Form1d

“Well, um—” Maxwell stammers. The sight of a hulking clockwork warrior rapidly closing the distance would cause anyone to flinch back, surely. He plays it off by stepping to the kitchenette, grabbing a mug and filling it with tap water.

“I have failed Cadswitch’s instructions,” Torse says, grimly. 

Maxwell shifts his weight from foot to foot. “You’re not my keeper, Torse,” he says defensively, shutting off the tap. He takes a hurried sip and then sets the mug aside. “It was just—play. A play-fight.”

Torse emanates disapproval like a boarding school prefect, which is a feeling that Maxwell would have thought he’d never have to endure again. The bitter spiral his emotions take is abruptly disrupted; Maxwell yelps as Torse seizes his waist, spins him, lifts him to sit on the kitchen counter. The metal hands plant themselves on the counter too, one by each thigh.

Does he keep his legs spread? Closed? Maxwell doesn’t know what to do with his limbs, with the intense way Torse dips his helm and stares at his bruised face.

“I am not your keeper,” Torse echoes. “Technically, you are mine.”

Maxwell’s face burns with the force of his blush. It stings very specifically where the bruises are. “I. Well. That is. That is certainly what it says on paper, but we did agree—a, a mutual entrusting of safety.”

“This does not seem safe,” Torse says.

“It’s unregulated,” Maxwell allows, “but it’s—it’s all good! Revington wouldn’t have the reputation it has if its students were suffering brain damage and permanent injuries—” Torse’s snarl is deep and guttural, “—listen, Torse, all I need is a long rest, and I’ll be fully recovered. It’s Gathie biology, remember? Eight hours, you’ll see.”

“Eight hours.”

“Yes.”

“If you will permit, then,” Torse says with the usual preciseness, “I would like a full account of your injuries.”

He hedges, “I’m not sure I can do that. The fight was. Very much a blur after the first punch.”

Torse processes the excuse silently. Maxwell cannot help but count the seconds; ten of them go by before Torse leans back, cast-iron fingers scraping the granite countertop in their departure. He holds very still as Torse carefully touches the bruise on his forehead with a thumb. The cold metal feels oddly like a benediction.

“I am unfamiliar with Gathie combat,” Torse grumbles. “But it is a given rule in Zern to avoid damage to your consciousness’s housing.”

“That explains the blades on yours,” Maxwell says.

“Much of what I am is intended to inflict damage. Who did this? Point them out to me and I will—”

“Do nothing!” he yelps. “If anything, I was the one who escalated and prolonged the bout. Not skillfully, granted, but it was my choice to keep getting up.” Maxwell straightens his spine as best he can, bruises be damned. The soothing touch goes too. “Torse, can we talk about this later? I’m sure I have better arguments in me. I’m just…”

“Concussed.”

“Extremely tired,” he fires back. “At this rate, I might just pass out in the bathroom before I can make it to bed, and then we’ll really have a problem.”