Malik sees Ezio.

Ezio sees Malik.

Malik walks away.

Ezio follows.

Malik gets annoyed as he marches up the stairs.

Ezio begins to love the chase.

Malik increases his pace, zooming past a very confused Altair.

Ezio claps his teacher on the butt and zooms in on his target.

Malik plasters on a scowl.

Ezio grins, like he already snared the hare.

Malik rushes into his chamber and secures the bolt.

Ezio simply continues.

Malik sighs in exasperation.

Ezio breaks in.

Malik roars in indignation.

Ezio blinks.

Walks right up.

And kiss him.

Malik frowns.

Ezio tells him he matters, too.


"You are ticklish."

A tick. "Don't you dare."

"You are ticklish."


"You are ticklish," the other factually stated, looming over Malik in childish curiosity. "The geezer is ticklish." He grinned. "My dear rafiq is ticklish."

"I said—"

"Where?" Playfully, Ezio planted a quick kiss to the older man's lips and slid his hands downwards, his gaze appreciative as his fingers danced over quivering ribs in impish wonder—the final settling of calloused pads on Malik's skin sent shivers down the latter's spine, only to increase in frequency at the assassin's continuous probing. "Here?" Pause. "Oh, wait: there?"


And so, the night went on in Jerusalem.


"This is so hard."

"And the balls are huge."

"How did you get it to be so firm?"

"Does it really taste good?"

"Have you tried it?"

"That is truly long—"

"Stop complaining and eat your spaghetti!"

" … well, someone never played with his food before."