, yanking backwards and whirling him around until he faced Malik. For a moment, there was feral glint in his amber eyes.

'Has your mind finally left you, Altair?'

He stayed silent.

Malik narrowed his eyes and shoved at Altair's chest. 'What possessed you to do away with our target before even asking where the artifact was?'

'He was going to lie, brother. I did not have the patience.'

Malik laughed harshly. 'You insolent fool, now what do we do? Huh? Did you think that out while you were deeming Basir a liar before even letting him utter a word?'

Altair knocked Malik's hands away and turned his back to him once more to look through the tomes. 'He has a map here, my eagle vision showed me.' As soon as he had finished the sentence, he thumbed through a few more pages of a dusty tome and picked up a crumbled piece of parchment. He looked over his shoulder, smirking at Malik. He scowled.

On the way back to Masyaf, Malik couldn't help but wonder why Al Mualim favored Altair over other assassin's that matched his skill in combat and his speed when running across Syrian rooftops. Perhaps it was that eagle vision he possessed. Malik had always harbored a certain jealousy towards Altair because of that. Who was he to be deemed special enough to have an ancient skill that the rest of the assassin's – including Malik – could not even hope to learn?

He looked to the sky above, stars dotted across the blackness, circling the moon in its full stage. He wasn't quite tired, though he knew that it was best to stop riding for now and find shelter for the night.

There was an abandoned hut not many meters off that could suffice, though Malik wasn't sure where they would hide the bodies of the guards if there were any around patrolling the area.

A bit starved for some sword play, Malik reared his horse forward and the equine lurched and galloped in front of Altair's.

On their way to Acre, Altair had done the majority of the fighting to Malik's displeasure. He wasn't going to let the naqhal beat him to it this time.

Two guards adorning the flag of Acre stood at their post a few meters from the hut, Malik dismounted his equine and unsheathed his sword with a single fluid movement. Both guards pivoted at the sound and Malik struck quick and solid with a side-swing to the guard on the left.

Altair was just riding up as soon as Malik kicked at the torso of the other guard, sword slipping easily from his chest and he fell back.

Adrenaline still running in fingers through his veins, Malik laughed something cynical and called out, 'Altair! My 'brother', couldn't quite catch up could you?'

Altair said nothing and dropped off of his horse. His eyes fleeted over to the two bodies stacked on top of each other before they settled back on Malik. He continued to walk to Malik until Malik lowered his stance and held his bloodied sword before him, pointed to Altair.

He smirked, clutching at the hilt of his short-blade on his back. 'As you wish, Malik.'

With that, Malik rocked on the pads of his foot and watched as Altair changed his posture, mimicking his own stance.

Altair was the first to strike, right hand thrusting the short-blade straight at Malik's shoulder. Malik easily countered and kneed Altair in his stomach, sending him reeling back before he smacked the side of his head with the side of the sword.

The almost playful, confident air that was on Altair morphed into something staid and irate. Malik waited for him to strike again and wasn't disappointed when Altair tried the same offensive attack but from a different angle. Malik pivoted on his heel and jabbed the butt of the blade into Altair's abdomen and huffed out a laugh when he heard his pained groan.

Side-stepping Altair, Malik kicked his leg out from under him and watched the man fall straight to the ground, short-blade clattering to the dirt beside him.

'I am no drunken guard that has only wielded a blade for a little over a fortnight. And I am no over-confident assassin that merely relies on the offensive.'

Somehow, Altair had managed to hook his calve around Malik's ankle and he yanked until Malik lost his footing. Altair reached for Malik's wrist, squeezing to force him to let go of his sword and pulling forward so he toppled over on Altair. Altair rolled their bodies over until he was on top with the sharp side of his short-blade to Malik's throat.

Wild eyed, Malik fought and struggled underneath Altair, infuriated that he had gotten the upper hand.

Altair leaned close until his mouth was directly at Malik's ear. 'And I am no fool that sets down his guard in front of an opponent.'

Malik wanted to spit on him. He wanted to beat him senseless until he came to realize that he was nothing more than a haughty assassin with an annoyingly arrogant attitude about him.

Altair pulled back and put a little more pressure on the hilt of the blade. It was harder to breathe, despite that, Malik scowled at him.

'Fuck you,' he said.

Altair set his blade aside and bared his teeth in a wide leer. 'As you wish, Malik.'

Altair took his face in his hands and sealed his lips over Malik's.

He didn't fight nor did he struggle, Malik simply continued to lay there in defeat; bested.

It wasn't the first time they had done this and Malik was sure that it wasn't going to be the last. At first, it had been a way to release a multitude of emotions both Malik and Altair faced: the annoyance, stress, and tension would coil so tight in them that they found that sparring with one another did well in allaying those feelings. But it had become more than that. The private fights would last for too long, get far too heated that a thrust of a sword here would do a bit more damage than actually intended and a jab to the ribs sent one of the reeling back a bit too far.

And one day Altair had thrown his sword to the ground and he kissed Malik with such ferventness that had Malik stunned. It wasn't the action that bewildered him, but the fact that he reciprocated it.

Malik hated Altair, and he was almost sure that Altair felt the same.

They got to their feet and rushed inside of the hut. Altair let Malik shove him against the stone wall; he yanked Altair's hood back and he grabbed at the cropped, brown hair on his head as Malik crushed their lips back together.

Altair scratched blunted nails up and down the planes of Malik's clothed back; Malik arched into the touch, breath catching in his throat.

It was always fast and needy between them. They spent little time on removing robes and leggings and boots, solely focusing on the act itself.

With the last of Altair's clothes finally gone, Malik pulled him down to the ground with him, head thumping against the cool stone of the ground as Altair rocked against him. Malik looked between their bodies; his own cock was flushed red, laying a top his stomach while Altair's bobbed half-hard in the air.

Altair hissed his pleasure through his teeth when Malik grabbed at his sex, worked his palm up the shaft to run the pad of his thumb over the tip. When he was fully hard and leaking into Malik's hand, Altair swatted his hand away and twisted him around until he was on his hands and knees.

There were fingers in Malik's mouth, then; he laved his tongue around each digit, ignoring the taste of blood and dust. They twisted from between his lips with an obscene pop. Malik lowered himself to his elbows and buried his face in the crook of his arm and forearm at the feel of saliva coated fingers traveling straight over the line of his spine down to the cleft of his ass.

Malik always hated this part. It hurt so much before the burn was able to subside into something more tolerable, but Malik knew that this. . .that what they did was not just for a means of pleasure, but for the release of pent up jealousy and fury between the two.

He held his breath at the prodding of the first finger, it pushed through the first ring of muscle agonizingly slow; Malik's breathing was already starting to stutter. He bit and chewed on his lower lip, eyebrows creasing and shoulders seizing up as another finger was added with the first too quickly before Malik was able to adjust. The third finally had Malik whimpering, breaking his resolve into nothing while he reached underneath him to grasp at his cock.

Altair withdrew his fingers and Malik shuddered.

The man laid most of his weight against Malik's back, one hand beside Malik's head and the other lining his cock up, driving the head in with small thrusts until he was about half way in. Malik's shaking was uncontrollable now; he needed a moment, just a moment and he'd be ready. His forehead hit the stone floor as he reached a hand back to grab at Altair's hair, squeezing and flexing his fingers, signifying him to wait.

His breathing had leveled and the burn inside of him turned to a dull, thrumming ache. Malik kept his fingers in Altair's hair for purchase, he rocked his hips up and back. Altair immediately seized Malik's cock in his hand and stroked in time with his thrusts.

They never took their time; their couplings were never slow and sensual, but fast and brutal and possessive.

Malik's mind narrowed down to nothing but the wrist flicking just right on an upward stroke, to the curve of Altair's cock brushing up against the bundle of nerves inside of him that made him twitching and wanting to shout.

His fingers fell from Altair's hair as the man drew back; blunted nails dug into the hot flesh of his hips and they pulled him back harshly to meet with each drive of Altair's hips.

Malik clawed at the floor, his back arched and dipped as Altair continued to thrust again and again into that spot. He was vocal, now, Altair's name slipping between clenched teeth and god, Malik tried so hard to hold off on his release. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin tied nicely with the way Altair panted harshly above Malik.

His movements were turning sloppy and arrhythmic, Malik looked over his shoulder, grunting at the utterly wrecked look on Altair's face. His mouth was hanging open, eyes screwed shut and his brows were creasing together.

'Al -Altair.'

Altair's eyes snapped open at the breathy sound of his name. Malik kept his eyes on him as he frantically fisted his cock. A grimace was on Altair's face, he leaned down to wrench Malik's hand from his erection, replacing it with his own.

Amber eyes shone with vehemence. 'Mine,' he panted.

Altair squeezed hard on an upward stroke and Malik cursed as his body seized up and coiled tight, head tipping forwards as he spurted in Altair's hands and onto the floor.

Altair threw his head back and pounded into Malik's over-sensitized hole over and over until he stilled, nails digging painfully into Malik's flushed skin. Malik grimaced at the feel of Altair's release seeping out of him, dribbling down his inner thigh.

There was a brush of lips amid his shoulder blades. Between catching his breath, Malik turned his head, not quite meeting Altair's eyes. Altair kissed up his back until he reached the crook of his neck. 'Mine,' he said.

Yours.