Page 44 of Nemesis Mine
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 atthe 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 wasstillfinding 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 bitchingmuch,” 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 saidskinnier. 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 tidiedsomeof 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.
