Chapter Text
Maxwell is pacing the deck in the hours before dawn. It’s a habit he picked up early in the adventure towards Zood on the Zephyr: a restlessness that settles in his bones while he waits for the next fight. He falls back into it easily now aboard the Zephyr III, only a day after the fight with the Corrodi. He hasn’t slept yet, unable to shake loose the feeling that’s caught in his chest.
They’d won, had saved Ludmilla, lost Comfrey, and murdered his father. The aftermath of the fight had been almost equally stressful: the funeral and the arrangements for their next adventure towards Shahar had taken over quickly. He’d hardly slept the first night, and now he finds himself unable to force himself to stay in bed awake any longer. His body still feels like a live wire, and there’s still someone’s blood under his nails. He wonders, briefly, who it belongs to.
Torse’s heavy footfalls behind him aren’t unexpected, nor are they unwelcome. In this state, he may turn away anyone else, but it doesn’t feel the same need to do that with Torse. He also can’t seem to parse out why he feels that way, though maybe it’s just that Max is grateful for Torse’s presence at all. It had been a big decision for the automaton to accompany them on this adventure, to attempt to finish the beloved professor’s work who had given him his golden heart knowing that the Aganti Zernai would be there awaiting his return. They don’t speak for several long moments, though Maxwell is keenly aware of the weight of the automaton’s gaze on him.
“You have not rested,” Torse says finally. There’s no judgement in the statement, just observation and the slightest tinge of something Maxwell can almost convince himself is concern. He is certain he’s imagining it.
“Can’t,” is all he can force out in return for a few moments. Torse waits patiently for him to continue. “It feels like the fight isn’t over, like I should have done more. I can’t get it out of my system.”
Torse nods in understanding slowly, a low rumbling noise emitting from him as his gears literally turn, attempting to puzzle out a solution. Maxwell finds the noise strangely comforting; while he may have a ‘tone issue’ himself, he also can never seem to parse out what the rest of the crew is feeling. Despite his lack of face, the clicks and whirrs of Torse’s mechanical body coupled with his straightforward attitude are easy to decipher.
“I understand that beings of flesh have biological functions, such as adrenaline, that are built to keep them active in dangerous situations. Could this be the cause of your struggle?” He asks, and Maxwell finally stops his pacing to turn and shrug. The moment his feet are still, he finds his hands in need of action, clenching and unclenching over and over again to release some of his pent up energy.
“Perhaps, my friend, though you need not concern yourself with it. It is a feeling that finds me in the lull between fights, and it will fade. I used to go seek out the ring of Gentleman Fisters when I was at Revington, but there’s no such ring here,” he says, a little wistfully.
Torse tilts his head, considering. “While I have no necessity of upkeep the way you do, the need to practice my fighting, it was not uncommon among the Zernai long ago to spar as a form of entertainment. We could do so now, to help ‘get it out of your system’, as it were,” he offers, and Maxwell feels himself nodding before the other man can finish speaking.
The two of them had discussed sparring, briefly, at some point between collecting Torse at Ramansu and the trip to Zern, but had never had the opportunity to make good on the plan. Now, as Maxwell feels his body key up, getting ready for the fight, he finds that he’s excited.
They settle on the main part of the deck with the most room for a fight, and he watches Torse take up a defensive stance. He slides his blades at his knuckles and joints into a compartment, though that does nothing for the spikes adorning his body, and Maxwell gets a bit of a thrill at the idea of having to hold his own against Torse, as if there was a level of real stakes, even though he obviously trusts the man to not kill him. Maxwell takes up a defensive stance himself, though, unsurprisingly, Torse is waiting for him to strike first.
Maxwell darts in quickly— using Torse’s lack of maneuverability to his immediate advantage—aiming for his stomach. As expected, Torse’s defensive priority is his heart, so he manages one good hit in the vulnerable spot before the other man can react. From there, it’s a flurry of blows between them, and Maxwell loses track of everything except the thrill of it for a time he’s unsure of. At some point, the edge of a spike catches across Maxwell’s cheekbone, and he feels a laugh of exhilaration rattle in his chest before throwing himself back into it. It’s only when, the sun having risen, the other members of the crew begin to gather around to take bets that he’s given as good as he’s gotten, with the joint of Torse’s elbow clicking each time he throws a punch after a particularly rowdy grapple attempt.
“C’mon Max!” Olethra and Marya cheer him on, and the encouragement spurs him onward. Daisuke and Monty are both rooting for Torse, which is fair. It’s too even of a fight to call, even with the strength of a Revington man— Torse is simply too spectacular a specimen. Van is shouting a play-by-play to the gathering crew, and even Ludmilla is watching, wide-eyed, like she hadn’t expected him to hold his own. This is the thrill of a spectator fight, exactly what he’d been craving. No real stakes, just the honor of gritting his teeth through it and busting his knuckles against another fighter, close and intimate and bloody.
Finally, finally, Maxwell manages to get himself wrapped around Torse, jackknifeing him into a pin as the tension in his body releases, his restlessness from before settled into something warm and heavy in his chest as the other man taps the deck. Maxwell stands, his muscles sagging slightly from the exertion, but he stands tall and offers Torse a hand up. The other man stands, pulling himself up with Maxwell’s steady grip and pulling the smaller man close, knocking their foreheads together in a way that hurts but dances that perfect line of pleasurepain that he’s already reveling in.
“You are an admirable opponent, my friend. I thank you for the fight,” Maxwell says, low in the small space between them.
“As are you, Maxwell. It was an honor to spar, and to offer you some relief. I hope we will do this again, another time.” He says, and Maxwell feels his heart stutter oddly in his chest before they’re both being tugged at, and— oh, right, everyone else is here too. Marya and Olethra are hugging him now, and he lifts each of them off the ground a bit for show, but he doesn’t catch a word they’re saying. Instead, he hears Torse’s voice clear as day: “Do not forget to rest, Maxwell.”
He finally tunes into the two women as he sets them down, and Olethra is a stream-of-consciousness he simply cannot follow, so he focuses on Marya instead. “You did well, little Gotch! Are you alright, though? That cut looks deep,” She asks, concerned.
Maxwell brings his hand up to his cheek, feeling where the blood has already slowed and begun to dry on his face. He can't help but smile at her concern, but he’s quick to reassure her, “Of course I’m alright, Marya, I’ve had worse. I’ll tape it up and get some rest and it’ll heal perfectly fine. In fact, I’m looking forward to our next bout.”
— — — — —
Maxwell ends up doing as he’s told and taking most of his day to rest in his room after that, though he doesn’t allow himself to sleep it away. He takes his time in shedding the sweaty clothes he had on before and washing the blood off of himself, both his own from this fight and his enemies’ from the last one. He stretches his body just to feel the burn of it in his certainly-bruised ribs. He appreciates the red rawness on his fists, the way they ache as he slowly clenches and unclenches them, knowing he’s surely going to have bruises from this. He leaves his shirt off and his wounds without patching them up once they’re clean, figuring he can do it before he steps out of his room so no one frets. He can't help the spark of emotion that makes him want to keep them as they are.
It’s not until much, much later that Torse seeks him out, almost nightfall just as Maxwell is beginning to struggle to keep his eyes open. There’s a knock on his door, and Torse enters when Max calls out his permission. He feels a surge of appreciation; certain other members of the crew, while wonderful, would have simply come in.
“Maxwell,” Torse saying his name snaps him out of his thoughts. “I was hoping to catch you before you went to bed. I hope this isn’t a bad time?” he asks, his voice tentative. Maxwell shakes his head, waving the other man inside, and Torse’s visor glows brighter in satisfaction.
“No, not bad at all,” he assures, then pats the spot next to himself on the edge of bed. “Is something on your mind?” he asks, but whatever may have brought Torse to him in the first place is seemingly quickly forgotten when Torse sees Max’s persisting injuries.
“You are wounded. Did you not have the necessary supplies to heal yourself?” Torse asks, and this time Maxwell knows it’s concern in his tone. The automaton gestures towards his hands, and Maxwell flexes them again.
“No, I have a first aid kit, I just… to be perfectly frank, I’m proud of it. It’s a badge of honor: to have fought against you and have the marks to prove it.” He hears himself say, though he hadn’t put words to that thought until that very moment.
Torse tilts his head slightly, assessing the statement. “So this is sentiment?” he asks, and Maxwell nods in return. Torse considers for a few moments, then slowly flexes his arm until his elbow clicks again, and Maxwell may be kidding himself but he swears he sees the other man’s eyes flash brighter for a moment. “There is a cog that needs to be slipped back into place in my joint, though I have procrastinated on this task all day. I believe this is a display of sentimentality as well, though I had not previously identified it as such.”
Maxwell feels his breath catch in his throat instantly, and he gently raises his hands to cradle the arm Torse has extended towards him, his feather-light touch tracing the delicate metalwork there. He finds his mouth suddenly dry as an idea occurs to him.
“Perhaps we could help each other,” he suggests after a moment of struggling to find his words, “If you’d allow it, I would slide the gear back into place for you. If you’re interested, you could apply the bandage to my wound in return.” Torse’s inner mechanisms give a tick-tick-whirrr as he considers, a puff of steam coming from the vent at his neck.
“That would be preferable to the alternatives.” the automaton answers finally, and Maxwell feels anxiety he didn’t know was building release at once. “Allow me to treat your wounds first, my friend. I do not believe it is good for humans to leave injuries uncovered, regardless of the reasoning.”
Maxwell lets out a soft, fond laugh at his words and stands to collect the first aid kit. He opens it and hands Torse the butterfly bandages, then the wrappings for his hands. The wrapping of his hands goes fairly quickly, though he finds his body shudders involuntarily at the feeling of Torse’s cool metal hands brushing against the now-bruised, too-hot skin.
“Use the bandages to hold the two halves of the cut together,” Maxwell instructs as the other man sets the wrappings aside to focus on his face. They turn to face each other more directly than they had been before, and Maxwell is struck by the fact he’s never been this intimate with another person outside of a fight before. He typically tends to his own injuries due the nature of the secrecy in which he has been forced to live. If anyone from the high society he was raised in had caught onto the fact that he was Gentleman Fister, he would have been ostracized more than he was already, disregarded as a rowdy. Here, with Torse, in the wake of his father’s death, he feels the weight of that expectation fully leave him for the first time No one here on the Zephyr II wanted him to be anything other than the rowdy he is, least of all Torse, who seems to both perfectly understand his wildness and share his ability to think more realistically than the rest of the crew.
Torse’s hands, blades retracted, come up to gently prod at the tender flesh of his face. Though the sharp points of his fingertips still dig in, Torse seems to be using the side of his fingers as much as possible, and manages to avoid breaking any more skin as he applies the bandages one-by one. When Maxwell hisses in pain at the sensation, just once, Torse gives him a concerned glance, though he seems reassured by Max’s nod to continue. In such close proximity, he can feel the steam rolling out of Torse’s vent steadily, damp and hot against his face as the other man carefully adjusts Maxwell’s head this way and that, inspecting the repair. Maxwell feels strangely content with the closeness, with the fact that it’s Torse stitching up his wounds after being the one to inflict them.
When Torse seems satisfied with his work, he releases Maxwell’s face, though the spell of silence they both seem to be under isn’t broken. Torse extends his arm once again, and Maxwell is gratified by the harsh click that accompanies the motion. He ghosts his hands over the joint again, causing Torse’s internal mechanisms to whirrr to life. Then, he gently starts poking at each visible piece of the gearwork, his fingers exploring the unfamiliar landscape of his companion’s body until he finds the piece that moves under his ministrations. He closes two fingers on either side of the gear and slides it back into place between two others, smiling when he hears the telltale steady tick-tick-tick of success as Torse bends and re-extends his arm.
All at once, the closeness between them is no longer excusable by way of playing medic, and Maxwell finds himself unable to place why his heart starts racing at the thought of that. His heartbeat pounds too loud in his ears as he lingers, neither of them ready to shatter the moment.
He leans back, and quickly Torse does the same, standing from the bed as a new burst of steam rushes out of him. Maxwell finds himself missing the heat of having Torse's engine so close to him, like he’s been basking in the sun and a sudden cloud brought on a chill.
“Thank you, Maxwell, for your tending to my injury,” the automaton says, voice staticky and stilted oddly. For once, Maxwell is completely baffled as to what that could mean.
“Thank you as well, for returning the favor, and for the fight that caused the wounds in the first place,” he responds, and Torse nods his acknowledgement.
“I should let you rest, and return to my quarters to go on standby for the night,” the other man says, and then he’s gone.
Maxwell stays rooted to that same spot on the end of his bed, hands tracing the bandages Torse had applied to him, before he manages to lay down and fall asleep.
— — — — —
The next few days are a rush. Early the next morning, they’re boarded by another ship, part of a crime syndicate from within Shahar that is already on their trail, and from there it’s fight after fight, running and sleeping when they can for almost a week, never staying the night.
He and Torse see each other—, of course, considering they share a ship—, but the most time they truly interact is as they fight side-by-side in battle. They work fluidly in tandem, a perfect completion of each other’s fighting style. Maxwell restrains while Torse goes for the kill or vice versa, and they watch each other’s backs.
The two of them are in the center of the battlefield together, taking on a swarm of enemies as the rest of the crew attempts to repair the ship from their last battle for their exit. Marya and Ludmilla are working as fast as they can with Van and Olethra as their guards. Daisuke has perched himself on higher ground and is picking off their enemies from afar, but Maxwell and Torse stay right in the middle of the fray. With the automaton at his back, it's easy to get lost in the pure thrill of it all. He doesn't have to worry about being surrounded, just taking out the guy in front of him. At one point, Torse gives him a boost for an elevated neckbreaker, the knives of his knuckles scraping Max's back harmlessly in a way that only makes him grin. He throws himself into the next enemy just as quickly, pushing them back until they're skewered by the blade protruding from Torse's elbow.
In the heat of the moment, Maxwell doesn’t hesitate for a second before jumping in front of the blade that almost ends his life.
He sees the enemy slink out of the shadows in the moments before the attack, aiming a knife at the side chink in Torse’s armor, the space between two ribs that could let them damage his heart, and Maxwell leaps without thinking into the fray, regardless of the fact that he’s already well beyond bloodied. He’s right to do so, and he knows it even as he’s falling to the ground.