Chapter Text
Torse, like all Zernians he is aware of, does not dream. He tried, when he was a member of Comfrey’s crew. There was much downtime while the humans slept. He would turn his external sensors off and lay very still for hours in some approximation of sleep. Once or twice he asked Comfrey to take his heart out for the night. It never resulted in the kind of fantastic visions humans seemed to describe pervading their unconscious. Just perfect stillness. Nothing.
Perhaps what is happening to him now is what they call daydreaming. Finding himself distracted with visions of other times and places. He has little time to lay still or allow himself to be disanimated in this, Zern’s critical reconstruction period, yet all the same there are memories dancing at the edge of his mind. It has never happened before, but then again, the energies of Zood and Zern being unbounded, allowed to flow freely, perhaps something of the Zernian soul may be transforming as well.
He knows that it is obvious, natural even, that the first man to ever make him laugh should be the subject of his first daydreams.
He and Maxwell did not keep in touch, as such. Not being men of sentimentalities, it seemed odd to begin such a correspondence. Olethra has been far more diligent in sending Torse letters about the ongoing adventures of the Zephyr II, whose permanent bridge crew, he understands, comprises herself, Ludmila, Marya, and Maxwell and his stalwart employee Freyja. Through Olethra’s rather colorful descriptions, he knows something of the adventures they have passed these few years. He knows that Marya remains captain, Ludmila has taken a chief engineering position, Freyja a loyal security and securities guard, and Maxwell assuming the role of bosun, following some additional training from Van Chapman. Olethra herself remains between formal positions, finding joy in switching, a double entendre she does not explain to him and he is grateful for it.
Torse has taken care not to ask about Maxwell too much, to reveal or suggest anything untoward. They did not formally exchange affections before they parted but there had been a feeling. Something which did not need saying aloud at the time but which, in the years since, Torse has deeply regretted not naming.
No time like the present.
Now Torse undertakes what Olethra continually referred to in their letters of planning and logistics as a vacay. Leisure time, like dreams, were a luxury not afforded to him in his life as a warrior, but the Zernian People’s Collective as part of their articles of confederation instituted mandatory leave from labor for personal enrichment and development.
So. Here stands Torse, legendary Aganti Zernai, after centuries of righteous battle, on the deck of a Zumhara-bound shuttle where awaits him the Zephyr II and a rest which his clockwork body may not need, but his troubled mind certainly longs for. Here he stands, and he daydreams.
Gliding past asteroids in that twilit bridge between worlds, he conjures every detail of Maxwell Gotch that he has gone without for two years. His ramrod posture. His austere set mouth. The burgundy brocade of his jacket. His indestructible middle parted shellacked hair. No longer merely distraction from labor, Torse allows his mind to linger on the perfectly recorded image of Maxwell in his mind.
His daydream lasts until he is jolted by the docking of the shuttle in the Zumharan port.
It is a different city now. Rebuilding, much like Zern, in the wake of the calamity of Straka and the Queen. Its gleaming crystal towers are cracked, patched together with opalescent glues. Its people ever so slightly less resplendent, garbed more in the manner of laborers than nobility.
And there among them, holding a sign bearing his name in silly handscript bespeckled with shiny stickers, stands Olethra MacLeod.
She runs to meet him in a hug as he steps off the gangplank.
“Jeez, I forgot how tall you are,” Olethra says, gaping upward.
She looks more or less the same as he remembers. New clothes, hair with a few tiny braids laced into its tresses, but otherwise the same freckled, sky-eyed girl who helped him free his world not so long ago.
“Trip okay?” She asks as they start to make their way across the docks to the Zephyr II, “You didn’t get motion sick or anything?”
“My gyrostatic systems are immune to the human condition known as motion sickness,” Torse replies.
“That’s perfect, because I’ve got a hell of a trip planned for you.”
She bounces as she walks, detailing an itinerary of Zoodian vacation spots, some of which he remembers from his time with Comfrey, most of which they will certainly not have time to see on this two week visit. Nonetheless he listens, pleased to hear that the perpetual forward motion Comfrey bore remains extant on Olethra’s frame, if in a less monomaniacal, more playful manner.
Torse had forgotten how colorful Zood and its people are. Zernians are largely a gray and brass bunch, some of them lacking even visual sensors to discern color. It took Torse himself a few months of adventuring here to label all the colors in his mind. He was so used to only seeing shades of red, back home.
As they approach the Zephyr II, there stands a figure clad in a shade of red he has been so longing to see.
Only—no, that can’t be Maxwell.
They face away from Torse, directing some activity to the crew which he cannot make out yet. The jacket is the same shape as Maxwell’s, largely the same color, but it is patched over, a particolor of fabrics across a spectrum from maroon to vermillion. Perhaps most notably, the hair is all wrong. Parted in the middle, sure, a familiar deep mahogany which soaks the Zoodian sunshine, but it’s altogether too long. Soft-looking, free of pomade. A mane tied behind the head with a thin black ribbon, hanging between muscled shoulder blades.
When they are within shouting distance, Olethra calls out “Stand ready, Aganti Zernai boarding!”
And then the figure in red turns.
It is Maxwell. The moustache, the ruddy cheeks, the heavy brow, all the same. A smile springs across that face, which was an unusual sight in the time they knew each other. An eyebrow raises and a look positively Dufresnian in its mischief alights.
Max turns a quarter and signals with a gloved hand to a line of crewmen along the nearest edge of the airship.
With great drama, a gangplank ascends and lowers to the ground. One of the crewmen procures a brass instrument, twirly and bright, some kind of epic heraldry, and from over the great balloons of the ship, a banner is lowered which reads in perfect ferric-red ink: Welcome Back Torse!
If Torse could blush, he would. This level of pomp and circumstance is beyond his comfort zone. He would have expected it to be beyond Maxwell too. Wasn’t Maxwell—isn’t he—Torse’s companion in limited frivolity? Who stands there in his place now, this smiling romantic stranger?
As he sets a clawed foot on the deck of the ship he once knew, but which now feels somewhat alien to him, the crew salutes in perfect unison.
He would be baffled as to what to do next if Marya and Maxwell did not approach, Marya with arms wide open for a hug.
“Torse, you beautiful beast. How is the heart ticking along?” Marya asks.
Torse nods and returns her hug with one arm. “Very well. It is the finest in Scrapsylvanian engineering, after all.”
She snorts a laugh. “Well, lucky you, because the warranty has expired. No more free repairs.”
Torse knows a joke when he hears one, but is unsure if he should laugh. It is still a rather sensitive subject, the repeated wounding, stealing, and remaking of his most sensitive organ.
Maxwell steps in to save him, as ever.
First, by calling to the crew: “That’s enough of that. At ease all, return to your duties.”
And then, by clapping a hand against Torse’s arm. “Apologies for the dog and pony show. I lobbied to make it as brief as possible for your sake.”
Torse has tried and tried to dream of this moment. He would give much for those dreams which come so easily, unbidden to human minds, which craft entire narratives to ease the soul, to come to him as well. Perhaps it is because he lacks whatever imaginitive faculty allows humans to dream that he finds himself somewhat disheartened by the sight of his former companion looking so changed.
The words which come out of his mouth are “Maxwell, you look… Different.”
“Ah,” he replies, looking down at himself, hands flapping out and back. “Yes. The ensemble has seen some wear in the recent fights and Ludmila took to repairing it for me. I’m told sewing is quite akin to tinkering. I never had a knack for either.”
A perfectly reasonable explanation, but the jarringly quirky image still sticks out at an odd angle in his mind.
All Torse can say is “And your hair?”
Maxwell winces. “I have not as yet found a Zoodian barber I feel confident with. Many on the crew have offered, but—”
Olethra interrupts “Max doesn’t trust me, can you believe it? I’ve been cutting my own hair for years.”
Torse regards Olethra. Her hair is no doubt beautiful, but it is, like her, a wild thing. Uneven lengths, beads strung into it, half tied up in a fraying bun. It is hard to imagine her having the precision to recreate Maxwell’s signature style.
“You can tell him all about your gripes at dinner, Olethra,” Marya chides, grabbing Torse’s arm and steering him away, “I want to show him the improvements I’ve made to the ship.”
Marya leads him, then, on a comprehensive tour of the changes she’s made. Fascinating cohesion she’s found between Gathian, Zoodian, and Zernian technologies, all crammed into this one moderately sized vessel.
Torse notices that Ludmila is absent from the congregation and inquires after her.
“She is staying in the city for the time being. Quarters on the ship were full up so someone needed to make room for you.”
Torse replies “That was not necessary. I do not require lodging of my own. I do not sleep, or bathe, or dress.”
Marya sighs and leans in. Some of the shiny pride at her technological achievements dulls, and a bit of the old, tired Marya wears through.
“Torse,” she says, “You know very well why she’s not here. It is easier for her. For you too, no?”
Torse repeats himself. “It was not necessary to do this. I am well aware of the distinctions between Ludmila and the entity known as the Queen of Zern.”
He means it. The moment he laid eyes on Ludmila he felt nothing but sympathy. She is but a child. An innocent. And besides, her head is no longer floating around atop a great metal bird terrorizing his homeland.
Strange, he realizes, that he should be so unaffected by one who looks identical to his greatest tormentor, but so deeply moved by slight changes to the appearance of his friend. He will have to contemplate this later.
“Well, what’s done is done,” Marya says. “The room is all ready for you. I’m sure she’ll be back sneaking around to see Olethra anyhow. Those two—”
She rolls her eyes and makes a… lewd gesture with her hand. Torse understands the lewdness if not the sentiment behind it.
Marya shows him to the room. Just across the hall from Maxwell. If that is on purpose for some reason, Marya has the decency not to mention it.
By the time they return up top, the sun has set and the deck is refitted for dinner. Tables cobbled together from barrel-tops and crates strewn about pell mell, tiny mechanical fireflies trapped in jars on each.
Foolish Gathie custom to throw a celebratory dinner for one who cannot eat and does not relish frivolity. But Torse recognizes the hand of Maxwell Gotch in this—there is nothing that requires very much of Torse himself. No seat of honor at the head of a table. No speeches. He is free to retreat into the background, which for the most part, he does.
He observes the crew. Many new faces introduced to him piecemeal, each as sky-eyed as the last. Freyja is the only other crew member he recognizes and they share an agonizingly awkward conversation before she excuses herself, "I would prefer to stop speaking now," and wanders off to wolf an entire leg of whatever roasted meat is on offer.
He spies Ludmila creeping onto the deck about a quarter of the way through the celebration, slinking through the shadows to peck a kiss on Olethra’s cheek and steal her away. Torse will have to find another moment to correct the misconception of tension between them.
Chiefly of course he watches Maxwell, perpetually holding a tankard in one hand, boisterously laughing, seemingly at home with this new crew, this new energy. The buttons of his shirt are undone at the neck, letting his broad chest show through. It is good to see him so relaxed, Torse supposes, but something about it makes him feel… He doesn’t have a word for it.
Maxwell catches his gaze more than once. He smiles each time, big and warm, but only approaches once.
“You are free to retire any time, my friend,” Maxwell says. “In fact I may head downstairs myself. I understand Olethra has quite a schedule planned for us over the next few days.”
“Is it not rude,” Torse asks, “To leave the party of which one is the guest of honor?”
Max shakes his head through a sip of beer. The tankard comes away and his moustache is (charmingly, Torse finds himself thinking) lined with foam.
“Heavens no, Torse. In fact I—”
Someone calls out to Maxwell.
“Oi Gotch, new blood wants to challenge the arm wrestling champion.”
“Ah, my apologies,” Max says to Torse, wiping his lip, “My title needs defending. This shouldn’t take long. Find me after, would you?”
He skips off, shouting “Who dares challenge The Max on the bow of his own ship?”
Of course it does take quite a while. Challenger after challenger approach Max, his elbow steadfast atop a barrel, hair barely even growing damp with the effort.
Torse should enjoy watching the spectacle. Perhaps he should step up and offer challenge himself.
But he feels…
Ignored.
That’s the word. Maxwell, who has occupied so much of his thoughts, is off enjoying this party without him. He barely offered him a second glance, hardly a kind word. Once, they might have hung to the margins together all night, awkward and stiff with the rest of the world but at ease with each other. Torse finds himself ever the same, and Maxwell much changed.
The appearance seems to represent something of the inner world changing. Gathians, Zoodians even, can do this. They can allow time to change them organically. Hair left untouched will tell the time of its growing.
Torse could sit, as he was when the Wind Riders first found him, immobile for centuries, and nothing about him would change. It takes considerable effort and forethought for a Zernian to alter their appearance or their programming.
He retreats to the quarters vacated by Ludmila and sits alone, wondering if it is his fault that he cannot join the raucous chorus of laughter heard from above. Maxwell made him laugh once, and Torse had thought it a miracle, but perhaps that gift is easily and widely given. Torse was not special to have received it.
After some time, footsteps stumble down into the bowels of the ship and open the door across from Torse’s room.
Torse sits ever still, feeling a tad bitter. He lingers on the sounds of Maxwell doing what must be preparations for bed. Clothes coming off, water being poured into a washbasin. There is a petulant thought to staunchly avoid him, to return some of the avoidance he feels he has received.
He leans, curious, hoping for a glance between doorways, and finds it. Max’s door stands ajar, oil lamp glow illuminating him as he sits and…
Oh, it takes Torse a moment to recognize the gesture. It’s not something they do in Zern.
Brushing his hair.
The locks shine even in the dim. Freed from their ribbon, strands hang around his face, changing the frame of him yet making him no less regal or imposing. The tenderness of the act, slow and even, occasionally pausing for now-ungloved fingers to untangle something they find there, is a surprise. Hands which were just trouncing would-be strongmen into the floorboards find their way to an act of delicate care aimed inward.
Torse approaches. Maxwell hears. He’s never been a stealthy creature, after all.
“Torse,” Maxwell says, a fondness coming into his slightly drunken voice, “You left. I suppose it was a bit too much, eh?”
Torse has to duck to fit into the small chamber. “Yes,” he replies, “You were away quite some time.”
Max blushes. “I apologize. I got carried away. That was rude. I…”
He coughs, collecting himself, putting his hairbrush down and tucking his hair behind his ears.
“Torse, I have been meaning to ask you. All night I have prevaricated. I hope that, so soon after your arrival, it is not rude to broach a delicate topic. Your letters, they were… They were always addressed to Olethra. And while you are ever a thoughtful friend, you made little enquiry of me. I was left to wonder… And, you’ll forgive me if I went a bit overboard in planning your welcome celebration. It was difficult to toe the line between grand gesture and overbearing, but I wanted it to be clear that… Torse?”
Torse has not truly been listening. He is transfixed by the way Maxwell’s hair moves with him, curtains him, and how damnably soft it looks. He knows what Maxwell is saying is of great importance to him in particular, but if the end result is what he thinks it is, then it should be no trouble to—
“Maxwell,” he asks, extending a hand toward his face, “May I?”
The journey on Maxwell’s face moves from surprise to confusion and finally into curiosity. He gently leans, ever so few inches, until a lock of his hair falls between Torse’s fingers.
Torse’s sensors are fine but this tests their limits. So soft a substance was not meant for Zernian fingertips. He is careful to keep his blades at an angle so they do not slice what is clearly not a mere accident of time, as Maxwell had initially said, but is rather a lovingly maintained work of art.
Maxwell sighs under his touch, “I was worried you didn’t like it. When you first arrived, you seemed—”
“Ah,” Torse interrupts, hand still stroking Maxwell’s head, “That was my rudeness. I was… Saddened at what I had clearly missed. Envious of your body’s ability to change so easily.”
They are very close then, Torse kneeling at Max’s bedside, Max tender and tipsy and warm and so exposed, nightshirt only covering him down to his thighs.
It is obvious even to Torse that Maxwell is erect under the thin fabric. Maxwell, perhaps because of his inebriation, seems to take a few moments longer than Torse to realize, and as soon as he does he shifts out of reach of Torse’s iron grip and readjusts himself, attempting in vain to make it less noticeable.
“I am sorry,” Max says with throaty voice, though the heave of his chest and opening of his legs seems not altogether sorry at all, “This is entirely improper and just… Way too forward.”
A metal hand falls to Max’s thigh, tracing the leg hair there.
“One more way in which your body changes where mine cannot,” Torse muses. “I wish I wore an equal sign of my affection for you.”
Maxwell’s words hold distance but his voice, his affect, are raw and wanting. “I am glad you appreciate it. It is rather embarrassing.”
Torse asks “Shall I admit something of my ignorance, to perhaps alleviate the emabarrassment?”
Maxwell squirms under the cool touch of Torse’s blades, ever so gentle along his leg, and nods.
“I have never seen it.”
It takes Maxwell a moment to catch up. He looks down at himself and back “You’ve never seen a—?”
Torse shakes his head. “Not while... Not in this state. Years in the service of Comfrey MacLeod revealed many things to me of human anatomy but the… Act itself was always hidden behind closed doors.”
Maxwell bites his lip so that it disappears under his moustache and slides down the bed, letting the nightshirt ride up fold by fold.
“Would you like to see it now?”
Torse would like nothing more. He has dreamt—well, no, he hasn’t. There is a blank space in his mind when he pictures what Maxwell looks like underneath it all. It would fuel daydreams for many more years of separation if Maxwell would choose to show him, to share, perhaps to touch.
But there is an unwelcome sound. The shattering of glass followed by a dense thud. And a feeling in Torse’s chest, heavy and icy and spreading very quickly.
Then Torse does not see much of anything for a good long while.