Igneous

It’s interesting. Maxie is interesting. What he says is interesting… if a little infuriating. Cyrus is good at keeping the emotions down, doesn’t let it get the better of him yet, though surely it will, it’s only a matter of time, with the way Maxie is so adept at getting under his skin (and under his clothes). It’s as if he’s seeing a new side of him every day they spend together.

Cyrus clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then looks away, cold, distant or uncomfortable, maybe just in thought. His eyes are hard and his voice is soft and sharp. “I’d hardly call it a fairy tale if I’ve experienced it, lived with it, Maxie. Certainly, when it comes to Giratina, its’ motives and its’ behavior, I’m vastly more qualified than you. One could say I’m an expert on the subject, actually. My Ph.D thesis and dissertation were on the relation of astrophysics and Sinnoh’s mythology. It continued to be the focus of my studies in my professional career, before I moved on to Galactic. Where it also was the focus of my studies.” Fairy tales. As if Maxie hadn’t also been chasing them ten years ago. The news reports from the Groudon and Kyogre incident are still fresh in Cyrus’s mind.

That’s not the only thing that leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. There’s another thing, one he hasn’t really thought about since noticing just how lined Maxie’s face had become in his absence.

“A child.“ He echoes Maxie, flat, unimpressed. “I’m curious. Does calling me a child come from that I’m not obeying you, or because I’m so much younger? I would hope my age doesn’t factor in.“ He’s getting snappy. Should take a step back before he gets more aggravated, but out of everything, the age part is always what comes back for him. He’s heard it enough over the years for it to leave a lasting sting.

Cyrus closes his eyes, takes a breath, then fixes his cold eyes on Maxie and points the conversation back around at him. He knows one way to get under Maxie’s skin. “I’ve never been very good at obeying, Maxie. If anything, in our relationship, you may be the one who needs direction. Since we are talking about you taking me to bed.”

His words are still agitated, but pleasant enough. Cyrus’s voice drops lower.

“In fact, I would think you might enjoy that. Receiving orders. Perhaps I should have sent some along, with the pictures from the other night. Next time, I will. I hope you got good use out of them in any case?“

Cyrus has misunderstood him. Maxie hates that, but it seems inevitable. They can’t have a conversation without it. Something between them always gets lost in translation, lost in the cracks of their carefully maintained veneer of professionalism. Eventually the cracks become too deep and reveal the ugliness beneath. At least, Maxie considers it ugly.

…Oh.

That wasn’t, at all, what Cyrus was expecting. Giratina’s Orb, as an equivalent to the Blue Orb Maxie had used to nearly rain destruction on Hoenn. It doesn’t seem quite right, to describe it like that. Cyrus takes the orb, turns it over in his hands, fingertips brushing the surface of the orb under the edges of the handkerchief.

He considers this, for a long few moments without speech, then looks back up, any irritation on his face now replaced with a reserved sort of curiosity.

“I see. Thank you.” It’s cool to the touch, calming. Usually when he handles it for long periods of time, Cyrus feels at peace, the same quiet stillness that surrounded him in the Torn World, with the slight comforting press of swirling dark shadows around the edge of his consciousness. “If it is what you say, Giratina’s Orb, I still do not believe it is dangerous.”

It’s hard to quantify why, exactly. What first started as rage at the shadowy pokemon had turned into understanding, and kinship. He felt connected to Giratina back in that world; it’s only fitting that he is now the keeper of a physical representation of that connection. They are more alike than they are different.

“Your Groudon–it was a force of destruction, laid dormant for a reason. Giratina, while it has destructive potential certainly, exists in relative peace. Gazing silently upon this world from the other. Though banished for its violence, I was the first to provoke its wrath in what is possibly centuries. Even then…” Cyrus trails off, looks back down at the orb, a slight frown tugging at his lips as he drags his thumb over one metallic facet of its surface. “It never attempted to harm me. I grew fond of that pokemon, as much as fondness can be awarded to what amounts to a diety. Perhaps reverence would be a more apt descriptor.”

Carefully, the orb is wrapped back up in its cloth, and Cyrus leans over to place it back in his bag. If anything, Maxie’s explanation makes him more determined to keep it safe, and hidden.

“It may be Giratina’s will that I have become the keeper of this Orb. I often find that fate works in unexpected ways,” Cyrus muses, as he straightens back up in his chair. He wonders what Maxie felt, touching it, but doesn’t ask. “But now that I have the information I was looking for, I request you not pass any part of this conversation on. Of my numerous reasons for wanting to corner you, this was also personal, rather than business.”

The urge to rip the thing from Cyrus’ hand when he immediately starts touching it despite Maxie’s warning is almost overwhelming. The blatant disregard for his opinion, his warning is like a slap in the face. He has to wonder why exactly Cyrus asked him for information when he was just going to ignore everything Maxie said. Except for the parts that were personally intriguing, of course.

Calling a pokemon a deity,  acting as though it wouldn’t happily kill all of them, Cyrus included if it ever got the inkling to. Ha. Legendary pokemon are mighty and powerful, and Maxie has more than just a healthy appreciation for that, but that’s all they are, pokemon. They are not gods, and Maxie highly doubts any of them are so benevolent as Cyrus seems to think.

“What did I just say?” He snaps at Cyrus and feels a thrill of panic creep down his spine from seeing him so casually touch the surface of the Orb, as though it were comforting. Maxie had felt a lot of things, handling the Blue Orb. None of them could be categorized as anything close to comfort. He’s almost willing to think that his initial assessment was wrong watching Cyrus handle the Orb and seeming to suffer no ill effects. It’s entirely possible... but Maxie also knows what he felt just from brushing his thumb over the surface of it. That was unmistakable.

“Did you think I was joking, Cyrus? That I was telling you not to touch it to spite you?” He wishes he hadn’t given it back to him now. Maybe Cyrus isn’t interested in trying to control Giratina with the Orb, but that doesn’t mean he can be trusted with it. Maxie really is a fool. For Cyrus’ own safety he should have kept it from him.

He feels cold (usually impossible when living inside a volcano) and sweaty at the same time. His hands are shaking.

“I thought you were a scientist.” He thought Cyrus valued his input more than this. (He thought Cyrus trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t lie, not about this.) “Not a naive fanatic chasing after fairy tales. You have no idea what you possess. You have no idea what it can do to you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, can barely think about their sordid history with one another, but he’s angry. And so, so disappointed.

It takes a very, very large amount of restraint not to lash out at Maxie. His eyes, still on Maxie’s hands and the cloth-covered orb, flicker up to Maxie’s face. Though, Maxie would deserve it at this point, as antagonistic as he’s being (as if Cyrus would like him if he wasn’t). He counts to ten, takes a deep breath, and starts talking.

“I assumed you wouldn’t find my theories interesting, or necessary. The one I’m favoring right now is that this object is native to that other world, and potentially was created by Giratina for some purpose, though for what purpose I cannot say.”

Maxie waving the orb around in his face (while still not giving it back) only garners an irritated exhale from Cyrus, who crosses his legs and leans back in the chair, fingers drumming impatiently on his knee. What, exactly, is Maxie looking for him to say? Cyrus is annoyed, but there’s no small measure of confusion too.

“I came to you because I knew of your past dealing with an artifact connected to a legendary Pokemon–and while I sincerely doubt this is of the same magnitude as the Blue Orb you handled, likely more of a trinket in comparison, I do not know what it is, which is why I am asking.”

But despite the hot impatience and irritability, Maxie’s last question does give Cyrus reason to pause. Have you touched it? Yes, he has. He’s carried the orb around with him almost constantly since coming out of that other world.

He suspects letting Maxie in on that detail would not be wise. Cyrus watches him, carefully, considers asking why he wants to know–and why he sounds… concerned about it. Concern is a foreign emotion on Maxie, at least in the spectrum of his interactions with Cyrus.

Cyrus isn’t certain whether Maxie is concerned for him, or because of whatever imagined danger he’s inferred from the object.

Unless it is dangerous. Cyrus hasn’t considered that possibility. The feeling he gets, when touching the metallic surface, is apparently not the same as what Maxie and Roark felt. Where Cyrus feels… calm, connected, both of the others had jerked away from it, as if burned.

“I have.” An answer too simple. Cyrus hesitates. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, less acetic. “You’re concerned for me.” A hesitant observation. “What is it you know? Maxie. Please.”

He is concerned, but he was rather hoping Cyrus wouldn’t notice. Having it pointed out feels like an accusation. He bristles a little, though it’s hard to get properly indignant over it when Cyrus is right. “I’m not concerned.” He denies stiffly, a bald faced lie. It’s a weak thing though, hardly any heat behind it, he says it just to say it. They both know the truth of it.

“Please.” First apologies and now a “please”. Cyrus obviously found some form of manners in the other world. Maxie might even get a “thank you” by the end of this. He jokes, but that doesn’t stop Cyrus’ little plea from working on him. There’s something about Cyrus’ face when he softens... Maxie is a fool. And a sucker.

He hesitates, but only for a moment longer. This is something Cyrus needs to hear and... no. He doesn’t know for sure that Cyrus wouldn’t be looking for a way to harness Giratina’s power, but he doesn’t think he would. Maxie is just going to have to trust him.

(Not as tall of an order as it may appear. Maxie put his trust in Cyrus when he brought him onto this project. Although now would be a fine time to lose his wariness.)

“As for what it is, well. Congratulations Cyrus, you would be wrong.” He rebukes smartly. “An equivalent to the Blue Orb is exactly what this appears to be. I have no way of knowing that for certain.” Maxie cautions, well aware they are exiting the realm of scientific fact and relying on his gut feeling now. In his defense, it’s an extremely good gut feeling. “But if it doesn’t function exactly like the Blue or Red Orb, I would guess it’s very similar. It’s hard to explain; the way one of these orbs feels...” He grimaces for effect “It’s very hard to forget.”

And now the hard part. Maxie tightens his fingers on the orb, feeling the smooth edges dig into his flesh even through the protection of the cloth wrapping. He doesn’t want to give this back to Cyrus, knowing what it is, what it could do, but he can’t keep it either. Trust. Slowly he relaxes his grip on the orb and holds it out to Cyrus.

@magmadarling

Blaise is curled up in the seat next to him, an extra set of eyes where Lysandre’s are lacking. The Pyroar is more tense than him. Lysandre isn’t worried. Out of the six of them playing this game, Maxie is the one he’s least worried about. The potential weak link in the other side’s plans. If the Magma Leader fell so easily into Giovanni and Cyrus’s plans, what might Lysandre be able to do?

He will be pleasant, and just as firm as necessary. Perhaps a little subtle manipulation will be all he needs. Words are all he has, now, and Lysandre knows how to work them. It shouldn’t be hard to sink his claws in.

He hears someone being let into the private room rather than sees it. Everything has been set up ahead of time, dinner and wine delivered just a few minutes ago. Lysandre had been very clear in his instructions: No interruptions. Absolute privacy, for him and his quarry.

Lysandre does not turn his head towards the door, but Blaise does, an unhappy, vicious noise rising in the Pyroar’s throat. “Calm.” Lysandre lays a hand on the feline’s back, and Blaise stops, lays his head on the table, docile but watchful. He’s certain the Pyroar’s eyes will be trained on Maxie the entire time he is present. It’s comforting. There will be no surprises.

“Leader Maxie. It has been a long time.” His voice is deep and smooth, sympathetic tone genuine until the surface is scratched. “I hope you did not lose too many men in the tragedy a few days ago. I mourn the loss of all soldiers on a battlefield, even those that are not my own.”

“The rumors are correct then, you are alive. What a shame.” When he received his “invitation” (it was a summons, the nerve of them) to have dinner and discuss business with the Leader of Team Flare he was expecting Malva. To be greeted by Lysandre instead is a surprise, but not as much of one as Maxie is sure Team Flare was hoping. Rocket and Galactic have both had their suspicions that De Fleur wasn’t really dead, and now here he is, in the flesh. It seems they’re now done covering up his “miraculous” survival.

Alive but not unscathed it would seem, Maxie notes as he takes his sweet time sitting at the table. Lysandre is sporting a rather impressive amount of facial scarring now, quite a change from the last time he saw him. Maxie takes a nasty bit of vindictive pleasure from the sight.

He has several guesses as to what Flare wants, none of them are beneficial to him in any way, so he’s disinclined to cooperate. Which makes this little game a very large waste of his time, and it’s stealing his attention away from the remainder of his men. Maxie is feeling many things, but none of them are pleasant. He’s almost entirely certain Lysandre has no intentions of being pleasant either, so really an absurd amount of work has gone into making it appear as though he does, only for it be ruined by the presence of his Pyroar.

‘So concerned with appearance, but you leave a blatant threat out in the open.’

“My men are scientists, not soldiers.” Maxie snips, not interested in platitudes. He scoots the meal laid out for him away disinterestedly, a typically frivolous Kalosian fare, but brings the wine glass closer. He doesn’t think he’s going to want to be sober for this. “And if you were really concerned, you wouldn’t be wasting my time.”

It’s true that Cyrus has been trying to get Maxie alone for days… just not for the apparent reasons he’s presented to Maxie here. Cyrus’s personal motives are less reasonable than having Maxie examine a rock. He almost says something about that, something that would certainly get a rise out of him, but Cyrus holds his tongue, lets it go with a simple: “Business before pleasure, I suppose.”

It wouldn’t be the best idea to provoke Maxie, not when he has something Cyrus so desperately needs. Bringing the orb to him is a last ditch effort, he doesn’t expect much information in return, but any scrap of insight on the object is important. Maxie, he knows, has had at least one encounter in the past with an artifact connected to a legendary Pokemon. Cyrus is fairly certain that isn’t what he has here, but perhaps Giratina created the object for some purpose. It’s one of his theories, anyway.

He isn’t watching Maxie as closely as he should be, examining the object. Cyrus is startled by the gasp, then even more by Maxie’s harsh inquiry. He snaps back into focus with a twitch of pointed brows and the beginnings of a scowl on his lips. Instinctive. When Maxie bites, Cyrus is accustomed to biting back.

But it’s a valid question, if unnecessarily vitriolic. For the second time, Cyrus bites his tongue.

“A place called Turnback Cave, where the link between this world and the other is strongest. It is where I emerged from that world.” Cyrus is calm and composed, cold as if to offset Maxie’s agitation. But his eyes keep going to Maxie’s hands, and there’s an odd set to his jaw, a tension between his brows. Where Cyrus had expected to be handed the orb back, Maxie has kept it.

The thought of Maxie keeping it from him more permanently sets Cyrus on edge, for a reason he can’t explain. Maybe the almost spiritual connection he’s felt to it isn’t as imagined as he assumed.

“If you know something about the object, I would appreciate it if you shared,” he starts, quietly, and a dark look flashes over his pale eyes. “And I would appreciate getting it back.”

Maxie scowls right back at him. “I’m sure you would.” He agrees, and takes several deliberate steps back from Cyrus. He doesn’t bother offering any reassurances; if he doesn’t like what he hears he will not be giving the orb back. Cyrus’ potential reaction to that, and the consequences it will have on their partnership are not things he precisely want to think about, though he will pay that price and gladly if it comes to it. Even still he does not wish to make an enemy of Cyrus.

He considers the wrapped orb, ignoring Cyrus’s demand for information for now. The other world? Ah, Cyrus’ torn world, most assuredly. Which, well. That’s very helpful in a way, it gives Maxie a much better idea of what (who) he’s dealing with. On the other hand...

He feels just a bit light headed. ‘Please tell me he would not be so foolish twice.’

There is only one living creature in the torn world, if Cyrus is to be believed, and Maxie does believe him. Which means this orb almost certainly belongs to Giratina, creator of the torn world, it’s only denizen, and for some 6 years or so, Cyrus’ jailer. Maxie somehow wants to be holding it even less than he did before.

‘How has he been carrying this thing around in his computer bag.’

There is no possible way Cyrus wouldn’t have known this is no normal rock. Which, fair enough, Maxie could have guessed on his own, given Cyrus’ apparent interest it. He obviously doesn’t know just what is, otherwise he would never have brought it to Maxie’s attention in the first place. That doesn’t mean he’s any more pleased that Cyrus came to him with this purposefully withholding information.

It’s much, much warmer than Cyrus is accustomed to in Hoenn, and certainly in Magma’s HQ, located under an active volcano as it is. If he didn’t already have reason to think Maxie is absolutely fucking crazy, he would now.

The temperature seems tolerable for Team Magma’s personnel, or at least they look comfortable, but Cyrus was born and raised in Sinnoh, better adapted to chest-deep snow and a bitter north wind than heat waves and humidity. He’s sure the other Galactic personnel he’s brought along aren’t faring much better. Around day two, Cyrus himself had started leaving his uniform in the quarters Maxie had assigned him, and going around in street clothes instead. It’s earned him a couple odd looks (mostly from Maxie), and the majority of Magma doesn’t seem to recognize him out of the silver and black (not that he can speak with most of them anyway, sans a translator), but he can’t be too bothered.

He’s sitting at one of the computers with both legs tucked under him in the chair, parsing through weeks of data on Hoenn’s weather patterns, when Maxie sends the other scientists away.

Funny. It’s about midnight, and he recalls seeing some of them just wander in. What strange schedules Maxie has his Team keep.

Cyrus looks up from the screen, just in time to see Maxie taking off his coat. One eyebrow twitches upward, barely. “So I have. Unlike your ducklings, mine keep normal work hours. I expect they’ve all retired for the night.” His voice is cool, not as abrasive as it might have been years ago.

A pause. “I am surprised. I was rather thinking I’d be forced to get you alone myself–and here you are. Cornering me.”

Perhaps Maxie will do something interesting. He’s been waiting for something to happen, anything, after their last encounter. Actions have consequences. They can’t pretend their relationship is purely business forever, as good at acting as they have been, these past few days. Hardly a word out of place, no burning looks behind Saturn and Courtney’s backs. It’s almost a disappointment.

Though for now, it seems as if things are still distinctly in business territory. Cyrus cocks his head to the side, thoughtful, in consideration. “It isn’t related to the research. I was interested in a personal favor.”

He straightens his legs out, feet hitting the floor, and adjusts his skirt before going for something in the laptop bag he’d brought in with him. It’s the second time he’s shown the orb to someone–Roark had been helpful, but Cyrus had not walked out of that encounter with the answers he’d wanted.

Carefully, he unwraps the stone from the handkerchief he’s been carrying it in. Hard metallic angles reflect the fluorescent lab lighting from above as he holds the orb out in his hands, an offering.

“Can you help me identify this? I had a Gym Leader from Sinnoh who is quite knowledgeable about minerals look it over, but gained no clear insight. I suspected you might be able to fill in the gaps.”

How unexpected. He’s almost disappointed in a way, the build up to asking Cyrus precisely what he wanted had him anticipating something a bit more than just asking him to examine a bit of rock. He was expecting a confrontation, another lewd overture, a fight, at the very least. To have it be business that’s kept Cyrus trying to catch him alone is... unexpected.

But not unwelcome.

“I’d hardly call it cornering you when it’s in self defense. You’ve been trying to get me alone for days.” He says distractedly. Mind turning to the problem at hand. Now that he knows what Cyrus wants it’s much more easy to relax around him. This is fine; they’ve done this before. Sharing and exchanging information is one aspect of their relationship that Maxie has no qualms about. Cyrus has a brilliant mind, and much to his surprise they can work well together. To have Cyrus come to him with a problem and ask for his help is flattering, even.

Although, he does wonder why are rock of all things.

He scoops the offered orb out of Cyrus’ hand, careful to keep it’s cloth wrapping as a barrier between it and his hand for now. He can see why Cyrus is interested, at least, it’s extremely peculiar. Being a rather vivid shade of yellow isn’t that unusual, but the shape of it, the deliberate points, and the glossy smoothness of it all make it look as though it’s been made that way.

“I’m not sure what you think I can tell you that your Gym Leader can’t.” He says, bringing the orb up closer to his eyes. “I know a bit about Geology, but I’m not an expert, which you know.”

The orb has a gleam to it Maxie can’t describe. It’s fascinating, drawing in his attention. He traces his bare thumb over one of the peaks, chasing the way the light reflects off it...

And jerks his hand back with a startled gasp.

Well then, that answers that question. The feeling of having something ancient and heavy, more powerful than you can ever hope to be trespassing on your soul isn’t one Maxie is ever likely to forget. The energy isn’t the same, wouldn’t be the same, and Maxie doesn’t know where (or more specifically who) the energy is coming from, but there’s no mistaking this for anything but what it is.

“Where the fuck did you get this?” He snaps harshly, careful not to touch the orb again even as he frantically wraps it back it’s cloth and very deliberately does not return it to Cyrus. There are many things he wants to do with this orb. Drop it on the floor right here and now is one of them. Bury it 20 feet under the earth is another. Or throw it out into the sea. He does not want to continue holding it, even covered. But he wants Cyrus holding it even less.

flower crown: when did you last sing to yourself?

fairy lights: if a crystal ball could tell you the truth about anything, what would you want to know?

daisies: what is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

1975: what is the first happy memory that comes to mind, recent or otherwise?

matte: if you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living?

black nail polish: do you have a bucket list? if so, what are the top three things?

pantone: describe a person close to your life in detail.

moodboard: do you feel you had a happy childhood?

stars: when did you last cry in front of another person?

plants: pick a person to stargaze with you and explain why you picked them.

converse: would you ever have a deep conversation with a stranger and open up to them?

lace: when was your last 3am conversation with someone, and who were they to you?

handwriting: if you were about to die, and you could only say one more sentence to one person, what would you say and to whom?

cactus: what is your opinion on brown eyes?

sunrise: pick a quote and describe what it means to you personally.

oil paints: what would you title the autobiography of your life so far?

overalls: what would you do with one billion dollars?

combat boots: are you a very forgiving person? do you like being this way?

winged eyeliner: write a hundred word letter to your twelve year old self.

pastel: would you describe yourself as more punk or pastel?

tattoos: how do you feel about tattoos and piercings? explain.

piercings: do you wear a lot of makeup? why/why not?

bands: talk about a song/band/lyric that has affected your life in some way.

messy bun: the world is listening. pick one sentence you would tell them.

cry baby: list the concerts you have been to and talk about how they make you feel.

grunge: who in the world would you most like to receive a letter from and what would you want it to say?

space: do you have a desk/workspace and how is it organised/not organised?

white bed sheets: what is your night time routine?

old books: what’s one thing you don’t want your parents to know?

beaches: if you had to dye your hair how would you dye/style it and why?

eyes: pick five people to go on an excursion with you. who would you pick and where would you go/what would you do?

11:11: name three wishes and why you wish for them.

painting: what is the best halloween costume you have ever put together? if none, make one up.

lightning: what’s the worst thing you’ve ever done while drunk or high?

thunder: what’s one thing you would never do for one million dollars?

storms: you on only listen to one song for the rest of your life, or only see one person for the rest of your life. which and why?

love: have you ever fallen in love? describe what it feels like to realise you’re in love.

clouds: if you’re a boy, would you ever rock black nail polish? if you’re a girl, would you ever rock really really short hair?

coffee: what’s your starbucks order, and who would you trust to order for you, if anyone?

marble: what is the most important thing to you in your life right now?

“Please don’t die on me.” 

“Are you not afraid of what’s out there?”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“You can’t make me go.”

“Please don’t leave.”

“You have so much potential and you’re throwing it away.”

“You can’t save everyone.”

“You can’t save yourself.”

“You can’t save me.”

“Maybe this is rock bottom.” 

“Maybe things will get better from here.”

“Maybe this is rock bottom and things can only get better from here.”

“I still believe in happy endings, even through all of this.”

“Why don’t you love me?”

“Why don’t you love yourself?”

“I am lonely.”

“You are lonely.”

He has words in his mouth when Maxie asks, words in his mouth to answer the question with fuck-all, he doesn’t even know what, just that he’s thought about Maxie and sometimes it’s because of the way Maxie talked to him, because of his keen eyes and beautiful mind, and sometimes it’s because of the way Maxie shivered under his touch the first time Cyrus laid hands on his bare hips. And then–

Oh. Oh.

Then the world stops turning, for as long as it takes Cyrus to process that sentence, I don’t want your emotions. He wants a cigarette. He wants to be sick. He wants to go for a run.

Cyrus’s reaction is compulsive, without thought. Pale hands balled into themselves, fingernails cutting crescent moons into his palms, knuckles white. Maxie doesn’t want his emotions. It’s a fair thing to say. I don’t want them either. He should say that. He should say something. He still wants to be sick. He’s been doing better, or he was supposed to be, but old habits die hard and fucking Maxie was never supposed to be a reminder of those ideals he’d touted all those years ago (just a year, really). His own incomplete heart. Vague notions about spirit and the absence of spirit.

Logically, he knows this remark should have been inconsequential–muttered into Maxie’s hands as it is. It’s funny. Cyrus wants Maxie’s emotions, that’s why he’s here, isn’t it? That’s half of what attracts him, though he can’t admit it even in his own thoughts.

He wonders if Maxie feels complete.

The inches between them right now are the longest distance Cyrus can define.

“I don’t want them either.” He finally says it, perfectly bitter, releases his fists and runs shaking hands through his hair. Cyrus is afraid of what might come out, at this moment, if he were to attempt to put what he would think about Maxie into words. There’s sex, of course, and how he wanted, still wants in some fucked up abstract way, Maxie to hold him down and tear him apart, choke him, put a knife to his skin. Or maybe those are the more concrete desires, the acceptable ones.

But there’s a part of him that wants to take Maxie to bed in ways that aren’t just… aren’t just about wanting to fuck him.

“Neither of us will be pleased with the answer to that question.” It’s colder than he means it, and dismissive. “I’m tired as well. Going to sleep was always an option.”

He heard once, that you should never go to bed angry with your lover. It’s just as well then, that he and Cyrus are not lovers, because, make no mistake, Maxie is angry. It’s not the flared burst of temper from before, but he is well and truly mad now. Mad enough to give Cyrus what he’s asking for.

They are quite clearly done here. The cold look on Cyrus’ face is the most familiar thing Maxie has encountered all night. That expression he knows quite well. There will be no swaying him, and Maxie has absolutely no inclination to try any longer.

“Neither of us will be pleased with the answer to that question.” Once again Cyrus is wholly correct. That answer is bullshit.

“I would say it’s the only option at this point.” His voice is snappy, pointed and he hopes it stings Cyrus. He moves just as sharply when he stands up and starts yanking the covers away from the bed. He doesn’t care if Cyrus still has his ass firmly planted on the mattress, he wants to go to bed doesn’t he? Then they’re going to bed. He’s so furious-

And abruptly he realizes no, he’s not done. “I was trying to help you!” He frees one corner of the bed clothes and pulls roughly down the side. It has enough power behind it to slide Cyrus down the bed and Maxie is viciously pleased by it. “You could be a bit grateful.” But no, he wouldn’t be would he? He wasn’t last time either.

Cyrus doesn’t exactly shy away from the touch, doesn’t flinch, but it’s–unexpected, to say the least. It startles him, even when he sees it coming. Cyrus has had sex plenty of times since coming out of the Torn World, has gone through the physical motions, contact is not and has never been something he shies away from, but…

But he doesn’t remember the last time someone has touched him like this. Maybe he thought no one ever would. It comes from possibly the person Cyrus would least expect it from. Maxie’s hands should not be this gentle. Cyrus has imagined plenty of things between them, has had plenty of thoughts about those hands, but never this.

They are not lovers. Cyrus wants a lot of things from Maxie, but they’re obscene things, dirty things, best kept behind closed doors and under the sheets. His attraction to Maxie is and should remain purely sexual in nature, there’s no room for everything else, and Cyrus…

Cyrus, uncomfortable as he is, decides he does not like to be touched like this.

And yet, it takes an unprecedented amount of effort to pull away from that hand, to stretch his legs out and put a few inches distance between them. He’s given up on trying to read Maxie for tonight, and the look Cyrus gives him is blank, void, focused on some other place and time.

He feels, just a little, like he wants to cry.

Cyrus swallows that feeling, like all the others. It’s hard; he’s conflicted, can’t stay silent but can’t speak without giving part of himself away, either. It all threatens to spill over at that question, everything he’s been guarding jealously to his heart since coming back into this world. Why the question should affect him so, Cyrus can’t say. Maybe it’s that no one’s ever bothered to ask before.

“I…” Speaking should not be this hard, mechanically. Take a breath, open your mouth, let the words go. It isn’t that simple anymore. His voice is bitter and weighed down, frustrated in a self-deprecating way. He used to be angry at the world. Now he’s only angry at himself.

“I was in that world for a long time.” There’s no way to define how long. Cyrus doesn’t try. “Completely alone, with no company save for my own thoughts.” And that shadowy Pokemon, but Giratina had kept to its own and Cyrus had kept to his. “No one can live like that.” I’m tired of being alone, please stay with me. Someone stay with me. He doesn’t say this.

A pause, just long enough for the deep breath before a shameful admission. There’s a disconnect in the way he’s speaking. “I thought about you.”

Maxie doesn’t put up a fuss; when Cyrus pulls away he lets him go. And why should he? It’s not as though he was doing it for his own benefit. If Cyrus wants to reject his offered comfort that’s his right. (It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t. How many times has Maxie rejected Cyrus’ touch, exactly?)

Besides, He can’t deny a certain amount of cruel satisfaction from his reaction. It feels very much like a retreat, a wounded animal too vulnerable and hurt to accept help. He has felt so unsteady for so long in this room, both dreading and shamefully, secretly anticipating the next touch, that seeing Cyrus flinch from his hand instead is gratifying. There's an urge to chase down that vulnerability and tear it open. It settles oddly next to the urge to comfort that made him reach out to Cyrus in the first place. Maxie wants to hurt him, he wants to sooth him. He doesn’t know which to choose.

Then Cyrus speaks, and it doesn’t matter which he chooses. Whatever he was trying to do here, comfort him, hurt him, answer his own damn questions, it was a mistake.

“No one can live like that.” It’s an admission too deep, an answer he is too ill prepared to hear to a question he should never have asked. He was right, they don’t talk to each other like this, and there’s a reason for it.

His skin crawls, covered in ice and far too tight against his bones. It matches the growing cavern somewhere around his navel. What can he possibly say to something like that? It wouldn’t be so awful if he didn’t want to help Cyrus, but he does (He doesn’t want to care.) and how can he when he isn’t ready for the answer.

“I thought about you.” He doesn’t want to do this. (That Cyrus means anything at all to him makes him sick.) He must do this. (He looks scared. Maxie doesn’t think he knows this person anymore.)

“Why?” He sounds incredulous. He’s not equipped to handle this. Panic is still buzzing over his scalp and down his back. He feels like he’s balanced on the edge of a precipice, not yet falling but too over balanced to pull himself back over.

“I don’t understand why would you tell me that? That’s so-” Selfish. He cuts himself off. It feels like defeat to cradle his head in his heads. “I don’t want your emotions.” He mumbles into his palms and tries to pull himself back together.

He’s spent so long trying to reconcile his baffling fondness for Cyrus with the disgust he feels when he thinks of him. To so blatantly admit he cares now of all times when the feel of him is still too fresh on his skin-.