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Description
Damn, it's been 5 days since Altaïr woke up from the coma thingy. The 14th day in this fucked up hospital.  Altaïr is doing fine now, and Lucy feels better about it too. I'm glad. But what's gonna happen next? When are we busting ass out of here? I mean, it's not like I want to go back to Abstergo, but I feel like there is something needed to be done there. I dunno. I don't know what.

- - - - -

Why the hell am I writing this? I mean, noting down how I'm feeling shit. Well, there is nothing else to do other them sit down and scribble. It's only taking up very little time... I'm bored to death... Actually,  Altaïr talks to us a lot. He tells me and Lucy stories about himself: places he has been to, his childhood, what is was like back in his time, his life as an assassin. I really think that he's an interesting guy... there's this feel about him. It's different. Everything is OK now but I still feel that there is something going on still in Abstergo right now. What is happening with that stupid Vidic guy? He's a jerk. I gotta stop writing these. I feel like a pussy girl.

- - - - -

I swear this is getting like a diary. Well, not really. I'm just writing on pieces of hospital stationary... (they are tiny) heck I'm even surprised that they have that. I don't see it often. Then again, I never go to hospitals. Anyways I'm going to try to stop this. It's getting on my nerves. So it's the 17th day of  Altaïr being here... me... Lucy...  Altaïr... damn.... dead... Lucy is not here right now though. She went out. Somewhere, I dunno what she was doing. She said that, that's all. I miss her already. Altaïr is sleeping now. He's been acting weird recently. I told him that he needs to rest more often, it'll help with the healing. I dunno... he did it, but still he's not looking that happy. The doctors said that he's actually healing well, and that's good. They are going to discharge him soon. Also good. Seeing that I'm already on the subject... actually I don't want to write this, what if someone finds it? It would be so awkward, kill me??? Anyways, I think I have a crush on him... damn I sound like a love-sick teenager. I can't let anyone see this. Actually I don't know how I feel. I like him a lot, as a friend. Yeah, friends. We are all getting close. Is it a 'crush'? What love? I sound so gay right now, I need to go slap myself. I don't like-like  Altaïr but I feel like there is something about him which really makes me... I dunno. But I know that I like Lucy, no love her. I'm sure of this and she is so wonderful and she is my everything. OK I don't want to go into any poetry or squinchy-squinchy I'm going to stop writing this shit and fucking NEVER LET ANYONE SEE THIS.

- - - - -

Desmond sighed, glaring at the scraps of paper on the table. They were thoughts that he had in the many days since he and Lucy had come. Garbage that he wrote down. He was going to burn them later. That is, if he got a chance.

But when he was writing the last 'entry' he felt his emotions bottled up and growing inside him. At last he couldn't help but scribble down a tiny part of the wild confusion inside him. He really didn't know how he felt, much less how to write it – he always had been bad with words. He preferred action; but he didn't know what action to take. All he knew was that there was something wrong with him.

Tell me something I don't know.

He sighed, glancing at the digital clock. The glowing red numbers displayed the time: 9:40 pm, Lucy and Altaïr decided to have an early night. Lucy was lying in her bed across the room, sheets cuddled up to her chin. She looked comfortable, even though in a strange room in a strange situation with strange events all around. But Lucy was always so calm in no matter what situation.

Altaïr, on the other hand, had become restless in the past few days. He would be glancing around as if there was someone about to jump from the shadows, or he would be muttering to himself. God knows what he was thinking. But sometimes he'd be sitting or lying down, still as stone. His eyes stared at some unseen image only he could see. His face had an empty, vacant look to it, then suddenly deeply concentrating on some thought. Altaïr would make a startling, sudden movement – whipping his head to the side, sitting up sharply or his arm would flash in an unseen motion. Golden eyes flaring, he'd be looking straight at Lucy or Desmond for a moment, and then breaking off his intense gaze. In a way, it frightened them. Somehow. The nurses and doctors said nothing. They probably didn't even notice. It made Desmond nervous himself, which made him scribble more.

Desmond stood up from the table and swept the papers off it violently.They hung in the air for an infuriating moment before drifting to the floor. Staring at the papers with pointless anger, he tried to calm himself. What was he even mad at? Himself, duh. No. He was just angry. For no reason. He sighed and bent down to scoop up the wrinkled papers and stuffed them in his pocket.

He started to pace. From the door to the window. He saw everything in the room. He heard people in the hall. He heard street noise outside the open window. He saw the time; now 9:52 om.

As he was walking, his thoughts spun in wild circles. Ideas came to him from random places: a pizza restaurant near his house, bar tending lessons hammered into his brain, the color of his underwear, a park he liked to go to and walk around, his friends back from his childhood... so long ago... in the compound of the Assassin's... What? Desmond tried not to think of it, the memories brought back feelings of restlessness and need. It was what made him want to get out of there! He didn't want to be an Assassin! So he escaped, went to another city, got his motorcycle and a job at the bar.

Try as he might, the thoughts wouldn't stop. Those thoughts. Memories of he and his friends getting in trouble with the teachers, the hard lessons and drills they went through... But it was all so vague. He couldn't remember exactly what they did, only the feelings. They were alien to him, didn't recognize them. But since being captured by Abstergo, he had felt them again: pangs of desperateness and restlessness. He lived each day in confusion of his mind and surroundings. Shit, did I really have to get kidnapped? My life is going to be so hard...

Actually, he was partially glad that he was taken by the Templars, as Lucy said. Lucy! That was the only thing he liked about this whole thing. Well not really. He had a spot in his heart for Altaïr, suspiciously changing as the says went by... huh? He liked Lucy, loved her. Her sweet personality, which was just a mask for the strong, brilliant woman inside. No, it wasn't a mask, it was part of her. Desmond loved everything about her. Being captured was what brought him to her. And that was about the only good thing.

Of all the memories of being in the Assassin's compound, there was only one thing he remembered as clear as if yesterday. There was one time when he and his close friends made a plot to go outside in the 'real world' as they had called it. He was 13 back then. It was perfectly detailed and laid out. They worked on it for weeks, every single escape route and timing exact. All of them felt the excruciating desire to break free and run from this life, but Desmond felt it strongest of all. He worked elaborately on the secret plot to make it perfect and fool-proof. It was something he could put his heart in, though he never let anyone see that. Especially not his teachers, they could never find out about the escape or there would be dire consequences for them. He made an agreement with everyone that if one got caught, he would never tell anyone about the others to keep them safe.

The escape happened on a bright, sunny day. It was during this time that the assassin-to-be's were to train outside for the good weather. On rainy or days with bad weather, they usually were kept inside so an eye could be kept on them. But still the danger was still there: if the assassins were let outside, that meant there would be more security guards and instructors to watch over them all. That was what they went for; a chance to exercise their skills as an assassin in a real situation. Even just for one day.

One by one they left their activity scattered around the compound. At a certain time they met, and silently slinked off to a hiding spot to wait until it was time.

Desmond savored the thoughts, holding onto them dearly. His life back then had been so simple and straightforward, if not hard. Everything else he had forgotten, trying to leave behind his past, but this was one thing he had kept over the years. Every single detail, thrill and danger he kept. He remembered when they were almost caught coming back. A small laugh escaped him when he remembered that one of his friends had split his pants climbing over the barbed wire wall. He had dropped almost on top of a security guard, alerting every one in the area. His friend told him later, quote, "I just hauled ass up the wall, and held onto my pants like a jack."

It was only then he realized that he had stopped pacing and was standing at the window, looking down into the streets below. It was near an intersection, the window, and let a view of the traffic lights and cars nearby. It was dark except for the streetlights, cars and lights from others buildings. He saw someone walking around, and wondered what they were doing at this hour. Which reminded him. What time was it? Turning around and closing the window from the wind, he looked for the clock. 11:06? Had he been that absorbed in his thoughts?

He went over to Lucy, bending over to kiss her forehead. "Good night," he whispered. Still not going to be a night for him, though. Lucy shifted in her sleep, and sighed.

Desmond smiled. He silently walked to the side of Altaïr's bed, enjoying the feeling of being up when no one else was. He looked him over quickly. Altaïr was fine, sleeping. Desmond slowly sat down in the chair next to the bed, keeping his eyes on Altaïr's face. His thoughts started to run again.

Had Altaïr ever experienced something like how he had felt? Probably not, seeing how he was a master assassin now. Desmond wondered about Altaïr's childhood. He had told him and Lucy things about himself, but never delved too deeply into that area. Maybe he didn't like talking about it, like Desmond. It was unsettling to reach that far back and speak about those days. So different to his life now. Or... over a month ago. Either one.

How would Altaïr react to being back at Abstergo? It was a really screwed up place, he knew from his weeks there. Sometimes at night, he would explore the building. Once he went into Lucy's office, and saw something he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to see. Going through her e-mails was weird. A bunch of information about things he didn't understand. Coded messages? Explanations for historical events, somehow all related to the Templars? At least, that was what he thought they were. Terrorist plots, historical disasters? Nothing made sense, he couldn't link things together.

Desmond came back to the other thoughts of the escape. It was free dom for one day, so short but sweet. They had all seen pictures of it in books and such, but never fully experienced it till them. Obviously, they eventually would have gone out, but Desmond had run away before that. There had been maps of the nearby town lying around the compound, used by the adults, and they used those to plan. Damn, but those days were the best.

And so, they day they went out. There were many people outside, enjoying the nice weather. They acted as if there was nothing special happening and went to their places. At different times, they left and met up for a few moments, checking that everyone was there. Then they separated and made their own solo escape to the outside. They were simple, quick and gave no trouble. Desmond remembered sneaking through the back halls of the buildings before getting through several walls. He had snagged a pant leg on the outer barbed wire fence (he always though it made the place look like a jail) and he ripped a tear in his pants halfway up his calf. Hurriedly grabbing the piece of fabric he had stuffed it in a pocket and jumped off before he could cut himself further. There was a problem with the security guards, too. Desmond watched them for a few minutes to quickly observe them and calculate his plan. They all stayed in one spot, watching the area and resting, as there had been no one else around. Desmond had made sure with the others that they wouldn't disrupt anything, break or hurt people. They were supposed to be like shadows, free, everywhere and nowhere without sound. They were just darkness that slipped through everything (were the words that Desmond's friend said. Sadly, he failed at it.). Or, well, they tried. They were still learning.

Desmond and his friends all had successfully escaped. No one had seen them, it was pretty fair itself. They met outside in the nearby forest, on the edge. It was a thin forest that partially hid the existence of the Assassin's compound, but not an easy place to hide. Meeting up, they quickly discussed their plan and started to jog towards the direction of the town. It was a slight distance, but easy for the boys with their fit bodies. Soon they reached it, and they were struck. It was big, it was busy. It was awesome. Desmond had felt a sudden desire for it, for that life, and he felt it again now.

The ache for freedom which was lost. He experienced it, lived it for almost 10 years... just to have it taken away from him. He was a slave to Abstergo, to other people, which rivaled against his independent personality. His freedom was one of the biggest thing he valued, and having it ripped away left a big gap in his life. Before he ran away, it was different, as he never had it before. But after starting a new life as a free man... he missed it now. What the hell, gibbering thoughts of things that don't even make sense?!

The memories started to slip away as he grew sleepy. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the crumpled papers and and stared at them in his lap. The little light there was lined the edges and creases in the papers. They were unpredictable, but beautiful too. Like how life was like. It threw things at you in the most ordinary and strangest of times, but that was what made it beautiful. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? That's what makes life worth living, were his thoughts.

He moved his sleepy gaze to Altaïr's face. In that moment, it became clear for him. He loved Altaïr. It wasn't simple, wasn't complex. He just felt a sort of desire for him. It was a strange thing: he had a longing for Altaïr, wanted to be with him. But a different kind of love, different from what he felt for Lucy.

What the hell, how do you explain something like that?

And what the fuck, another man?

He shooed the thoughts away, growing more tired. In this semi-conscious state, he could barely think straight. Trying to blame his thoughts on that, he yawned and leaned his head back. He felt rested now, mind calm. Everything was fine with the world... or not...

Trying to fight off his weariness Desmond drew a deep breath to clear his mind. He opened his eyes to look at Altaïr's sleeping form. It was swathed in darkness, but light touched on spots too. It fit what Altaïr seemed to be: a man of shadows, but there were good parts in him too. His body itself was recovering as his wounds healed. Altaïr's face was strong and angular, toughness etched in every plane of his face. His head was inclined towards Desmond, cheek lightly resting on the edge of the pillow. He looked sweet though. It was irresistible. Altaïr had a beautiful face and body, but not in the way Altaïr himself or other people realized it.

Desmond reached out a finger to brush against Altaïr's cheekbone. His skin was both soft and hard at the same time, smooth. Desmond's hand moved slowly across his nose, drifting down to his full lips, bold chin, and traced his hard jaw. He didn't feel nervous, just calm and relaxed. Touching his face sort of gave Desmond a feel of being more peaceful. It felt nice to do that, though.

Desmond started to slump further into the chair, his head dipping into his chest. He tried to fight it but the feel of tiredness leadened his limbs and slowed his mind. He let his hand drop to his side. The sleepiness in his mind was overpowering now.

The last thing he saw were Altaïr's golden eyes staring into his own.

Description
Damn, it's been 5 days since Altaïr woke up from the coma thingy. The 14th day in this fucked up hospital.  Altaïr is doing fine now, and Lucy feels better about it too. I'm glad. But what's gonna happen next? When are we busting ass out of here? I mean, it's not like I want to go back to Abstergo, but I feel like there is something needed to be done there. I dunno. I don't know what.

- - - - -

Why the hell am I writing this? I mean, noting down how I'm feeling shit. Well, there is nothing else to do other them sit down and scribble. It's only taking up very little time... I'm bored to death... Actually,  Altaïr talks to us a lot. He tells me and Lucy stories about himself: places he has been to, his childhood, what is was like back in his time, his life as an assassin. I really think that he's an interesting guy... there's this feel about him. It's different. Everything is OK now but I still feel that there is something going on still in Abstergo right now. What is happening with that stupid Vidic guy? He's a jerk. I gotta stop writing these. I feel like a pussy girl.

- - - - -

I swear this is getting like a diary. Well, not really. I'm just writing on pieces of hospital stationary... (they are tiny) heck I'm even surprised that they have that. I don't see it often. Then again, I never go to hospitals. Anyways I'm going to try to stop this. It's getting on my nerves. So it's the 17th day of  Altaïr being here... me... Lucy...  Altaïr... damn.... dead... Lucy is not here right now though. She went out. Somewhere, I dunno what she was doing. She said that, that's all. I miss her already. Altaïr is sleeping now. He's been acting weird recently. I told him that he needs to rest more often, it'll help with the healing. I dunno... he did it, but still he's not looking that happy. The doctors said that he's actually healing well, and that's good. They are going to discharge him soon. Also good. Seeing that I'm already on the subject... actually I don't want to write this, what if someone finds it? It would be so awkward, kill me??? Anyways, I think I have a crush on him... damn I sound like a love-sick teenager. I can't let anyone see this. Actually I don't know how I feel. I like him a lot, as a friend. Yeah, friends. We are all getting close. Is it a 'crush'? What love? I sound so gay right now, I need to go slap myself. I don't like-like  Altaïr but I feel like there is something about him which really makes me... I dunno. But I know that I like Lucy, no love her. I'm sure of this and she is so wonderful and she is my everything. OK I don't want to go into any poetry or squinchy-squinchy I'm going to stop writing this shit and fucking NEVER LET ANYONE SEE THIS.

- - - - -

Desmond sighed, glaring at the scraps of paper on the table. They were thoughts that he had in the many days since he and Lucy had come. Garbage that he wrote down. He was going to burn them later. That is, if he got a chance.

But when he was writing the last 'entry' he felt his emotions bottled up and growing inside him. At last he couldn't help but scribble down a tiny part of the wild confusion inside him. He really didn't know how he felt, much less how to write it – he always had been bad with words. He preferred action; but he didn't know what action to take. All he knew was that there was something wrong with him.

Tell me something I don't know.

He sighed, glancing at the digital clock. The glowing red numbers displayed the time: 9:40 pm, Lucy and Altaïr decided to have an early night. Lucy was lying in her bed across the room, sheets cuddled up to her chin. She looked comfortable, even though in a strange room in a strange situation with strange events all around. But Lucy was always so calm in no matter what situation.

Altaïr, on the other hand, had become restless in the past few days. He would be glancing around as if there was someone about to jump from the shadows, or he would be muttering to himself. God knows what he was thinking. But sometimes he'd be sitting or lying down, still as stone. His eyes stared at some unseen image only he could see. His face had an empty, vacant look to it, then suddenly deeply concentrating on some thought. Altaïr would make a startling, sudden movement – whipping his head to the side, sitting up sharply or his arm would flash in an unseen motion. Golden eyes flaring, he'd be looking straight at Lucy or Desmond for a moment, and then breaking off his intense gaze. In a way, it frightened them. Somehow. The nurses and doctors said nothing. They probably didn't even notice. It made Desmond nervous himself, which made him scribble more.

Desmond stood up from the table and swept the papers off it violently.They hung in the air for an infuriating moment before drifting to the floor. Staring at the papers with pointless anger, he tried to calm himself. What was he even mad at? Himself, duh. No. He was just angry. For no reason. He sighed and bent down to scoop up the wrinkled papers and stuffed them in his pocket.

He started to pace. From the door to the window. He saw everything in the room. He heard people in the hall. He heard street noise outside the open window. He saw the time; now 9:52 om.

As he was walking, his thoughts spun in wild circles. Ideas came to him from random places: a pizza restaurant near his house, bar tending lessons hammered into his brain, the color of his underwear, a park he liked to go to and walk around, his friends back from his childhood... so long ago... in the compound of the Assassin's... What? Desmond tried not to think of it, the memories brought back feelings of restlessness and need. It was what made him want to get out of there! He didn't want to be an Assassin! So he escaped, went to another city, got his motorcycle and a job at the bar.

Try as he might, the thoughts wouldn't stop. Those thoughts. Memories of he and his friends getting in trouble with the teachers, the hard lessons and drills they went through... But it was all so vague. He couldn't remember exactly what they did, only the feelings. They were alien to him, didn't recognize them. But since being captured by Abstergo, he had felt them again: pangs of desperateness and restlessness. He lived each day in confusion of his mind and surroundings. Shit, did I really have to get kidnapped? My life is going to be so hard...

Actually, he was partially glad that he was taken by the Templars, as Lucy said. Lucy! That was the only thing he liked about this whole thing. Well not really. He had a spot in his heart for Altaïr, suspiciously changing as the says went by... huh? He liked Lucy, loved her. Her sweet personality, which was just a mask for the strong, brilliant woman inside. No, it wasn't a mask, it was part of her. Desmond loved everything about her. Being captured was what brought him to her. And that was about the only good thing.

Of all the memories of being in the Assassin's compound, there was only one thing he remembered as clear as if yesterday. There was one time when he and his close friends made a plot to go outside in the 'real world' as they had called it. He was 13 back then. It was perfectly detailed and laid out. They worked on it for weeks, every single escape route and timing exact. All of them felt the excruciating desire to break free and run from this life, but Desmond felt it strongest of all. He worked elaborately on the secret plot to make it perfect and fool-proof. It was something he could put his heart in, though he never let anyone see that. Especially not his teachers, they could never find out about the escape or there would be dire consequences for them. He made an agreement with everyone that if one got caught, he would never tell anyone about the others to keep them safe.

The escape happened on a bright, sunny day. It was during this time that the assassin-to-be's were to train outside for the good weather. On rainy or days with bad weather, they usually were kept inside so an eye could be kept on them. But still the danger was still there: if the assassins were let outside, that meant there would be more security guards and instructors to watch over them all. That was what they went for; a chance to exercise their skills as an assassin in a real situation. Even just for one day.

One by one they left their activity scattered around the compound. At a certain time they met, and silently slinked off to a hiding spot to wait until it was time.

Desmond savored the thoughts, holding onto them dearly. His life back then had been so simple and straightforward, if not hard. Everything else he had forgotten, trying to leave behind his past, but this was one thing he had kept over the years. Every single detail, thrill and danger he kept. He remembered when they were almost caught coming back. A small laugh escaped him when he remembered that one of his friends had split his pants climbing over the barbed wire wall. He had dropped almost on top of a security guard, alerting every one in the area. His friend told him later, quote, "I just hauled ass up the wall, and held onto my pants like a jack."

It was only then he realized that he had stopped pacing and was standing at the window, looking down into the streets below. It was near an intersection, the window, and let a view of the traffic lights and cars nearby. It was dark except for the streetlights, cars and lights from others buildings. He saw someone walking around, and wondered what they were doing at this hour. Which reminded him. What time was it? Turning around and closing the window from the wind, he looked for the clock. 11:06? Had he been that absorbed in his thoughts?

He went over to Lucy, bending over to kiss her forehead. "Good night," he whispered. Still not going to be a night for him, though. Lucy shifted in her sleep, and sighed.

Desmond smiled. He silently walked to the side of Altaïr's bed, enjoying the feeling of being up when no one else was. He looked him over quickly. Altaïr was fine, sleeping. Desmond slowly sat down in the chair next to the bed, keeping his eyes on Altaïr's face. His thoughts started to run again.

Had Altaïr ever experienced something like how he had felt? Probably not, seeing how he was a master assassin now. Desmond wondered about Altaïr's childhood. He had told him and Lucy things about himself, but never delved too deeply into that area. Maybe he didn't like talking about it, like Desmond. It was unsettling to reach that far back and speak about those days. So different to his life now. Or... over a month ago. Either one.

How would Altaïr react to being back at Abstergo? It was a really screwed up place, he knew from his weeks there. Sometimes at night, he would explore the building. Once he went into Lucy's office, and saw something he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to see. Going through her e-mails was weird. A bunch of information about things he didn't understand. Coded messages? Explanations for historical events, somehow all related to the Templars? At least, that was what he thought they were. Terrorist plots, historical disasters? Nothing made sense, he couldn't link things together.

Desmond came back to the other thoughts of the escape. It was free dom for one day, so short but sweet. They had all seen pictures of it in books and such, but never fully experienced it till them. Obviously, they eventually would have gone out, but Desmond had run away before that. There had been maps of the nearby town lying around the compound, used by the adults, and they used those to plan. Damn, but those days were the best.

And so, they day they went out. There were many people outside, enjoying the nice weather. They acted as if there was nothing special happening and went to their places. At different times, they left and met up for a few moments, checking that everyone was there. Then they separated and made their own solo escape to the outside. They were simple, quick and gave no trouble. Desmond remembered sneaking through the back halls of the buildings before getting through several walls. He had snagged a pant leg on the outer barbed wire fence (he always though it made the place look like a jail) and he ripped a tear in his pants halfway up his calf. Hurriedly grabbing the piece of fabric he had stuffed it in a pocket and jumped off before he could cut himself further. There was a problem with the security guards, too. Desmond watched them for a few minutes to quickly observe them and calculate his plan. They all stayed in one spot, watching the area and resting, as there had been no one else around. Desmond had made sure with the others that they wouldn't disrupt anything, break or hurt people. They were supposed to be like shadows, free, everywhere and nowhere without sound. They were just darkness that slipped through everything (were the words that Desmond's friend said. Sadly, he failed at it.). Or, well, they tried. They were still learning.

Desmond and his friends all had successfully escaped. No one had seen them, it was pretty fair itself. They met outside in the nearby forest, on the edge. It was a thin forest that partially hid the existence of the Assassin's compound, but not an easy place to hide. Meeting up, they quickly discussed their plan and started to jog towards the direction of the town. It was a slight distance, but easy for the boys with their fit bodies. Soon they reached it, and they were struck. It was big, it was busy. It was awesome. Desmond had felt a sudden desire for it, for that life, and he felt it again now.

The ache for freedom which was lost. He experienced it, lived it for almost 10 years... just to have it taken away from him. He was a slave to Abstergo, to other people, which rivaled against his independent personality. His freedom was one of the biggest thing he valued, and having it ripped away left a big gap in his life. Before he ran away, it was different, as he never had it before. But after starting a new life as a free man... he missed it now. What the hell, gibbering thoughts of things that don't even make sense?!

The memories started to slip away as he grew sleepy. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the crumpled papers and and stared at them in his lap. The little light there was lined the edges and creases in the papers. They were unpredictable, but beautiful too. Like how life was like. It threw things at you in the most ordinary and strangest of times, but that was what made it beautiful. Who knew what tomorrow might bring? That's what makes life worth living, were his thoughts.

He moved his sleepy gaze to Altaïr's face. In that moment, it became clear for him. He loved Altaïr. It wasn't simple, wasn't complex. He just felt a sort of desire for him. It was a strange thing: he had a longing for Altaïr, wanted to be with him. But a different kind of love, different from what he felt for Lucy.

What the hell, how do you explain something like that?

And what the fuck, another man?

He shooed the thoughts away, growing more tired. In this semi-conscious state, he could barely think straight. Trying to blame his thoughts on that, he yawned and leaned his head back. He felt rested now, mind calm. Everything was fine with the world... or not...

Trying to fight off his weariness Desmond drew a deep breath to clear his mind. He opened his eyes to look at Altaïr's sleeping form. It was swathed in darkness, but light touched on spots too. It fit what Altaïr seemed to be: a man of shadows, but there were good parts in him too. His body itself was recovering as his wounds healed. Altaïr's face was strong and angular, toughness etched in every plane of his face. His head was inclined towards Desmond, cheek lightly resting on the edge of the pillow. He looked sweet though. It was irresistible. Altaïr had a beautiful face and body, but not in the way Altaïr himself or other people realized it.

Desmond reached out a finger to brush against Altaïr's cheekbone. His skin was both soft and hard at the same time, smooth. Desmond's hand moved slowly across his nose, drifting down to his full lips, bold chin, and traced his hard jaw. He didn't feel nervous, just calm and relaxed. Touching his face sort of gave Desmond a feel of being more peaceful. It felt nice to do that, though.

Desmond started to slump further into the chair, his head dipping into his chest. He tried to fight it but the feel of tiredness leadened his limbs and slowed his mind. He let his hand drop to his side. The sleepiness in his mind was overpowering now.

The last thing he saw were Altaïr's golden eyes staring into his own.