Page 45 of Nemesis Mine
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 wasthat.
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 youdon’texcel 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, ahint 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.”
