Page 68 of Nemesis Mine
But above the surprise was a sense of understanding. When the glamour of a champion’s lifestyle was stripped away, the two of them were not so very different: both hotheaded and tempestuous, both more concerned with what the world thought than they wanted to admit. Cyrus had chosen one path, Max another. But Max was not the lofty champion Cyrus had despised from a distance. He never had been. He was a man with both bad and good in him, trying to pick his way through a life that felt like a stifling pretence. Of course he had sought Cyrus out with a ploy so unlike that of a champion.
Cyrus cleared his throat. “Twenty years as a champion, and this still bothers you?”
Maximillian’s head jerked back to face him. “Of course it bothers me, I—”
“I’ve done plenty of bad things,” Cyrus interrupted. He met Max’s eyes levelly. “But you’re still here.”
“You’re a wrongdoer,” muttered Max. “That’s what you’re supposed to do. What I did is so much worse.”
Cyrus shrugged. “Yeah. I chose this path and stuck to it. You’ve been fighting to be a better person all your life. And you think that makes youworsethan me?”
It sounded ridiculous when he said it like that, and he could see that Max knew it. His mouth tightened asthough trying to bolster himself, but then he lowered his head into his knees. Cyrus watched the muscles shift in his shoulders as he drew himself in tightly.
He put a clumsy hand on Max’s back, feeling the muscles jump under his palm. Cyrus had never comforted anyone. He had no real idea what to do with his hand now that it was there. Was he supposed to administer a gentle pat, or was that just for dogs? To his relief, the warmth of his touch seemed to work just fine on its own. Max gave a soft sigh.
“All my life I’ve wanted people to tell me how good I am,” Max whispered. It came out muffled and despondent. “But it wasn’t because I reallywantedto be good, it was because I—I was afraid of what I could be. If I didn’t try so hard.” An unsteady breath, his voice even quieter when he spoke again. “What if I’m just pretending? I feel like I’m putting on this big performance. All the time. For so many people.”
Much of their conversation tonight had left Cyrus feeling off-balance and unmoored, uncertain of how to tread in such unfamiliar waters. But he knew his answer to that right away.
“You don’t have to perform with me.”
Max raised his head, his face flushed. He looked at Cyrus like he was something precious. Cyrus’s heart skipped helplessly.
“Thanks,” Max said, soft and sincere.
The moment lingered between them. Cyrus made half a move to reach out, then pulled his hand back, second-guessing. Max watched silently, until he summoned thecourage to lift his fingers again and graze Max’s cheekbone. Gently, he touched the minuscule scar from their first-ever fight in Arclee, a handful of embers tossed in his face searing a tiny pale crescent into soft skin.
Max closed his eyes. They had come so far, and yet still Cyrus marvelled at the trust.
But it was getting late, and Cyrus’s first experience of what he suspected could—ugh—be called a heart-to-heart had left him feeling exhausted.
“I really need to sleep before I reveal any other horrendous secrets that mess with my fearsome image,” he mumbled, drawing back.
Max laughed. Any remaining tension from his admission, or Cyrus’s before it, drained away.
“If you’re talking about the pink pyjamas, I saw them the first time I came in here. I had a snoop round.”
Of course he had. A few weeks ago, Cyrus would have hit the ceiling at those words. Now, he just stood and threw Max a dirty look. Max met it innocently, though Cyrus could tell they were both relieved to return to normal. Whatever their normal was.
“You’re not borrowing them to sleep in. Find something else.”
Cyrus got ready for bed, climbing into sheets still warm from their bodies. He took up too much of the blanket and listened to the sounds of Max moving around the lair, banking the fire and having a quick wash. The bed dipped under Max’s weight.
They lay quietly for a few moments. Then Cyrus said, awkwardly, “Night.”
“Night,” said Max, much more easily.
“If you snore, I’ll knife you,” Cyrus told him.
“Right back at you,” said Max pleasantly.
Cyrus rolled over and stifled his disgustingly soppy expression into the pillow until sleep took him.
Chapter Sixteen
In the weeks that followed, Cyrus fell back into his usual routine—but in the quiet cracks of his life, Max slipped in and stayed.
He started to find Max’s clothes in his wardrobe, Max’s favourite foods in the kitchen (muesli instead of sugary sweet Hoopsy Daisy was the worst discovery yet, though at least it wasn’t “moosli” from Ranragh’s market). Gifts eagerly pushed into the champion’s hands were left on Cyrus’s table, by his bed. A fine belt, still carrying the rich scent of freshly tanned leather; a trio of small candles with violas pressed into the tallow. A silky shirt in a deep purple that almost looked black, and a dagger with vines engraved around the hilt.Hand carved for me but thought it suited you more. M x
