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Maxwell’s is the first touch Torse has been granted outside violence or necessity in many long years. There have been few Torse was willing to trust, and fewer still who granted him the same. Acclimatizing to Zood was a study in failure: he understood social strictures only after he had broken them and struggled to soften his words so they would not be taken as blows.
The most painful lesson was how to become comfortable with distance. Torse is no scholar, nor scientist, but he learned that one well enough.
No amount of deference or politeness could overcome the barely-restrained Naughtomaton that Zoodians see in his cast-iron body and burning calefactory flame. Torse knows that many believe his golden heart is Professor MacLeod’s way of keeping him docile. Perhaps it is, because the pain of living in this world, surrounded yet alone, empty despite his heart, might very well have driven him mad.
Torse is not welcome here, not truly, and he knows it. In many ways he prefers it, because there is nothing to distract from his rage. From his people and his home. Yet he cannot deny he craves community— connection. There is a need in Torse that has him desperately searching in the same half-madness he develops as his body begins to fail without his heart.
He had not realized his desperation extended to touch, having gone so long without it that the lack was just another gear in his heart. This pain, like many, had been constant enough to ignore.
Until Maxwell reached his hand out to offer a friendship ritual. Now, the desperate, half-mad yearning is a surging pressure through his tubing, so systemic there is nowhere his mind can retreat. His wires have been crossed and overloaded. It is undeniable. Unforgettable.
Unbearably cold.
Torse only generates heat through his heart, and many of his extremities do not share the temperature regulation of his flesh companions. He feels touch and temperature, and experiences pain as warnings of both: intense heat accelerates corrosion, and intense cold leaves him brittle. Even without his iron heart, he cannot ignore how brittle his soul has become.
Not anymore.
Maxwell radiated heat so intensely that Torse, despite the glove’s barrier, was scorched. Even now, his own hand aches with it.
Torse cradles iron knuckles in an iron palm. Despite himself, he wants.
In the earliest light of dawn, the clouds are powdered pastels. Torse keeps himself facing the open sky as they fly towards Katur. Laughter and chattering ring out from the mess, where the Zephyr’s earliest risers are breaking their fast. The Wind Riders have made it clear, despite his inability to eat, that Torse is always welcome to join them. He would have, if he could get this damned desire under control.
He has learned this lesson. He has. He can want companionship, and accept allyship. He can want trust, and accept tolerance. He can want solace, and accept shelter.
(He can want worthiness for iron, and accept gold.)
He knows better than to ask for more than he’s offered. He knows how to want so quietly no one else ever hears it. Torse is painfully aware that the transaction ends when the hand retracts.
He tightens one fist around the other, substituting pressure for heat.
The ritual has ended, and it was good.
So why is it not good enough?
“Do you mind if I hang out here with you?” Maxwell asks from his left.
Torse has the composure not to jump, but inside his mind is a cacophony.
Fucking damn his whole entire life. Damn it all to hell. Let the Beast’s flame burn him into nothingness.
He turns to look at Maxwell, who is cradling his grandfather’s mug with hands covered by his maroon sweater sleeves. He has yet to put in his pomade, so his mustache lays naturally and his hair curls at the ends. His skin is slightly flushed from either wind or the steam of his drink. Sunlight plays with the color of his irises. What little Torse knows of softness is from his own lack, but he is quite sure that Maxwell is the softest sight he’s ever seen.
Bare fingertips tap against ceramic.
Torse should probably step off the ship’s edge before he does something stupid.
Instead, he asks, “Why?”
It’s a foolish question, and were he in his right mind he would never say anything that could be perceived as ungrateful, but it’s also an opportunity to lower his own expectations. If Maxwell is avoiding the chaos of the mess, or greeting everyone already awake, Torse can remind himself of his unimportance. The ritual was offered, and it was good, but friendship does not necessitate priority. If he is less, he can accept less.
Maxwell quirks a brow. “It’s a lovely morning, thought I’d share it with a friend.”
As he says ‘friend’, Maxwell brings the mug to his lips. It is completely ineffective at hiding the grin that spreads, uncontrolled and sweet, across his face. He has a dimple in his right cheek. Torse thinks that getting his heart ripped out would be kinder to it than what it’s being subjected to now.
“Yes,” Torse says, wanting and wanting and wanting. “Good idea.”
He takes a seat on a nearby crate to provide himself some distance, and tries to play Olethra’s game of finding pictures in the clouds. There is the Beast. A hoard of Naughtomata. A nut pug. Another nut pug. Maxwell sitting warm and close, yet not quite touching. A third nut pug.
Torse is almost desperate enough to ask for a spar, an activity he is sure Maxwell would agree to whole-heartedly, but he knows his brittle soul would shatter if it felt Maxwell’s touch as violence.
Still, a grapple is close enough to a hug. Torse can want a hand and accept a fist, even if the fist will ruin him.
“Do you truly wish to go to Zern?” He asks instead, making himself look over at his friend.
(Perhaps if Maxwell says no, that he’s changed his mind, Torse can shatter without so much as a tap.)
Maxwell cocks his head, “Of course I do. It sounds like quite the adventure, and I’m honored to be the one you asked.”
Then, almost imperceptibly, Maxwell flinches, before straightening his spine, puffing out his chest, and smoothing his expression. He stares into his mug, grip tightening and releasing in an unsteady rhythm. “Unless you’ve changed your mind. Then no harm, no foul, my friend. I can understand being picky about who you want to join you for something so important. Especially after all the frivolous adventurers who’ve tried to help.”
A smile reappears on his face, but it does not crease his skin like the one before. It is barely there. Brittle.
“I have not changed my mind, Maxwell,” Torse denies emphatically, hand landing between them as he fully faces his friend. “That was not a request I would ever make lightly, or without consideration. You are exactly the adventurer I need in Zern, do not doubt that.”
Torse makes no mention of the wanting. Saying Maxwell would ease his loneliness was the most acceptable way he could verbalize it, and there is no chance he would have anywhere near as much eloquence now. His mind is stuck on cravings: Maxwell’s fingers interlocking his, Maxwell’s hand stroking along his jaw and under his chin, Maxwell’s arms around his torso, Maxwell’s legs resting in his lap, Maxwell leaning against him, their heads tipping together.
“Oh.” Maxwell’s shoulders loosen as he blows out a breath. He nods. “Okay, good.”
A moment later, he shakes his head. “Why’d you ask, then? If not to do that weird thing where people encourage me to decline an offer so they don’t have to feel bad about retracting it.”
Torse snarls. “I detest that tactic. Zoodians and Gathie alike complicate everything into absurdity under the guise of politeness.”
Maxwell laughs. “Yeah, it sucks. Completely unsporting.”
Torse hums, and for a moment the wanting ebbs, sated by this small bit of emotional closeness. “To your question, I simply wished to confirm that your mind had not changed. As I told you, Zern is a hard land. Our journey would be far more dangerous, with fewer resources, and... the professor and her crew always found the sights of Zood to be far more inviting.”
That was putting it far more delicately than they ever did. In their words, Zern is a trash heap. A dump. A wasteland. Once, while Comfrey was heavily inebriated and feeling inspired, she called it a home only a tyrant could love. She had no recollection of their conversation the next day, but Torse was not granted the same luxury. There is a Gathie saying Monty had taught him that Torse finds quite fitting: the axe forgets, but the tree remembers. Certainly, her words had cut.
“The more dangerous the better, I say.” Maxwell grins in the way Little One bares his teeth. “We’re both serious men, we’re more than capable of handling serious challenges.”
Looking Torse head on, Maxwell adds, “And if Zern made you, I’m sure I’ll find it gorgeous.”
A flock of seabirds passes overhead.
The clockwork of Torse’s heart ticks faster, and it is likely that if he had his iron heart in he would be dead.
Maxwell turns bright red, from his collar to his ears. His shoulders raise as his gaze tracks across the sea of clouds. “Oh, wow. That cloud over there looks so much like a... nut pug.”
Torse’s wanting crashes over him, torrential and all-encompassing. He is so cold and Maxwell, right next to him, is brimming with warmth. But Maxwell has turned away, cutting off that line of dialogue, and Torse knows better than to ask for what isn’t given. He has spent so much time learning that lesson. He can want more, and accept less.
He can he can he can he can he can (even when it hurts).
“There is an entire battalion of them,” Torse agrees, trying desperately to catalog the part of him most closely connected to his yearning so after this conversation he can seclude himself in an unpopulated compartment and bash that defective part with a hammer.
Maxwell sets his mug aside and begins picking at a loose strand in his sleeve. The curling hair at the nape of his neck looks incredibly soft. He keeps throwing glances at Torse even as they continue on their cloud-labeling game, which Torse only catches because he is barely paying attention to the clouds.
Would it be wrong to ask? Maybe not, but it would certainly be uncomfortable, and overstepping his bounds might cause Maxwell to step away from their friendship entirely. On the other hand, they have bonded over their preference for blunt communication and Maxwell does not seem the type to abandon a person over one misstep.
Torse is so fucking lonely, and so fucking sick of only ever being touched like a weapon.
Were he with the Aganti, it would be a simple matter of asking— of tilting his head to meet another’s in greeting or thankfulness. But he has spent so long in Zood intentionally staying out of others’ space so they would have less reason to treat him like a ticking bomb or a sleeper Nautomaton. He does not know how to stop playing the part of tamed monster, even in the presence of someone who sees him as a man.
He is unsalvageable material, and he has learned nothing except for how much suffering he can endure.
Maxwell’s hand had been so warm.
Fuck.
“Maxwell?”
“Mm?”
“I understand this might be a strange request,” Torse says, curling into himself in anticipation of denial. “But... would you—”
This is so damned excruciating. It’d cause Torse less distress to get all his fine parts removed by a Corrodi.
Warm fingertips touch his arm, and Torse’s body leans heavy against them without his permission. It’s so good. Maybe he doesn’t have to ask. Maybe he can pretend he had a separate question. Maybe this can be good enough.
“What’s wrong? What do you need?”
(Why is it never good enough?)
Maxwell’s face is inches away, decorated with fading scars, freckles, and pockmarks. His brows are scrunched and one has been carved by a still-healing gash. Torse has little understanding of Gathie biology, but he doesn’t need to know how Maxwell’s parts function to understand that the man is beautiful and warm.
“Torse?”
“Hold me,” Torse begs. “Please, Maxwell, I— I’m so, I’m sorry, but I need—”
A warm hand clasps the base of Torse’s helm and pulls him into Maxwell’s chest. The hand on his arm slides to his back and rubs circles of heat into his spine. Humid breath condenses on his temple.
“I’m here, Torse. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
Torse shudders, overwhelmed by the simultaneous satiation and unleashed need. This is exactly what he asked for, better than he ever expected, and still Torse wants more. He pushes further into inviting arms, sliding to the deck so his friend’s legs are on either side of his ribs, wrapping his arms tight around Maxwell’s waist and burying his face into the plush cable-knit over a rapidly beating heart.
Maxwell is motionless as he shifts, but once Torse finally settles, his friend melts into him. Muscular thighs cinch around his ribs, grappler’s arms fold loose across his gorget, and a soft cheek rests heavily against his temple. Torse’s head rises and falls with the long, deep breaths Maxwell takes.
He feels... settled.
“What brought this on?” Maxwell asks, eventually, idly tracing patterns around the spikes on Torse’s back. “Not that I mind, to be clear.”
Torse hums. “It is a frivolous problem to have, but I’ve not been close to another in this way in...”
He shakes his head, incidentally nuzzling into soft fabric. “I do not know. Since before my arrival in Zood, at the very least. The lack of it overwhelmed me, today. Thank you.”
“There is no need to thank me, and this isn’t frivolous,” Maxwell denies, voice grave. He tightens his hold. “Touch starvation is a serious issue, Torse.”
“Touch starvation? You Gathie have a term for it?”
Maxwell snorts. “I was surprised, too, when Samwell explained it to me. I almost didn’t believe him, but Sam is too reasonable to be wrong about that kind of thing. And he was right. Hugging him and Wealwell on a regular basis made it easier to breath. It certainly saved the faces of at least a few of my opponents in the ring.”
“You were...?” Torse is surprised, he hadn’t expected Maxwell to be someone who would suffer a condition such as this.
Maxwell slides his head lower, so his hushed words stay in the sacred space between them. “Before I learned to fight, my asshole father taught me how to take a hit. Through repeated experience. It was a lesson Hatwell was quite fond of, too.”
Torse’s hands slide up Maxwell’s back, desperate to protect his friend from what has long since come to pass. Rage stokes in him, only kept at bay by the fingers rubbing warmth into his neck. He’ll allow his anger to simmer, for now, but if he ever meets either of those scum he’s ripping their heads off. Unless Maxwell wants to do it himself, of course.
“I avoided a lot of hands expecting fists, regardless of how grounded that fear was in reality. With the gloves, there wasn’t anyone I was really touching outside of matches. I made sure of it, actually. There were days where even accidental touch felt painful. I thought the only logical course of action was to just... avoid touch outside of combat for the rest of my life until I died in the ring, probably.”
Torse nods, incidentally brushing their cheeks together. “I am familiar with that line of reasoning, though the necessity of my avoidance has a different origin. Very few in these lands are without fear in my company. I remind them far too much of...”
“Well, it’s a bad line of reasoning, and anyone who takes their fear out on you is an asshole," Maxwell snarls, then sighs. "Long story short, after a series of unfortunate incidents, my brothers confronted me about my problem and we resolved it—”
Maxwell pushes back slightly, staring directly into Torse’s eye slits as he pats his cheeks for emphasis “—with lots of physical affection. Which is a resource that can also be provided by friends.”
“Ah.” Torse wilts. He has very few of those.
Maxwell grabs his face and jostles it for emphasis. “Me, Torse. I am the friend. Ask me. I will do it.”
“Oh.” Torse straightens up. Their heads bump against each other.
So many wants and desires bubble up in Torse, from what he misses to what he’s never had, but the craving that forms words is a gesture rarely used amongst Zernian automatons.
“Will you kiss me, Maxwell?”
Kissing seems a sweet, though oftentimes frivolous, gesture. It is similar to Aganti bunting, in meaning and variety of form, and since he and Maxwell are basically bunting at this moment, Torse is curious to try the method of flesh and blood.
Maxwell flushes even brighter than before.
Sure, it could be argued that Torse asked so he could see Maxwell blush up close and feel the change in heat for himself, but he has grown greedy from this wellspring of indulgence. If Maxwell wanted Torse less bold, he should have denied his plea or made this offer a reward to be earned.
Instead, Maxwell offers his affection freely, and Torse learns to take.
Shutting his eyes, Maxwell inhales slowly. His lids flutter open as he exhales in one short burst. The determination and giddiness in his gaze sends a thrill through Torse’s clockwork heart.
“I did offer.” Maxwell grins wide and unrestrained, and he shrugs his shoulders. He has a slight gap in his front teeth, a dimple in each cheek, and a mole half-hidden by his mustache. His eyes glimmer in the soft shadows of their tiny, private world.
Maxwell hooks thick fingers under Torse’s chin, and a callused thumb rubs a line of heat along his jaw. Torse slides a hand up Maxwell’s nape to tangle into wonderfully soft hair.
Maxwell’s curls brush against Torse’s forehead and his nose skims lightly along metal. He hovers warm and close, not quite touching.
They cross the divide in tandem.
The kiss is soft, slightly wet with condensation, and it warms Torse so wholly he forgets himself. He clings to Maxwell’s sweater, to his skin, and surges forward to bunt fervently into inviting lips. This is so good he cannot stand the thought of never having it again. With both of his hearts, Torse wants and wants and wants and asks:
“Will you offer again?”
Maxwell’s grip on Torse’s jaw spreads so his hands draw wide lines of heat. He nods, incidentally brushing his lips along the central seam of Torse’s helm, warming iron with his words, “I will if you will. Fair’s fair, my friend.”
“A new ritual, then.”
“Mm-hmm.”
