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It’s hard to admire his ensemble though, because Malix looks…well, I don’t know how to describe it other thanflustered, and I’ve never really found Malix to be flustered in the short time I’ve known him. He stands awkwardly on the threshold, almost like he didn’t expect me to open the door, and I stand equally awkwardly on the other side.
“Uh…” I bite my lip. “Wrong room?”
He shakes his head vigorously, eternally oblivious to sarcasm.
“Not the wrong room,” he says. “I wanted to speak with you.”
I nod, sobering right away. “Come on in.”
I step back to clear the way, and Malix makes himself right at home by stepping through and heading straight for the balcony. He grips the railing tight, his knuckles popping as he curls his shoulders forward and closes his eyes.
I come to stand beside him, watching closely.
He keeps his eyes shut.
“Careful gripping the railing like that or you’ll pull something,” I joke.
It doesn’t land—naturally.
“I feel…unwell,” he mutters, finally opening his eyes. They shine like labradorite, glistening more than normal. “Ever since I boarded Jaya, I’ve felt unwell.”
“I mean, you went through…something horrible,” I say, words failing me. “Kinda makes sense.”
Malix doesn’t respond, his shoulders heaving. I try to think about how to grapple with this when I’ve barely allowed myself to deal with my own tragedy over the years. It’s strange, though, because I feel like only Malix and Taraven have made me able to think about Gus after all this time.
“You don’t need to be stoic and…and normal, not right now,” I say. “Something terrible happened to you.”
“But I was trained to expect such things and to survive,” he says.
“Youaresurviving,” I say. “Feeling fucked up about the whole thing counts as surviving.”
“I do not know whatfuk-tup—”
“Human thing,” I interrupt. “But it’s not like…there would be something wrong with you if you just moved past the destruction of your homeworld, Malix. You’re showing compassion, not weakness. And I…admire that.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, and immediately remember what seems to happen every time we touch. Heat—horrible, incredible, pleasurable heat courses through my veins from the point of contact. I close my eyes, but can’t force myself to tear my hand away.
When I open my eyes again, he’s staring right at me.
“That is not what makes me feel so unmoored, Frankie,” he murmurs. “It’syou.”
I frown, shaking my head. “Uh…what the hell does that mean?”
“You and Taraven,” he says. “You make me weak.”
He pulls away from me and stalks back inside, raking his hands back through his hair. It’s getting longer again, stubble growing on his chin, but it’s still short for his kind—and I know the Lyra pride themselves on their long hair. Malix tugs on the strands, rolling his neck like he’s trying to expel sensation.
“Excuse me?” I say, following him inside. “You can’t pin this on us. We’ve just been trying to befriend you.”
“And I have suffered for it,” he says. “I’m losing my edge, getting bold when I shouldn’t be and afraid when I’m…”
He turns to face me, his hands still tangled in his hair. His face is twisted in a grimace, looking for all the world like he’s terrified.
“I’m always afraid, Frankie,” he says. “I’ve already lost so much.”
He leans back against the wall and drags his slender hands over his face, his fringe flaring turquoise. I move tentatively toward him. I don’t know what he wants or needs from me right now, and I’m afraid to touch him.
I don’t even try, stopping short just a couple feet from him.
