"Lead," Altaïr managed with a hoarse voice he didn't like to recognize as his own, for how weak and affected it sounded. The assassin allowed the touch, more because he had no choice -- he was nearly to collapsing and leaning against the other man allowed him to reserve just enough of his waning strength to continue moving his numb feet. His robes, and his leather, were no more meant for this weather than he was.

Altaïr continued leaning on the man until they were inside and the difference in temperature immediately had his face turning red. It felt as if the indoor heat were thawing his very throat and he began to cough because of the irritation. Whatever surface he was nearby to (chair, table, stool) he did not care, he moved himself to lean over it rather than against the man.