[closed] I think you're spinning inside my head / I think of you all the day

[givetheslip]

Who: Altaïr & Maria
What: Oh my god they were roommates...and perhaps more
When: Mid-April
Where: Some sparring spot in Willful Machine
Content warnings: friendly hand-to-hand combat segueing into more-than-friendly handiness, will update as needed

Eight months or so since she washed ashore and began what she's come to think of as the Trench phase of her life, Maria has to stop at times and marvel how quickly all of this has come to feel normal. Well, perhaps normal isn't the world — bizarre circumstances continue to occur with some regularity, and if there's a point at which she can shrug off the surprise she hasn't reached it yet. But even then there's a sort of rhythm to it, a way in which she's come to expect the unexpected.

It isn't the first time her life has drastically changed but it might be the fastest. Eight months into her service with Robert, they'd scarcely reached the Holy Land and she only thought she knew what a Crusade was. It had taken longer for the thrill of pursuing glory and a possible knighthood to fade as Maria lived the day-to-day grind of a bloody war. Even then it taken an Assassin's blade and a long jaunt across Cyprus to end her youthful dreams.

She doesn't miss it. This isn't where she planned to go, and it might not be where she'd choose to stay if she had the option, but even with all the inconveniences, life in Trench has given her things she values: a fresh start to decide who she is and what she wants to be, freedom from judgment that began and ended with her gender, people she can call friends.

And one good friend in particular. Maybe they'd have continued traveling together if they'd continued their voyage from Cyprus, maybe not, but Maria knows that if she'd been told a year ago how much she'd come to value an Assassin's presence in her life, she'd have thought the messenger mad. But today she trusts Altaïr more than anyone else, and still hasn't tired of his company. She knows that they could both make it on their own in Trench by now, but she prefers having him at her back.

Or in front of her, as the case may be. The vacant carriage house they'd found and turned into a sparring place is easier to use now that the weather is more clement, and Maria's glad for that. She'd hate to have her combat skills degrade, and practicing with Altaïr not only prevents that, it sharpens them. His style of fighting is different and more challenging than nearly anything she's faced, and he seems to respect her too much to go easy on her.

Which is good, because she refuses to go easy on him either. Eyeing him carefully across the impromptu training ring, she steps carefully, considering her next move — only to make a choice in the blink of an eye and move in for the kill, so to speak.

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[theflyingone]

Altaïr has traveled to other cities for work very often, but Masyaf was always the home he returned to. Even the hardships of a life as an Assassin were familiar. How could he regret the only life he ever knew? He considered laying down his blade just once, but after Adha's death he decided that was no longer an option. It does not matter that he is in a new city. The ideas he fights for as an Assassin did not begin with the Assassins, nor will they end with them.

Having someone he knew from home has been an essential part of figuring out his place in this new world. If he ever felt lost, he and Maria could at least be lost together.

If only he were better at making friends.

In addition to something Altaïr enjoys doing with his friend, sparring is technically practice for his work as an Assassin. He prizes his secrecy, but it wouldn't do to spar inside their small living space. Hunters are a common enough sight, so even if someone were to intrude through a closed door, this could easily be explained away.

Altaïr has no intention of allowing her the luxury of consideration--but wait, she strikes just as he is about to break her form! Have her reflexes gotten faster? Good. He parries instead and deftly twists to the side, his sword tip trailing behind him. He brings it round in a crescent-shaped swipe.

"And here I thought you'd gotten faster," he teases with a grin.

[givetheslip]

There's a sparking of frustration when he parries her blow, but it fails to ignite into a fury. How could it, when putting each other's skills to the test is the point of these exercises? That doesn't mean the failed strike will be the end of this, of course.

"I have," she says, and Maria realizes belatedly that she's grinning, too. "That doesn't mean I'm going to be faster than you every time."

Or most times. Maria wouldn't call herself slow by any means, but it wouldn't be inaccurate to say that the fundamental difference between Templars and Assassins in combat is slower, powerful blows struck by those in armor versus quick, deadly attacks from those with relatively few defenses. Linen and leather don't do much to stop a broadsword. But she is adapting, because part of why she spars with Altaïr specifically is to push herself.

Also because it's fun. Maria doesn't give him the time to think up a response or his counter attack before striking again and moving in closer this time. Not that she'd really cut him, but a sword in the face is a great incentive to improve one's defense or concede. Maria would be satisfied with either.

[theflyingone]

The Assassins are not all the same, but they do favor quicker movements and stealth as a whole. It has been that way since they could not win fights through pure might, not with their smaller numbers. The Templars could command armies and more traditional ways of soldiery.

There is joy in the challenge, and his grin doesn't let up even as he is forced to modify his attack to be without the use of his sword. He ducks even lower under her sword and sweeps his leg at hers. If he can get her on the floor...

[givetheslip]

Several spars ago, Altaïr's countermove would have worked. But Maria's Templar training is not quite so ingrained in her as it once was, and she's learned the ways he responds to a change in tactics. She's no oracle, but she can practically feel the sweep coming, and that's why she's no longer there when it does.

She darts to the side quickly, executing a tight pivot and not so much considering her best next option as trusting her skills and instincts to act it out. He's too good to have truly overextended himself, but he's inherently more open now than he is when they put sword to sword.

Well, one turn is as good as another. Maria swings out with her own foot, catching him in the back of the knee. There's a chance he'll stagger but quickly find his footing, so she doesn't let him take it; instead she gives in to momentum, using her free upper arm and elbow to shove him and send him fully sprawling to the ground.

Panting and grinning, she quickly remembers her sword and presses the flat side to his neck. "Do you yield?"

[theflyingone]

There is a synthesis between training and doing, the result of hard work and a steady mind. Maria reaches it and surpasses it, and he is well familiar with meeting his match in her.

His legs are tangled around hers. He could execute the twist of hips that would catch her and perhaps send her to the ground, but that would do nothing about being flat on his back with her sword at his neck.

He gazes up at her, not stunned exactly, but still at a loss for words. There's a quiet, intent blazing in his eyes. Slowly, his lips widen in a crooked grin that tugs at the scar there. She brings him so much joy. How is he meant to contain it all? He means to say, The match is yours. That is what one says. Instead, he breathes,

"I'm yours."

[givetheslip]

Maria tries to turn her grin into a stern look of triumph, but there's no helping it. For a moment, she half expects Altaïr to try and take her down with him and is ready to react, but it doesn't come.

His own smile does instead, lighting up his face like the sun rising in the morning. She wonders absently if he knows how beautiful he is like this. The acknowledgment of her victory comes easy, and if Maria doesn't stop to think about his specific choice of words, she's more than aware of the curious wave of warmth they send through her.

"Good," she says. Relaxing her sword arm, she moves her blade from his neck and stoops, intending to offer him a hand up. Something within her tilts, though, in a way that has nothing to do with keeping her balance as the moment stretches out; then she's going farther than she ever intended to, lowering herself to meet him at his level and planting her mouth very firmly on his.

[theflyingone]

Maria's steel is cold, but Altaïr is flushed enough from exertion (yes, just that, of course...) that it doesn't matter. He only got a glimpse of himself in good mirrors here for the first time, and he doesn't spend his time smiling in front of them... so he doesn't know about the glow in his eyes and the appeal of the way he's sprawled on the ground.

He should have seen it coming. Technically he did, as any Assassin worth his salt. But there is no threat. It's an emotional surprise, rather than a bodily one, that overtakes him. All this time he wanted to be careful with their friendship, as he prized it so much. He did not want to do anything to jeopardize it; they've clashed before.

So he doesn't immediately close his eyes, merely staring up at her face, too close, and stray tufts of her hair. Then it seems only right to draw her in closer and lose himself to her. He reaches his hand up, his blade abandoned on the floor. He wraps his arms around her and arches up to meet her kiss.

He finds his hunger growing much faster than he anticipated, and he meets the firmness of her mouth with a warm confidence mostly born of recklessness than anything suave.

[givetheslip]

For a moment, everything is still, and it's just long enough for Maria's heart to stop as she wonders if she's made a colossal mistake. She hadn't thought it through at all, only acted instinctively on a high of victory and a rush of feelings she dimly realizes may have been there for quite some time. If it's all gone wrong, if he's about to push her away, then—

She doesn't have time to think farther on what might happen after if; Altaïr's arms come up around her and then he's kissing her back, and distinct thought melts away into a blur of feeling and wanting.

Some part of her registers that her sword is still held in a slackened grip. She tosses it aside and lets her body ease down to rest flush against Altaïr's. The state of his hood scarcely matters at this point but her other hand goes to it, pulling the linen farther away from his face as she lets one kiss melt into another, deeper and more urgent.

She's never felt this way about anyone. She doesn't want any part of this to stop and if there's a world outside this room and the two of them—she doesn't care what might be happening in it.

[theflyingone]

It is no mistake, or so his lips tell her. Nor is it a fluke, for people like them are hardly free with their emotions. Adventurous, yes, but the nature of the lives they've chosen and the ways in which they want to live strip away certain privileges and protections. There must always be armor around their hearts. So it is a leap of faith that Altaïr becomes her confidant in yet another way that risks opening his heart to something he thought he'd never feel again. (He's still terrified, but that doesn't intrude now.)

And then there is the very heady, very real presence of Maria on top of him. He's distinctly aware of the shape of her body pressing on his, and he exhales sharply through his nose to feel his chest rise and fall against her. Altaïr knows what this feels like, the coming together of two people. He's done it, and he is no novice--except she renders him helpless with the barrage of emotions that hits him with each rolling wave of a kiss: relief, desire, comfort, tension--the good kind that winds him into a perfect coil, not the kind that sharpens his worries.

He hardly notices the absence of his hood as it folds on itself under his head. There is only the rhythm of their mouths together and the taste of her, softer than he thought, softer than she tends to present herself as. He finds it limned with the salt of her sweat.

He cups the side of her head with his calloused hand and sighs into her mouth with a sound more needy than he intended. Some part of him wonders if this is all right, if she likes him like this, or if he should move, but the overwhelming presence of her sweeps away his thoughts.

[givetheslip]

It's all new to Maria and a part of her is cursing the fact that they waited so long. She's kissed a man before — been married — but not once was it like this, mouths coming together and staying there, luxuriating in one another for the pleasure of it. She feels a little drunk on Altaïr and even as she lies atop him, she somehow feels a faint sensation of falling — with no worry that she'll land any way but safely.

Before they'd ever met, she had heard the Assassins described as some cross between base animals and inhuman beings empowered by the devil himself. But Altaïr is just a man, with lips a little chapped and a bit of stubble lightly scratching her chin now and then. The strength of his arms is still evident, but he holds her and touches her face with a softness that no one who'd faced him in battle would guess he's capable of.

She wants to memorize every little sensation, but the sound he makes pulls some of her attention away as it stirs some feeling deep inside. Maria leans into the touch and slows for a moment, not breaking contact, and cracks her eyes open just a little as her breath whispers against his.

It's a little odd to look at him this close, but he's no less attractive for the vantage point. Her mouth curves into a faint smile and she runs her mouth along his jaw, then skims the skin beneath it as she settles herself more firmly against him.

[theflyingone]

Maria might feel like she's falling, but Altaïr feels like he is soaring, at the zenith instead of the plummet of a leap. She allows him breath only to take it away again, and he arcs against her. The neck is a vulnerable part of the body. An Assassin pays special attention to where exactly to stab it. So, Altaïr pays special attention to how her lips move on it.

"Maria..."

The sound of his own voice breaks the spell like cold well water thrown on his face. He remembers himself and where he is and all the things that separate two people. Despite this, his hands still caress her, reluctant to stop even as he opens his dilated eyes to the ceiling. (If only he had his tenth finger to touch completely.)

"Maria, is this all right? You are my friend, I must ask..."

Some part of him would love to throw hesitation to the side and see what dark desires she can imagine and visit on him, but... she is his friend. They do not yet know each other in a certain way. This is new. He must be clear with someone he cares for so much.

[givetheslip]

It takes a moment for her to come back to herself, and not just be wrapped up in them and the heat created between them (and even now it still smolders.) The sound of her name repeated does the trick and she props herself up (not too far.)

Even now he has such concern for her. It's not so surprising — if he were capable of taking advantage just for the thrill of it, this would have happened long ago. A part of her now wishes it had, but not like that. Not without meaning something. And this does.

"It is all right."

More than all right. The last thing she wants to do is stop, but if Altaïr was able to summon up the will to seek out certainty, they both deserve to have it.

"I think...this isn't a new feeling, for me. Only I didn't recognize it before."

I thought I replied to this I'm sorryyyy

[theflyingone]

Now he can properly look at her face, and he nearly tumbles into desire again. She's flushed with kiss-softened lips, and there are some stray hairs... Not even his wildest imaginings could have conjured the sorcery before him, the simple existence of... Maria just enjoying herself.

"Feeling... for me?"

He shouldn't sound so foolish, confirming it's him and not some other person. Only, Altaïr spent so long admiring her that he forgot it might go both ways. She has always gone her own way, the "way of Maria," and it was one of the qualities he admired most. But it also meant that he was reluctant to try his luck after their rocky start as allies. He didn't want to chance spoiling their friendship. (And he sure did take his damn time.)

He slips his rough hand gently over hers and encircles her fingers. It occurs to him that he should also speak of his feelings. He's not used to this.

"I... never thought I would feel this way again," he says wonderingly, and it's unfortunate it makes it sound like his whole life is a tragedy.