Chapter Twenty #2
drift closed with a little sigh. Cyrus’s chest felt tight at the trust, even as anger flared for the people who had done this.
But he kept his movements slow and gentle, daubing the rag under Max’s cheekbone to collect brown flecks and the grey dust
of Durov.
“I’d kill them again, you know,” Cyrus said quietly. “All of them. If—”
“If I hadn’t got to some of them first,” murmured Max. His eyes were still closed. It was impossible to tell from his tone how he felt about that.
That barrier up around his feelings made Cyrus nervous. He remembered Max’s words, spoken in a quiet moment all those weeks
ago in Cyrus’s lair. I feel like I’m putting on this big performance. All the time. For so many people. Was this Max performing for him, pretending that he wasn’t appalled at the events that had led up to him turning on his own
people?
Max opened his eyes and looked at Cyrus. For a moment neither spoke. Cyrus almost didn’t dare, so desperate to know what was
going on in Max’s head.
Then Max said, just as quiet, “I don’t regret it.”
Cyrus’s breath lodged in his throat. All he could say was, “No?”
Max shook his head slowly. “I should, I know. But I don’t.” He went quiet for a moment. Cyrus could see him grappling with
a thought he could not bring himself to speak.
Cyrus reached out, resting his hand atop Max’s. Skin to skin, warmth bleeding through. After a beat, Max turned his hand so
that his palm faced up, their fingers interlocking. He squeezed gently, then took a breath and looked up with a vulnerability
that made Cyrus’s heart hurt.
“Are you judging me?”
Cyrus blinked, too taken aback by the suggestion to properly take it in at first. Then he frowned.
“Why would I judge you?”
“For what I did.” Max tipped his chin up a little. He was trying very hard to sound casual, as though he didn’t care about Cyrus’s answer in the slightest. If this was his great performance, it was not very good. “They were my people. I killed them.”
Cyrus stared at him, but Max just looked right back at him, awaiting an answer. He was serious about this.
“Max,” said Cyrus slowly. “You are aware that I’m a wrongdoer, right? And you’re aware that all the while you’ve been working
as a champion, saving people and trying to make their lives better, I’ve been doing my level best to cause mayhem and misery
and—”
“You don’t kill people,” Max interrupted. Cyrus fell silent, staring at him. “Usually, at least. I noticed that. Can I ask
why?”
Cyrus thinned his lips, frustrated as always by Max’s observational skills when it came to him. “Because it’s messy.”
“Is that the only reason why?”
He shrugged. “Lot of cleaning up after. Blood gets under your fingernails.”
“Cyrus,” said Max.
Cyrus groaned. “Fine. Yes. I just . . . I prefer not to. It seems so unnecessary. It’s not creative. There’s a lot of mayhem you can cause without dragging someone’s guts out of their nose.”
Max winced. “Nice and vivid.”
“I could drag someone’s guts out of their nose if I wanted to,” muttered Cyrus.
“I know you could,” Max soothed. He was aiming for comforting, but he just sounded amused. At least he was feeling brighter,
even if it was at Cyrus’s expense.
But the pensive look came swiftly back, troubled and unsure. “If you prefer not to and you think it’s unnecessary, then—”
“Of course I’m not judging you, you idiot,” said Cyrus, exasperated.
“Nor would I ever. I was—” And, ugh, Autumn’s withered balls, he was going to have to say something genuine and earnest and sappy.
He took a deep breath in preparation and stared down at Max’s knee, forcing the words out. “I was . . . awed by what you
did. Honoured, I suppose. That you’d do that. For me.”
“I’d do anything for you.”
Cyrus’s head rose. The words were a statement, freely offered. Max sounded matter-of-fact about it, but when Cyrus met his
eyes, he gave him a small smile.
“Anything,” Max repeated, sincerely.
There it was again, that fleeting sense of awe. It made Cyrus feel small, almost childlike, faced with something too enormous
to comprehend.
He probably didn’t need to say it back. Max had just witnessed him topple the Federation’s castle for him. But Max had put
that feeling into words. Cyrus could match him.
“I would do the same. Anything,” he said, soft but certain. “For you.”
Max nodded. Then his face cracked into a proper smile, even though it probably hurt. “I know,” he said, indicating the discarded
rag on the ground by their feet. “You ripped up your clothes for me. You. That’s when I knew.”
“Funny,” said Cyrus, “you’re funny. Aren’t you supposed to be asleep right now, anyway, rather than making your little jokes?”
“Suppose so,” Max said, lightly, as though the shadows under his eyes weren’t threatening to overtake the bruises from a champion beatdown. But he truly did seem brighter, and Cyrus was helpless to the rush of affection that coursed through him.
They had much to face and many decisions to make. But they would get through it together. Of that, Cyrus was certain.