#soz for stealing the title but im lazy and you know it

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Still On My Mind (pt. 2)

A continuation of this wonderful fic by @lavellanlove, based on our novel-length RP. In which Cyrus finally has a chance to realise he’s developed more feelings than he expected for Maleus...

At the sound of a knock on his door, Cyrus stirred, groaning softly as he pried his face from the surface of his desk. The tourney, and everything that had happened, had left him utterly drained. Rubbing his cheek roughly, he cleared his throat and called, “What?”

There was an uncertain pause. “Ser -- uh, Ser Cyrus?” the voice beyond the door asked. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Take away the family name, and suddenly Orlesians didn’t know what to do. But he answered in the affirmative and the door creaked open, revealing a young woman in serving attire. “Apologies, Ser. You have a parcel.”

Frowning, Cyrus looked her over once then turned away. “If it’s from someone called ‘Joustis’, just toss it over there.” He gestured sharply to the left side of the room. In the silence, he could practically hear the slow, uncertain movement of her eyes.

“The... fireplace?” 

“Yes.”

She seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly. “My apologies, but it is not from, ah... anyone by that name.”

That was truly unexpected. Who on Thedas would be writing to him? Curiosity piqued, Cyrus turned and stood, tugging his shirt sharply back into place as he moved. “Fine. Give it to me.”

They met halfway across the room, and with a hasty curtsy the servant practically fled for the safety of the hallway. Inspecting the letter and small package, Cyrus turned it over in his hands. The penmanship was... well, excellent, frankly. The letters of his name seemed to come alive on the front of the envelope. 

He set down the parcel and reached for his belt, tossed haphazardly on the side of the desk, he slid out a small blade and slit the top of the letter...

Dearest Cyrus,

Fuck, that alone was enough to give him pause.

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.”

The Antivan’s hand came to rest on his shoulders. “You can thank him, for a start. Tell him what happened. Tell him how you are - and don’t lie about it for once, okay? At least give the guy the truth.” He released him and headed towards the door. However, just before he left, Ralon paused, then added, “If I were you... I’d also tell him you want to thank him in person for that gift he sent you. It’s a damn nice compass.”