#magmadarling

[kalosianflower-blog]

table for two ⚜ lysandre&maxie

@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.”

[torngalaxy-blog]

aftermath ✦ cyrus&maxie

@magmadarling

He has to resist the urge to light up after after, strictly out of habit. He has to resist the urge to get dressed and leave, stand outside until daybreak, until the cold has robbed him of his ability to feel shame and regret for his actions.

Does he regret this?

He isn’t sure. Cyrus spends a long time in the bathroom, staring his own face down in the mirror. Or at least, what he thinks might be a long time. Maxie isn’t asleep when Cyrus slips back into the doorway either, eyeliner half off and a makeup wipe in one shaking hand. He acts with a deliberate preoccupation when he speaks to Maxie, the mild sting of the makeup remover on at his eyes a welcome distraction.

“Feel better?”

He isn’t sure in what sense he means that. It’s pointed, scalding, but not any more than his usual conversations with Maxie are. Funny that he should choose to speak with Maxie like usual after he’s just... taken him to bed.

The room is chilly, air prickling at his bare legs and torso. He should have put something else on besides his underwear. Maxie hasn’t asked about the scar but that doesn’t make Cyrus feel any less self-conscious of it. He doesn’t want to think about dying at a time like this.

Not here, in the dim light of his quarters at Galactic HQ, at least. Not with Maxie in his bed, a danger he ought to keep a close eye on. He does so, when he finishes with the makeup remover, stinging eyes trained keenly on the man. Cyrus imagines he should feel distaste and hatred, annoyance, as usual. Mostly, he just feels tired.

Cyrus perches on the edge of the bed, still refusing to look at him, eyes cast around to the clocks and calendars plastering the walls like an obsession. Has to remind himself to speak louder around Maxie, that hushed tones and veiled whispers get him nowhere, here.

“I was curious what you would do. What you will do.”

[torngalaxy-blog]

moving on { au }

@magmadarling

Maxie is not allowed in the bedroom. It’s one of their years-old rules, one of the first things Cyrus had put his foot down on by excuse of needing some space and privacy every now and then. The miraculous part is that Maxie actually listened to that, and respected Cyrus’s wishes.

He never thought he’d be wishing Maxie wouldn’t, for once. Cyrus watches the closed door for what seems like hours, but no translucent red figure comes through, and the apartment itself seems too quiet for what Cyrus is used to dealing with when he has a restless and bored spirit guide on his hands.

It’s been two days and he hasn’t gotten out of bed except for glasses of water and to use the bathroom. Almost dying does that, Cyrus supposes. The weight of the universe is still settling, uncomfortably, in his head. He’s slept through most of the past 48 hours, but now, awake, the pressure in his skull is impossible to ignore.

He has a nagging feeling he’s never going to feel normal again. As if normal was possible in the first place, living as a medium, tied to a ghost he can’t stand.

Cyrus briefly entertains the idea of staying in bed until he rots, and Maxie, hopefully, gets to move on this time instead of passed down to some nonexistent relative; it’s not that he isn’t grateful to be alive, he’d just...

...Came to terms with dying, too. Cyrus is very, very tired. He gets out of bed slowly, head throbbing. He doesn’t know exactly what it is Maxie did to him, the memories of it a flash of color just out of his reach. When he concentrates, he can feel phantom hands on his face, a breath of cold air against skin. He doesn’t know exactly what it is Maxie did to him, but it may need to happen again. Soon.

It takes a long time for Cyrus to drag himself to the door, and when he opens it, it’s all he can do to lean against the doorframe, teeth gritted.

“Maxie.” His voice is quiet, throat scratchy. He doesn’t spot the ghost immediately, but it’s impossible for him to have gone far. “I’m. My head. Is killing me.” Literally, all things considered. A little louder, more insistent, voice cracking: “Maxie.”