Chapter Ten #4
Said interruption really had gone so well. Maximillian wasn’t possibly to know that Cyrus kicking him headfirst into the water
was an act of sweet vengeance, and Cyrus certainly wasn’t going to tell him. He just enjoyed the way Maximillian shrieked
as he did it, and the sight of him emerging from the water at the shoreline: drenched to the bone, hair plastered flat to
his skull, spitting out mouthfuls of murky river water.
Cyrus took a brief interlude to chase the other people on the boat into the water, and then he commandeered the boat’s small
dinghy and rowed cheerfully over to meet Maximillian on the shore.
“You’re such a dick” was the first thing Maximillian said. It sounded very wet, almost like a gargle. Cyrus helpfully slammed
him on the back until his insults were clearer.
Maximillian said it three more times on the way to Cyrus’s lair, twice in reference to the dunking and once when Cyrus wouldn’t
let him borrow Soulripper to go and collect Lysander from further down the bank, instead making Maximillian squelch along
on foot. Cyrus’s pride inflated with each utterance.
Now, stepping up to the door of his lair, Cyrus caught another whiff of river and wrinkled his nose.
Even the best plans had a downside, apparently.
Before he could get the door open, a couple of younger sprites—even tinier than their full-grown family members and still active despite the darkening sky—flitted over from his honeysuckle to land on his hand.
“I’ve told you before, get lost,” Cyrus muttered, shaking his hand to dislodge them. The bolder of the two chirped at him,
clinging to his sleeve and riding it out. “Go on, go back to your tree, I know you’re the one that keeps trying to get in
my cabbages—”
Behind him, Maximillian stifled a laugh. Before Cyrus could claw back his reputation by booting the sprites across his vegetable
patch to demonstrate his worth as a wrongdoer, they noticed Maximillian’s presence and took to the air in a flurry of humming
wings. The champion’s hand twitched with the urge to swat at them as they fluttered about his face. Cyrus couldn’t help but
wonder at the restraint. He hoped it wasn’t because Maximillian thought he was attached to them or anything awful like that.
“What do they want?” Maximillian leaned back as the bolder sprite darted closer, its wings a blur as it hovered in front of
him.
“How would I know?” Cyrus muttered.
The buzzing grew louder, suddenly agitated. One zoomed around Maximillian’s head in dizzying circles whilst the other plucked
at the sodden hem of his shirt with a disdainful expression.
“Ah,” said Cyrus, turning back to the door, though he let Maximillian catch a glimpse of his smirk as he did. “They think
you stink. They’re right, you know. Don’t touch anything, and don’t sit anywhere. Actually, you should wait outsi—”
“I’m not waiting outside, it’s cold. It’s your fault I stink.” Maximillian pushed by him, swiping the braver sprite away as it tried to follow.
He started to tug at his shirt the moment the door closed, dragging it up over his head. The wet fabric made a slow and laborious
job of it, clinging stubbornly to his damp skin. Maximillian made a noise of relief as the shirt finally came over his head,
to be dropped in a soggy heap on the ground.
Then he turned to face Cyrus. There was suddenly rather a lot of golden torso on show. Cyrus didn’t know where to look. Panicking,
he directed his gaze at his own feet. “I’ll get us a drink,” he told his boots, then turned quickly and fled to the kitchen.
He poured them both a whisky, generous with it. It wasn’t a big deal, he reminded himself. Maximillian would probably just
need to borrow one of his shirts, and that was—
—that was fine, except he’d left his sleeping quarters in a state that morning.
A jolt of panic had Cyrus darting past Maximillian again, pretending not to catch his quizzical look, and ducking past the velvety veil that separated his bed from the rest of his lair.
Three shirts were swiftly kicked under the bed, followed by several pairs of underwear, far too many socks and one set of lurid pink pyjamas he’d never intended for anyone’s eyes but his own.
He ducked his head into the antechamber that served as his walk-in wardrobe, grimacing at the clothes flung haphazardly over rails and draped over the full-length mirror at the far end.
A couple of customisation projects hung at the ends of each rail, half finished, drooping needles and threads.
If Cyrus brought him a shirt, Maximillian wouldn’t have cause to set foot here. Cyrus picked up a black linen option he’d
tried on that morning, toed half-heartedly at some of the embroidery beads he was still finding strewn about all over the floor, and returned to his living space.
Maximillian didn’t comment on his panicked scurry, nor on his return. He’d helped himself to a towel in the meantime, the
same one Cyrus had used that morning. Cyrus blinked hard at the sight of it brushing flat stomach muscles, the nape of Maximillian’s
neck. A droplet of water inched its way between his shoulder blades, creeping down the length of his spine.
“You, er,” said Cyrus. He swiftly regretted speaking at all. For some reason his tongue felt too big for his mouth. “You missed
a bit.”
Maximillian glanced at him. Cyrus indicated awkwardly, then set the shirt down on the arm of the couch.
“Thanks.” Maximillian finished drying himself and slung the towel around his neck. Cyrus’s towel. He really needed to stop
fixating on that. “And thanks for the shirt.” He flicked Cyrus a wry look. “Though whether I should be thanking you—”
“I’m the perfect host.” At least defending himself made his tongue cooperate. “Helping you warm up. Not bitching even though
you—”
“You are bitching.”
“Not bitching much,” Cyrus amended. “I could be worse.”
Maximillian’s laugh was low and genuine.
“Oh, I know.” He cast a rueful glance at his trousers, folding the shirt over one bare arm.
The leather looked at least three shades darker than it should.
Had it shrunk in the water? His trousers were always tight—some might say distractingly so.
Cyrus didn’t want to look long enough to check.
“Not sure what’s to be done about these, though. ”
“You can borrow some of mine,” Cyrus’s mouth said without permission. His brain baulked. But it was too late; the words were
out.
Maximillian looked at him with a hint of surprise. Then his gaze dropped to Cyrus’s trousers. Cyrus tried very hard not to
fidget.
“Really? That might work, though you’re a bit skinnier—”
“I’m not skinny,” Cyrus objected, affronted.
“I said skinnier. I know you’re not skinny. You’re—” Maximillian coughed suddenly. A faint flush traced his cheekbones. Cyrus had never seen
embarrassment on him before. It was fascinating. It made him want to stare. “You’re . . . slim, I suppose. You could say.”
The conversation was veering dangerously close to territory that made him want to start addressing his feet again. So much
for keeping Maximillian out of his space. At least he’d tidied some of it.
“There’s an antechamber through there,” he muttered. “Trousers are on the left rail. I think there’s a pair that should fit
folded over the top. Not—not the ones with stars on the pockets.”
Maximillian had been about to push past the velvet veil, but he stopped and looked at Cyrus, trying to fend off a smile. “You have trousers with stars on?”
Cyrus just glared at him until Maximillian held up his hands and moved on. Then he sat down on the couch. He wasn’t about
to admit that he’d been teaching himself to stitch.
Maximillian took longer than Cyrus expected. He fetched their drinks over, flapping an aggravated hand at the sprites from
the doorway when he found them peering nosily in through the window instead. Downing his own whisky, Cyrus poured another.
He felt jittery, like he wasn’t used to having Maximillian here. Like this was somehow different.
Cyrus half turned as Maximillian emerged from his sleeping quarters. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of plain black trousers
that flowed with his movement, so different to the leather he usually wore. He’d changed into the shirt too. Cyrus favoured
soft fabrics, loose linens and delicate silks, but the material still hugged the broad slopes of Maximillian’s shoulders.
There was something in his hand. Cyrus squinted, taken aback to realise Maximillian’s fingers were curled around the little
wooden goblin he’d snatched from Ranragh’s craft fair. Cyrus had dumped it on the side when he got back that day and forgotten
all about it, too preoccupied with vengeful thoughts towards the champion who’d dared poster his town.
“Did you make this?” Maximillian asked. When Cyrus shook his head, he looked disappointed. “Oh. I thought, with the stars—”
“I don’t do carvings,” Cyrus said shortly.
Maximillian sat down next to him. His thigh brushed Cyrus’s. “You make your own clothes, though?”
“Just customise them,” Cyrus muttered. He’d never told anyone that before. Nobody had ever got a close enough look at his
belongings to ask. There had been a few one-time liaisons, in the past—never anybody who knew who or what he was, of course—but
they had always taken place in taverns far away from Ranragh.
Not that this was that.
Maximillian hummed under his breath, contemplative, and lifted the goblin to get a better look. “I like woodwork,” he said,
unexpectedly. He sounded wistful. “I used to do a bit when I was a kid, thought maybe I could make something of it. Tried
to carve a bird for my sister. Nothing as good as this, though.”
Not so long ago, Cyrus would have pounced on that. Now, he just whistled, the teasing tone lacking bite. “Something you don’t excel at?”
Maximillian huffed quietly. “There had to be something, I suppose . . .”
He was still admiring the goblin, taking in the detail. It looked so delicate in his strong hand. Cyrus found himself staring
at the curve of Maximillian’s fingers as he set the figurine down.
He blinked as if coming out of a stupor, then leaned forward and picked up his goblet. The fiery liquid felt reassuring, something
present and unmistakable.
Maximillian took his own. “Just what I need,” he murmured. Cyrus couldn’t tell if he meant he was thirsty, or whether he too was glad to have an anchor.
But the whisky could only do so much. There was a strangeness to the atmosphere, a slow, thick tension that crept into the
silence and the meagre space between them. It hung in the air, making time feel syrupy and slow. Cyrus wasn’t sure what to
do with himself, what he should say. It hadn’t felt like this before.
He cast around for some way to break the silence. He caught a fragrance as Maximillian turned his head, not the champion’s
usual cologne but something soft and subtle that put him in mind of clusters of delicate petals and long nodding stems. It
was a welcome reprieve from the river water. “You smell better.”
“I smell like you,” Maximillian said absentmindedly. Then he went very still.
Seconds dripped by like the water droplets still clinging to the hairs at the nape of Maximillian’s neck, rolling down into
Cyrus’s shirt and dampening the black material. Cyrus could see the trickle. It had to be uncomfortable, but Maximillian didn’t
make any move to wipe them off.
Cyrus should look away. Any moment now, he would.
Then Maximillian took a breath like he was about to say something. Cyrus suddenly didn’t want to hear what it was, unable
to deny the urge to shy away from it.
“Better to smell like me than a dead fish,” he said indifferently.
Maximillian laughed, a little too quick to be natural. “I’d hope so.” He tugged at one of his sleeves again, a hint of self-consciousness. “I’ll have Bal send these back to you.”
Cyrus had never let anyone borrow anything of his before. He wasn’t sure what to say. He settled for a noncommittal shrug.
“Are all your clothes black?” Maximillian asked.
Cyrus opened his mouth to say yes. For some reason—the whisky?—the truth came out instead.
“Not all. Most of them.”
“You wear other colours when you’re alone?”
It was astute of him, annoyingly so. Cyrus scowled into his whisky. “On very rare occasions,” he muttered, steadfastly ignoring
any thoughts of the pink pyjamas.
When he forced his eyes up, Maximillian was smiling. The expression was soft, almost fond. Cyrus wasn’t used to anyone looking
at him like that. It made him feel restless, uncertain. Oddly small. Like Maximillian was looking past every wall Cyrus had
ever built up.
Then Maximillian looked away, setting his drink down. The strange tension splintered and gave way with the thud of the goblet.
Cyrus breathed out, relieved in a way he didn’t know how to name.
“Well, black suits you,” Maximillian said. It didn’t sound like he was teasing. “I should probably get going. It’s late.”
Cyrus followed him slowly to the door. From this perspective the shirt really was straining over Maximillian’s shoulder blades.
“If that shirt splits, you can tell Balthazar he’s to buy me a new one,” Cyrus said.
Maximillian glanced back. Cyrus found that he was relieved to see his usual grin.
“You’ll get it back. Freshly laundered and everything.”
“I’d better.”
Maximillian tapped his chest. “Cross my heart. I’ll see you soon, no doubt.”
“See you soon,” Cyrus echoed. He stood for a moment to watch Maximillian leave, unable to shake a sudden awareness of how
odd it was, to wave one of the realm’s mightiest champions away from his lair clad in his own clothing, and to know that see you soon had become a promise.