#malrus

Cyrus spared the man a brief glance before turning away, pretending to busy himself with the intricate paneling on the wall. “Good timing. As always.”

“What was all of that about?” Soft footsteps signaled Maleus’ approach. “Is… are you well?”

The cynical huff Cyrus gave in response was probably enough of an answer. But he expanded because it was Maleus. If anyone had even the slightest chance of understanding…

“It’s just… It’s been so long since I was last here. I don’t…” Cyrus shook his head. He had even been avoiding the airship’s windows. “I… always felt like a stranger in Republic City.”

He felt the corner of Maleus’ sleeve brush against him as he moved to his side. “And you fear you will feel like one again, even though you are home.”

It wasn’t a question. Cyrus nodded anyway, the movement small and uncertain. Ashamed. Embarrassed. “I just hate being this fucking ridiculous, Mal,” he said suddenly, reaching up and scrubbing his face with his hands. “It’s such bullshit, but I can’t… just the idea of walking out there and feeling nothing…”

This time Maleus reached out, resting a hand on Cyrus’ shoulder. “It’s not ridiculous,” he said softly, and Cyrus knew immediately where his mind might have gone. He kicked himself for his selfishness. “You don’t need to go, if you are truly against it. No one here will force you.”

Cyrus snorted. “Tell that to the angry mob.”

“They were not angry, Cyrus.”

“… I know.” This time, Cyrus turned to face Maleus fully. The man’s expression wasn’t pitying or sad. Just… patient. Understanding. He always was. 

Fuck, he deserved a lot better than this shit.

Suddenly, Cyrus reached out, snagging Maleus’ hands, holding them in his. He moved quickly not because he was trying to shock the other man, but so he couldn’t talk himself out of it.

“Come with me.” A pause. A nervous swallow. “Please.”

Maleus raised his brows, but only for a moment as he pieced together Cyrus’ request. “Of course. You know I always planned to.”

“I know,” Cyrus said quickly, heart stammering. What was he doing? “I just… wanted to ask you for once. Because you always do shit for me and I don’t want you to feel like I just… expect it. Or I don’t appreciate it. I do. So…” He trailed off, feeling like the most immense idiot to walk the face of the planet. Actually, even worse. His stupidity had also graced the air. 

Instead of attempting more words, he just squeezed Maleus’ hands slightly, hoping that would be enough to say what he could not trust himself to voice. I need you. I’m sorry for needing you. I want you to need me too.

Maleus squeezed back, the action almost firm. Resolute.

“I will always be there for you, Cyrus, whether or not you thank me or ask me for it. But…” The man smiled, releasing one of Cyrus’ hands to tip his chin up so they were seeing eye-to-eye. “I will not pretend it is not nice to hear it is… appreciated.”

Cyrus snorted softly, eyes flicking to the side. “Yeah well, more people should appreciate all the shit you do. Me most of all.”

He could practically feel Maleus soften the way he always did when he felt particularly touched by something. Spirits, the man was too much. You’d think Cyrus had declared him a saint, rather than just spoken the obvious. 

“That… is very kind of you.”

“No, it isn’t.” This time, Cyrus did look at him. Fully. Properly. He could lose himself in those warm brown eyes. “I… can do a lot better. This is just me… starting.”

He could do better. He would do better. Starting was always the hardest part for Cyrus.

Unfulfilled. Yes, Cyrus supposed that was one way of putting it. “I just thought this time I’d be able to walk away from him and feel like he’d actually got what he deserved. Of all fucking ways this could have gone, he just…”

Slowly, Maleus reached out and rested a hand on Cyrus’ shoulder. “As much as I wish it wasn’t the case, some changes cannot be forced. Hoped for, yes, but there is never any guarantee.” He paused, then added. “But other changes are in our reach. Those are still worth aiming for, Cyrus.”

Cyrus closed his eyes. He knew Maleus was right, but it just… 

It hurt.

“Thank you,” Cyrus said softly, just before the silence drew thin enough to snap. “For letting me… make a change. For a bit.” 

The boat swayed over the waves. Beside him, Maleus smiled softly. This was the moment when most people would see their chance to leave and take it. Cyrus was offering Maleus an easy out. They didn’t both have to stand out in the cold feeling sorry for themselves, after all.

“Of course, Cyrus. You are always welcome here.” His hand left Cyrus’ shoulder, and Cyrus closed his eyes. Waited for the receding footsteps. For the return of that careful loneliness he had grown accustomed to. He didn’t blame people for avoiding him. Maker, if he could avoid himself, he probably would. As far as company went, he wasn’t particularly good.

Something warm touched his hand. Just barely. Surprised, Cyrus glanced down and found Maleus’ gloved fingers gently resting atop his wrist. A sign of condolence. Companionship. Understanding. 

Affection?

Swallowing thickly, Cyrus glanced across at the man. Maleus seemed distracted, his gaze cast out over the tops of the gentle waves. Perhaps his mind had taken him somewhere else. Somewhere from his past. Somewhere that had caused him to reach out. Perhaps he hadn’t even realised he’d done it.

Then, Cyrus did something unexpected.

He didn’t pull away.

In fact, after a self-conscious pause, he took a quiet breath and leaned against him. Just slightly. Just enough.

You have been on my mind, perhaps even more than I expected you to be. I’ve been thinking of our conversations and how far we’ve both come from where we each began. Wondering how you are doing with all that you’ve been through and all that’s yet to come.

I am sorry I could not stay for the Tourney. Truly, I am. More than anything, I hope that its events grant you peace. You deserve that much, and more.

Regardless of how it turns out, know that I wish to be here for you, and would like nothing more than for you to allow me to be.

All the best,

Maleus

At first, the words made no sense - he read them with such haste that they blurred together in his mind. Then, frowning, he read them again, this time with the purpose of finding some hidden meaning. A code. A cry for help, perhaps, concealed within a heartfelt letter. Something. After all, that would make sense. It would be a reason. A purpose.

This... didn’t make sense.

The conversation he’d had with Maleus wasn’t something Cyrus dismissed the moment he’d left the embassy. In truth, he’d played it over and over again in his head the entire way to the Tourney; first as a matter of practicality, as the man had offered some valuable insights, then in shame as he realised how utterly pathetic he must have sounded, unloading his problems to the son of Ianto, the Terror of Llomerryn. As though the two could ever hope to compare.

Now, this letter...?

In truth, he had felt a connection to Maleus. Something he couldn’t explain in the moment, and had put down to a specific kind of shared misery, born from ruminating over less than ideal childhoods. Eventually, his attention pulled in other directions, he’d tried everything in his power to forget the conversation; the comforting touches, the wise yet caring words. Maker, he’d even tried to forget the swiftness with which Maleus had spirited him from the Winter Palace, getting him out of harm’s way the moment a threat had been made. The man had acted without hesitation. Without care for his own safety. Shit, he’d even put himself at risk by going out to negotiate with Silana Lorvain; saved Darren’s life without so much as raising a sword. 

What could a man like Maleus possibly see in someone like him?

With that question in mind, Cyrus re-read the letter. Slowly. Purposefully. His chest tightened at the apology; at the sincerity behind those written words. The hope that the duel between his father and Silana had brought him peace. 

It was better Maleus had not been there. Better that the whole affair go forgotten, for what good it had brought.

He was still holding the letter when another knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. “What?” he snapped, sharper than he intended. “What now?”

The door opened, far more confidently than before. “Good to see you’re as chipper as always.” Ralon stepped into the room as though it was his own. Just fucking typical. “Just checking in, prickles. You’ve been cooped up since...”

He trailed off. Cyrus knew why. Regardless, now was... this wasn’t...

The letter suddenly felt heavy in his hand.

“This isn’t a good time, Ralon.”

“Yeah, didn’t really expect it to be. Kinda why I’m here anyway.”

“No, I...” Cyrus set the letter down, as though that would somehow cause it to vanish. It had quite the opposite effect, with the tall Antivan craning his neck to take a look at the objects on the desk.

“What’ve you got there, huh?”

Some part of Cyrus screamed at him to lie. But... what good would that possible do? If this was something he... no. He couldn’t lie. “A letter,” he said simply. He might not lie but that didn’t mean he was champing at the bit to divulge everything. “And a... parcel.”

“Already?” Cocking a brow, Ralon wandered over and sat on the edge of the bed to the right of the desk. “That was quick. Shit news travels fast, huh?” He paused, a frown suddenly pinching his brow. “Unless... is it from your father?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“Maleus.”

There. It was out in the open. Ralon cocked his head. “Abano?” he asked. A smile spread across his lips. “Guess you two got along, back at the embassy, huh? How’s he going?”

Cyrus swallowed. Fuck, why was this so hard? “I... good, I suppose.” He fingered the edge of the letter, unsure of what to do with it. What to say. “You two are together, right?”

Ralon snorted, kicking one leg over the other as he leaned back on the bed. “Since when did you start taking an interest in my love-life?” When Cyrus didn’t rise to the bait, Ralon sighed. “I mean... we catch up, whenever he’s in town. Exchange letters sometimes, checking in on each other. That sort of thing. I wouldn’t say we’re together. We just... get together.” He waved a hand absently. “Port in a storm, and all that. You know I’m not one to pass up a good opportunity with a good person. They’re hard to find.”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Cyrus bit back the urge to just demand a straight answer. “So... what? Are you a couple or just screwing around?”

Ralon barked a laugh. “Is that all there is? Tethered at the hip or heartless fuck-buddies? Like I said, we get together, we have a good time, we go our separate ways. But we’re not looking to tie the knot, if you get me.”

It took a moment, but Cyrus supposed he got him. However, Ralon appeared to be catching on, the line of questioning sparking a curiosity in him. “... What’s the letter say? You never told me.”

Cyrus smoothed the edge with surprisingly unsteady fingertips. “It...” He tried to find the words. There was a good way to do this, wasn’t there? A right way? “He’s checking in on me. Seeing if I’m alright.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus could see Ralon tilt his head slightly, regarding him. “Yeah? That’s thoughtful of him.”

“Yeah.” It... really was. Outside of the small band of misfits he called a squad, Cyrus had never had anyone do that for him. “But... I don’t know what to make of the rest of it.”

“Shock of the century. You want me to translate? Mal sometimes waxes poetic when he gets carried away.”

Maybe that was the easiest way. Was it the right way? Cyrus had no idea. But before his mind even had a chance to catch up, he was handing the letter over, and Ralon’s brown eyes were flicking through it, scanning the neatly penned lines. 

Cyrus watched him. Watched for any sign of... Maker, he didn’t know what. Bitterness. Betrayal. Anger. Something. After all, serious or not, Ralon and Maleus had been hooking up. It was possible...

A smile spread across Ralon’s lips. “Cyrus, this is pretty much a love-letter.”

The news was like a slap to the face. “I... what? No it’s not. Is it?” Cyrus shook his head as if to clear it. “How the fuck did you get that?”

“Oh, come on!  ‘You have been on my mind.’ ...  ‘ You deserve that much, and more.’ ... ‘ I wish to be here for you, and would like nothing more than for you to allow me to be.’ ” The smile spreading into a full-blown grin, Ralon waved the letter in the air. “I don’t know what you two talked about, but you sure as hell left a mark.”

At first, Cyrus’ mouth just opened and closed. He had no idea what to say to that. He’d assumed he’d read too much into it; that he’d interpreted affection where there had simply been amiable concern. But Ralon knew Maleus as well, and as much as Cyrus hated to admit the Antivan was better than him in anything, relationships were much more his forte. 

In the end, he asked the first thing that came to his mind. “That... doesn’t piss you off?”

Glancing back at the letter, Ralon’s smile faded slightly, but it didn’t fully leave. “Ah, not really. I mean, sure, we had fun, but it was never some big exclusive thing.” He folded it carefully and held it out to Cyrus. But, as Cyrus tried to take it, Ralon held on. “What about you, though?” When Cyrus just fixed him with a confused look, the Antivan continued, “Are you just looking for a port in a storm, or...?”

Heat rushed to Cyrus’ cheeks, surprisingly for the first time since their conversation began. It seemed shock and nervousness had kept the flush at bay. “I... don’t know.” Brow pinched, Cyrus tugged the letter out of Ralon’s grasp and shifted in his chair. “When we spoke... I’ve never talked about that shit with anyone else.”

“What shit?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Another grin flashed across Ralon’s face. “Okay, so that’s a point for I’m into him. What else?”

It felt ridiculous, sitting there discussing his potential love-life with Ralon of all people. “He... gets it. The shit we talked about.All of that...” He made a vague gesture out the window, where the Tourney continued into its final days. It was clear, from his solemn nod, that Ralon knew he was not referring to the tournament itself; rather, a specific duel. “I don’t talk about it. Not to anyone. But with him...” Cyrus groaned, reaching up to rub his eyes. “I don’t fucking know - it just felt like I could.”

“Mal’s got a way of getting people to open up.”

“It wasn’t just that.” Lowering his hands, letting them rest in his lap, Cyrus gave a sharp sigh. “He talked about... finding my own way. Being my own Captain. It just... made sense. He knew how it felt to be defined by some other asshole’s actions, and for the first time...”

When Cyrus trailed off, Ralon give him a moment before prompting him gently. “What?”

“It felt like I didn’t have to be.”

Silence fell in the room. It was heavy, but not painful. Profound, but not uncomfortably so. Ralon was nodding to himself, a strange look on his face that Cyrus couldn’t quite place. As for Cyrus, he was so caught up in feelings he’d had no time to consider that he had no idea what else to say.

Luckily, Ralon always had an excess of words. “What’s in the package?”

The parcel. Remembering its presence, Cyrus reached for it, sliding it towards himself. He unwrapped it with fingers that shook slightly; why, he couldn’t for the life of him say. But soon he was holding a box, its weight solid and comfortable in his palm. “He didn’t have to get me anything,” was all Cyrus could think to murmur. His eyes were focused on the object, so he didn’t catch Ralon rolling his.

“Just open it already.”

Cyrus did. Inside the box, nestled in a soft foam, was... an ornate compass. Mesmerised, he lifted it out, turning it towards the light from the window. The needle swung around, red tip honing in on north until it pointed firmly in that direction no matter how he turned it. 

“Guess you can find your own way now.” Ralon’s words were soft, and when Cyrus finally tore his gaze from the compass, he could see a strange warmth in the Antivan’s eyes. He reached out and patted him twice on the knee, the action reassuring. Comforting. Approving. “You should write back,” he suggested, then stood, the bed creaking slightly beneath him. 

Something in Cyrus twisted at that moment. Panicked. “What the fuck am I supposed to say? I...” His stiff fingers curled around the compass. “I can’t match this, Ralon.”

A protective shove sent Reynolt staggering back, but he grinned, plausible deniability covered, and went in with a hard right hook to the dark-haired man’s face.

That’s when Maleus realized with horror who he was fighting. Cyrus.

As the fight went on, it took all he had to try to push through the crowd. It was pointless. No one was moving, and he couldn't get through...and Cyrus could be hurt...

Exasperated, he pulled a pouch from his waist band and untied it, flinging gold coins liberally across the bar and into the crowd. "Next rounds on me!" he yelled.

In the commotion of people rushing to the bar and clamoring for coins, he made a beeline for Cyrus, pulling him swiftly away from Reynolt and out the door.

Not wanting to go too far without checking to be sure he wasn't too hurt, he tucked behind the building then turned to face Cyrus, both hands resting gently on his arms. "Are you alright?" he asked, frowning at the bleeding lip.

"Maleus?" Cyrus asked, tone coming off irritated but in reality more embarrassed. "What're you doing here?"

"I got your letter. But perhaps I should be asking what you are doing here."

"Was just there for a drink. That bastard Reynolt decided to talk shit."

Maleus sighed, and sat down right there in the grass, patting the space beside him. "I know. But you know he does it because he knows he can get a rise out of you. And well..."

He wanted to say he thought Cyrus let him, but that perhaps sounded harsher than he intended. "Is this what you meant at the embassy? About 'living up to expectations', since you presume people are going to treat you like shit anyway?"

Cyrus huffed, raking his aching hands through his hair. Perhaps he was too drained to protest, or perhaps there was just something about Maleus that made it hard to want to snap back.

"Fuck, I don't know...maybe."

He almost left it at that, but a twinge in insecurity compelled him to rationalize. "But you don't know that guy. He's always got it out for our Squad, no matter what we do or don't do."

Maleus shook his head. "But goading him into a fight? You're better than this, Cyrus. You're better than him."

"Am I?" he snapped, no bite left behind it.

"Absolutely," Maleus replied immediately. He reached over, resting a hand on his knee. "And you don't deserve to be hit. So stop...doing this to yourself!" Softer, more weakly, he added, "...please." After all, it hurt him to see this, too. For reasons he could hardly describe.

"I get that you're upset about your father. Shit, I would be too. I never even got my hopes up for justice, but if I had, and then it was gone, I can imagine how devastating that'd be."

He reached over and brushed Cyrus hair back from his face, fingers lingering there over his ear before he pulled away. "You said nothing changed, that nothing good came out of it. But it did. The Lorvains' claim is satisfied. You are safe. And that isn't nothing."

Maleus’ throat felt thick as he swallowed, staring into those pale blue eyes, still bleary with pain. "Not to me."