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Even beyond the tragedy of circumstance, Maxwell did not quite hold the same reservations of the other members of the crew when it came time to leave Oda. While being hot on Mordecestershire’s trail was a promising objective, something about the city felt deeply unsettling. It is so often that a utopia is a false promise, as he knew all too well.
Perhaps it was the same feeling of discontent as he sat, prim and proper, in an elegant dining room in the Gotch family home. As if he didn't belong. A rowdy had no place in the dignified portrait of the perfect Gathie legacy. The people of Oda could present as generous and philanthropic as they wished, but there was always a cost, one way or another.
As the ship pulled away from the lively city, sent off by kind faces and floral wreaths, Max found himself slipping away to the living quarters.
For a rare moment, the quarters were quiet. Even Bert was out of the kitchen to share in the crew’s joy as they left Oda, happily trailed by a dozen nut pugs. The halls had come to life since he and Wealwell had acquired the ship. It was messy in a way that brought him more comfort than he cared to admit, boasting a rowdy lifestyle of adventure and companionship. Olethra’s muddy bootprints trailed along the edges of the wooden floor. Van kept a chalkboard in the kitchen where Bert would put up meal plans for the week. Marya and Monty had found themselves in a small yet deeply petty war over the photo to be hung in the entryway. Even Pappy had started setting up a bed for Ghost Dog, dotted with pillows that must have been homemade from the uneven stitching, visible even from a distance.
It was a positivity that overwhelmed the senses, almost making Maxwell miss the quiet predictability of his family home. Almost.
The monotonous thud of his footsteps against the creaking wooden floor was almost grounding as the crew chattered excitedly outside. He was quite sure he heard someone (almost certainly Olethra) announcing a nut pug juggling contest. It felt almost inappropriate to participate in their joy. He always seemed to misunderstand what he was supposed to do. Maxwell considered himself rational; he said the wrong thing or came across wrong, therefore the simplest solution was to remove himself from the situation.
He pulled the door open to his bedroom and let out a deep sigh before turning to notice the automaton sitting in the corner on a barrel.
Torse was a fascinating man. His structure was so purely mechanical, yet engineered quite clearly off similar anatomical principles to humans. Among clockwork gears lay steamwork pistons functioning similar to steel musculature. His face was composed of a visor composed of jointed pieces of metal that allowed him to contort his face in a way that could not quite be described as human. Maxwell could never claim to be a tinkerer, but Torse’s strong legs and steel frame were beautifully built.
Torse’s head tilted up to meet the sight of Max standing by the door, the golden light behind his visor glowing softly over his angular face.
“Maxwell- I apologize. These must be your quarters. I intended to find somewhere… quiet,” Torse said, moving to stand up and leave.
“No!” Max exclaimed. Torse cocked his head in confusion, his visor contorting in what translated as a raised eyebrow. Right, tone. “I mean, don't worry. I understand. You're welcome to my quarters. If you so choose.”
Torse slowly sat back down, the soft blowout of steam pistons releasing echoing through the quiet room. “Thank you. I'm afraid I don't quite fit in among these festivities.” Torse, perhaps subconsciously, looked down to the metal claws protruding from his human-like hands, before quickly returning his gaze to Maxwell.
“I understand,” Max said, walking over to his bed and sitting down. “They’ve known each other for a long time. They have unspoken rules.” He nervously smoothed the wrinkles of his bedspread in an almost obsessive neatness. His background did seem to defy him when it came to fitting in with a crew of sky-eyed rowdies.
“If only they would simply speak them,” Torse replied, humor in his mechanical voice. Max chuckled softly, followed by a small stretch of comfortable silence. “I found it admirable. Your fighting, that is. Not only are your physical skills impressive for any man of flesh, your tactical awareness is stunning.”
Max felt warmth spread across his cheeks from the compliment. “Thank you. You also are incredible,” he said, then quickly correcting himself, “In battle, of course.” He wasn’t sure whether the hastened whirring he heard from Torse was a trick of the mind or not.
In the peaceful silence, Max looked to the automaton. He didn’t quite have a face to glean an expression from, but something about the light behind his eyes was soft and warm, but piercing. Max felt stripped bare under his gaze, not vulnerable but naked, as if Torse could see through the stuffed-up Gotch boy persona he wore.
“Sometimes when I feel out of place, I’ll spar. It helps distract me,” Max said, gently flexing his fingers beneath his leather gloves. His mind shifted, reminiscing to how Torse had torn through enemies in the fight against the House of Fehujar. Even in his mind’s eye, he remembered the sure movement of those strong arms, the way his steelen hands had wrapped around the necks of Viking bankers.
“As an automaton, I’m afraid I have no ability to improve my physical capabilities through movement or practice,” Torse responded, glancing to the side in a small tell of shyness.
“Spar with me anyways,” Max blurted out, standing quickly. Torse looked up to him silently, cocking his head. He had no idea why he had said that. His heart began to race. What if Torse said no? That would be terribly embarrassing, the poor man had been seeking a break from human intricacies, yet now he would have to amuse Max’s fragile ego and let him down easy.
But even worse, what if he said yes? It had been a while since Max had gotten to properly spar, to truly fight for the value of the sport rather than for the grand battles of adventure. He was still, of course, in peak physical condition, that didn’t worry him. But something about imagining himself sparring Torse made his breath stop short. It was personal, even intimate, to spar with someone else, especially alone. A one-on-one, fair fight. Torse’s hands on him. His tall, looming figure. The gentle sting of his blades. A metallic taste of blood in his mouth that would almost taste like his lips. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, so much like the bloodlust of battle, and so, so different.
Torse stood up, and Max was suddenly very aware of how much taller the automaton was. His clockwork legs moved forward, letting out soft pufts of air in an otherwise quiet room. Torse walked forward until the two were toe to toe, and gently reached a hand forward as if to offer a handshake.
“I accept your challenge, Maxwell Gotch,” Torse said. Max reached forward, grabbing his hand, and reveled in the feel of the cold steel against his far-too-warm skin in this moment. He gave the hand a quick squeeze accompanied by a half-smile and turned to shed his overcoat and vest.
Max neatly folded his coat and vest, leaving them on a small chair in the corner, before unbuttoning the first few buttons of his dress shirt. Normally he would partake shirtless, but he felt unusually self-conscious appearing so bare in such a private space. As he turned back to face his mechanical friend, he saw how Torse’s eyes lingered on his exposed chest, and the soft whirring that accompanied. Max reasoned he was simply curious as to why he had not removed his shirt, when he so often fought without one. A reasonable curiosity, of course.
“By what rules do you intend to play by?” Max asked as he cuffed his sleeves, watching Torse gently rock and back on his feet as he waited for Max to prepare.
“I’m not familiar with the styles of Gath, I’m afraid. In Zern, the rules are all-out bloodshed, though I’m certain I do not want to hurt you.” Max paused for a second to smile at Torse.
“Nor do I want to hurt you. Boxing, then. All hits above the waist, none on the back of the head. The winner is the first to pin the other,” Max concluded, interlacing his hands to stretch his arms above his head, then pulling to each side. Torse flexed his hands, and with a puff of steam, his metal claws sheathed into the thick panels of his forearms.
“As to avoid cutting you,” he said gently, looking undeniably awkward. “How does one start a round of boxing in Gath?”
“By coming into stance,” Max responded, bringing his fists up to guard his face. “You guard your head. Though for you, it may be better to guard your chest.” Torse mocked his position, setting his legs further apart, bending his knees, and bringing his fists up around chest height. Max began to switch back and forth on his feet. He than began to circle Torse, who swiveled his head to follow.
“What are you doing now?” He asked, letting his fists fall from his chest again for a moment in his confusion.
“You attempt to intimidate the opponent, challenge them to strike first,” Max said, reaching an arm out for just a moment to gently push Torse’s fists back up to guard his chest.
“So there is a mental aspect to Gathie fighting?” Torse asked, now reminded to keep his arms close.
“In some ways, yes.”
“Understood,” Torse said, beginning to follow Max’s lead and joining him. The two circled one another, not breaking eye contact. Max already felt warm, already felt adrenaline pumping through his veins in a pugilist’s high.
Max lunged forward first, throwing a punch towards Torse’s ribs. Torse easily deflected the blow with a raise of his arms. The feeling of his knuckles into hard metal was like the euphoric pain of a fight well fought. He felt the bursting capillaries under his skin, and knew the gnarly bruises they would leave. He felt proud to wear such bruises, especially from Torse. The automaton responded in earnest, throwing two swift punches to his face. Max dodged effortlessly.
“You catch on very quickly,” Max said with an exhale, throwing a force-of-habit teethy smirk in Torse’s direction.
“And you are a worthy opponent,” Torse said earnestly, his eyes darkening. Not with malice, nor even with violence, but something deeply human. Something needy. Max felt the embers of warmth in his gut grow to a roaring flame under the man’s gaze.
His eyes raked over Torse’s body, watching the steel musculature contract, firm and gleaning even in the dim light of the quarters. The man’s chest did not rise and fall from exertion as a human may, but the soft pulse of his golden heart quickened ever so slightly. Max wanted to run his hands along those steelen ribs, wanted to hold the golden heart in his bruised and bloody hands.
In Max’s distraction, Torse reached forward again to punch, this time reaching for his ribs. He failed to deflect this time, stumbling to his right, before swinging in with an uppercut. Torse wrapped his hands around Max’s wrist, pulling his arm to the side, and swinging his other fist forwards towards his ribs. Max grabbed the extended fist, now leaving them with both hands interlocked, pushing against one another to try to free themselves.
And oh, their faces were so close. Max could feel the warmth radiating from underneath Torse’s visor on his forehead, practically able to smell burning coal and gear oil from his heart. He wanted to lean forward, to rest his head against Torse’s, to feel that golden heart pressed against his own.
He didn’t, however, allow himself to be distracted again. He was at the disadvantage in height, but if there was one thing he learned from Barney Ballast, that shouldn’t stop him. Rather, Max dropped back to pull himself away from Torse. He would have to instead focus on swift attacks to pin him, especially around the legs in an attempt to trip him.
Max was fast on his feet, quickly trying to orient himself behind Torse to go for the back of his knees before Torse’s hand found itself across his chest, stretching from clavicle to shoulder and pushing hard. His feet fell from under him as he was slammed onto the ground.
Flat on his back and held down effortlessly by a steel arm, Max’s hands reached up to grab the automoton’s wrist. Torse shifted from his crouching position to straddle Max’s hips, his weight preventing him from being able to struggle or escape the pin.
Torse moved his arms to bracket Max’s head, leaning in impossibly close. He nearly stopped breathing, all blood suddenly rushing from his head. He felt like he was burning up, like the fire burning in his gut was roasting his insides. He was, perhaps, the hardest he had been in his entire life. The only noises he could hear were his own breath coming short and the mechanical buzzing coming from his automaton friend.
“I believe I’ve won, Maxwell,” Torse murmured lowly. If Max hadn’t felt hot and bothered before, the sound of his own name in that deep mechanical voice had certainly sent a jolt through his body. He desperately ground up into the metal panels of Torse’s pelvis, letting out a soft groan.
Torse pulled himself back slightly, straightening his elbows to put distance between himself and Max, and Max so desperately missed the contact, the warmth and pressure of steel to his chest. Ice began to run through his veins. Torse didn’t want this. He did not want Maxwell. This was his rejection, Torse would leave and never come back, all because he couldn’t simply ignore his attraction. His father was right, they were all right: no one could love a rowdy-
“Are you… alright? I did not injure you, did I?” Torse said quietly, a note of worry in his voice.
“What?”
“You made a noise of pain. I do not wish to seriously injure you. Did I take it too far?” Torse said, now seeming to scan Max’s body for any possible injuries.
“No! No, oh god…” Max groaned, bringing his hands up to cover his face in embarrassment. “It’s not… I’m not in pain, Torse.” He wasn’t going to have this conversation, absolutely not. This was already mortifying enough.
“Then what’s wrong?” Torse asked yet again, this time moving to sit back on his legs, directly over Max’s crotch, making him let out another soft moan which he slapped his mouth to cover. “Oh.”
“We can just, well- move on and never talk about this again, I’m so deeply sorry-” Max began, stopping short as Torse leaned back in close, steel plates pressing back over his torso.
“Maxwell, please be honest. I am aware that adrenaline may cause such a reaction in humans. Is it because of the fighting, or because of me?” Torse asked, the warmth of his heart only serving to make Max feel more frustrated.
“I- it’s not-” Max stumbled, losing all control on his speech seemingly. It wasn’t like he had any blood in his brain left to think with. “It’s because of you, Torse.” Torse’s light began to glow brighter at that, sending out waves of heat, the whirring in his chest growing faster than Max had ever heard it.
Torse gently moved a massive steel leg from the side of Max’s hips to place it inbetween his legs. He pushed forward, carefully, as if still worried he would hurt Max somehow.
“Oh, Torse…” Max groaned, immediately losing all control over whatever sounds would come from his mouth next. “Is this… god, you can’t feel this, can you?”
“Not like a human, no. I can feel sensation to some degree; pressure, heat, cold. But I do feel, and I feel very deeply for you. Nothing would bring me more pleasure than to take you apart in my hands, Maxwell,” Torse said, pushing his knee yet again, beginning to give Max a rhythm to grind against. He brought his visor down to lay in the crook of Max’s shoulder, nuzzling against him gently.
Max was helpless in Torse’s arms. He desperately ground against each movement of Torse’s knee, feeling the hard, cool edge against his thighs. Torse’s hands had wrapped around his waist, tight and hard enough to bruise in a way that made Max feel even more overwhelmed. He softly cried praises and moans into the quiet room as he was brought closer and closer to the edge.
“Maxwell…” Torse said softly, and that was the final push to send him into an orgasm unlike anything he had felt before. As he came down, the weight of Torse against him grounded him, one hand softly stroking his hair, the other still resting on his hip.
“I- I don’t have any words,” Max said after some time.
“Would you consider yourself sufficiently distracted?” Torse asked genuinely, which made Max genuinely laugh heartily.
“I absolutely would,” Max said, smiling up at Torse, “But really, we should probably talk about- well, that. I don’t want to misinterpret.”
“I meant what I said, Maxwell. I care for you. I found your pleasure immensely cathartic. I believe bringing you to release is one of the most beautiful things I have seen in Zood yet,” Torse said. Max blushed.
“And I care for you. As you know. Or found out, rather. Of course,” Max concluded awkwardly. Torse lifted himself off of Max, standing up.
“It sounds like there is still a party ongoing. Would you like to join together?” Torse asked, offering a hand. He grabbed the hand and was pulled to his feet, smiling widely.
“Of course,” Max said, “Just- uh, just let me change my trousers. Before.”
After a change of clothes and brief washing up, the two men journeyed to the deck side by side. The crew was hosting a rowdy party, including an exclusive one-day-only menu of Bert’s aioli-inspired cocktails and something he titled as the ‘aiokpizookie.’ Torse decided to track Bert down to find out exactly what a ‘aikopizookie’ was.
Almost the moment that Torse left Max’s side, Olethra walked up.
“Maxwell and Torse, sitting in a tree… K-I-S-S-I-N-” She began, shimmying her shoulders.
“Shut up, Olethra,” Max said, blushing furiously.