Chapter Sixteen #2
“I know,” said Cyrus. Balthazar nodded.
A beat. Then Cyrus said, “But we have a lot in common all the same.”
“I know.”
They looked at each other for one long moment.
For the first time, Cyrus thought that maybe Balthazar understood him too.
Balthazar knew of Max’s choices, even if he thought them folly, and yet cared for him still.
He was still here, which meant that despite everything, he cared for Max, not the facade of the hero.
Cyrus would not leave Max, but neither would Balthazar. They both had to learn to accept that.
The moment passed when Balthazar stepped through the door. “Don’t let yourself be seen,” he said, as though Cyrus needed reminding.
Then the door thudded into place, and he was gone.
Cyrus sat quietly behind Max, cleaning a shallow cut on the side of the champion’s rib cage. They had allowed their paths
to cross earlier that day. A quick clash on the passageway leading through the Bek mountains, framed as a chance encounter.
They still wanted people to talk about the brave Maximillian, after all.
He hadn’t realised quite how much he missed their play fighting until he had Max pressed up against him again under the guise
of enmity. It was a shame they’d had to beat a hasty retreat, but the Bek goblins had been particularly active lately. They’d
come swarming out to make the most of the fight, and Cyrus was not about to spend his evening dabbing ointment over goblin bites. They itched.
Dipping his cloth into the bowl of tepid water balanced precariously on the couch beside them, he wrung it out and touched it to Max’s skin, cleaning away the last of the dirt and congealed blood.
A close call with his dagger—worth it for the gasps of their audience of startled travellers.
The soft touch of the cloth smoothed out an apology.
Max shivered, pulling Cyrus from his thoughts. He seemed quiet tonight, pensive. “Done?” he asked.
“Nearly.” Cyrus leaned in closer, gently chasing a speck of gravel out of the cut. “Good job it wasn’t lower. Could’ve been
nasty.”
Max hummed. “Should have got out of your way quicker.”
“Yeah, well. You champions, always a bit slow on your feet.”
He felt the huff of laughter in the warm body under his hands. “I’ll work on it.”
“Mm, see that you do.” Cyrus let the cloth pool in the bowl before pushing it away. His chin found a familiar shoulder. “All
done.”
“Thanks.” Max turned his head, seeking out a kiss. Cyrus seized the opportunity and clung to it, pressing kisses to the corner
of his mouth, his bottom lip, his cupid’s bow.
“Greedy,” Max murmured. It didn’t sound like a complaint.
“Wrongdoer,” Cyrus mumbled. With no further warning he clambered around to settle himself into Max’s lap, setting his hands
on either side of his face to take all the kisses he wanted.
Max laughed quietly into his mouth. He was glad to hear it. Whatever Max been mulling over, he doubted it could hold his attention
as well as Cyrus’s tongue against his.
He was right, to a point. For a couple of minutes there was only their uneven breathing between kisses.
Then Max moved, dislodging Cyrus from his lap and pressing him back against the couch.
Their fingers entwined. Max pinned his arms above his head as their mouths came together again, and Cyrus’s breath hitched around a gasp.
The feeling of those strong hands holding him in place did something to him.
Suddenly he was the one struggling to maintain any semblance of concentration.
The knowing expression on Max’s face said it all. He rocked his hips against Cyrus’s, because he was a dick who liked to be
as distracting as possible, and swallowed the resulting groan with a smirk. Cyrus tugged at his wrists, testing Max’s strength
and finding him immovable. His breath shuddered as Max’s mouth went to his neck, sucking tiny bruises into the crook of his
throat.
“That—Max—better not show up above my collar,” Cyrus gasped.
Max hummed, undeterred. “They look good on you.”
His tongue traced a hot pattern against the mark he’d just left. Cyrus groaned. “Not sure the people of Heliarth know their
champion is such a teasing bastard.”
Max stilled. Beneath the hair flopping down over his face, his expression had clouded over.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Cyrus squirmed, tugging at his wrists again. Max let go this time, sitting back.
“It’s nothing,” he repeated.
Cyrus sat up too, flushed and sweaty. He swiped his hair out of his eyes. “Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he countered. When Max didn’t answer, he heaved a noisy sigh. “You know, if you asked really nicely, I might let you borrow my brooding chair.”
Max glanced at him, his lip twitching despite himself. “Might?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s surprisingly good of you.”
“I’m a reformed man.”
Max snorted. He pulled his legs up to cross them. “It’s just . . . with the election coming. There’s an event at Heliarth
at the end of next week. Me and the other champions who are hoping to get my seat, we’re supposed to be taking part in a public
debate. A chance for people to ask us questions, quiz us about our intentions.”
Unsurprising that he wasn’t keen. It was one thing knowing that you had younger counterparts snapping at your heels, another
to face them on a public stage with their bright eyes and glowing skin and horribly pure ideals.
“It’s not something I can get out of, not if I want to keep Heliarth. And I do, obviously. It’s important that I do. I lose
Heliarth and I’ll be the talk of the Federation, a downfall story to scare the kids.” Max released a long breath, letting
his head tilt back against the couch. “But I know they’ll come for me hard in this debate because I’m the current elected
champion and there’s been so much talk about me. About how I’m not good enough.”
“We’ve turned some of that around,” Cyrus said, trying to sound encouraging. It was true: The two of them had spent most of
the summer in and out of the pages of Athaca News.
Max stared at the ceiling moodily. “Mm. Some of it. But you know how fickle people are. The press loves Avexa. She’s only just graduated from the Federation, never held a city before, but they’re so sure she could do a better
job than me.” He made an annoyed sound under his breath. “And they all say she’s such a good fighter, but how much experience
has she really got? I think she knows someone at Athaca News.”
Cyrus couldn’t help him there, short of finding where Avexa lived and having a tree coincidentally fall on her. But Max wouldn’t
like that. Probably. And there would always be another young champion ready to snap at his heels.
Perhaps practicality was the best route for now. “I could come to Heliarth,” Cyrus suggested. “We could arrange a fight for
the day before the debate, let you impress people—”
“No,” Max said quickly, sitting upright. “No, we can’t do that. There’ll be too many champions about, and they’ll all be looking
for a way to prove themselves. It’s too dangerous.”
Cyrus frowned. There had been a few of those comments of late. He didn’t think that it was protectiveness born of Max knowing the truth about his powers. But still, he had his pride. Rather a lot of it.
“I can look after mys—”
“I know,” Max interrupted. His eyes were on Cyrus’s, intent. “I know you can. But please. Let me?”
Cyrus’s heart performed a pathetic little flip at the sincerity in those words. He looked away, unsure what to do with it.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “No Heliarth fight. Killjoy.”
Max exhaled quietly. “Thank you.”
Cyrus couldn’t leave it there, not when Max still looked so pensive. “I’ll still come with you,” he bargained. “To Heliarth. We won’t fight, but I can sneak into your place again.”
“I don’t think we should—”
“I’ll keep out of the way. Wear a disguise. No one will recognise me.”
“It’s not worth the risk.”
“The election matters to you, so it is.” The words came without thought, a sharp retort, but they were true. Cyrus made a frustrated noise. “If you weren’t—if we
weren’t a wrongdoer and a champion, this wouldn’t be a problem. I could just be there for you, and we wouldn’t have to hide.”
“But we are a wrongdoer and a champion, Cy, you can’t just force reality to change because you will it to.” Max sounded weary and he
looked it too, scrubbing a tired hand over his forehead. It was so public, that was the problem, and they were both living
such double lives these days.
After a second’s deliberation, Cyrus shuffled closer, letting his head sink to Max’s shoulder.
“For the record,” he mumbled, “I’m pretty good at forcing things to change when I want them to.”
Max huffed. “I don’t need to be reminded of that.” Some of the tension ebbed out of his shoulders as he rested his own head
against Cyrus’s. Amusement coloured his tone. “You’re being sweet.”
Cyrus scrunched his face up in distaste. “Wouldn’t call it sweet, exactly . . .”
Max laughed quietly. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Max was warm beside him, the weight of his body a reassuring anchor. Cyrus was just starting to think about moving—maybe going to pick some of his tomatoes, or checking on the squash—when Max spoke.
“What if I don’t win?” His voice was soft, pensive.
“You will,” Cyrus said calmly. “I know it.”
“How can you know it?”
“Because I know everything.” Obviously. Cyrus sat up, dislodging Max and rolling his shoulders. “Anyway, you’re the only one who knows how to keep the dreaded Earthshaker
at bay. They don’t take that for granted.” He tilted his head, preening. “I’m quite the threat.”
It worked, coaxing a smile from Max. “I know more than a few ways to keep you at bay,” he murmured, his mood lifting as he
leaned to kiss his neck.
Cyrus shivered. “Not sure that’s true,” he managed to say. “Seems like you know more ways to keep me close, actually.”
“Don’t tell them that,” Max muttered, but then any talk of the election was lost to traded kisses and the feeling of Max’s
hair beneath his fingertips.