Chapter Text
The group is on its way to the swamp when there's an alarmingly loud grumble from the back of the group. Wickerbottom looks back and sighs.
"I told you all to eat before we left," she chides, "Now which one of you needs food?" She waits for the hungriest to step forward.
Only no one moves. She knows they heard her.
Somebody is hungry and they don't care.
Her face pales.
"This is going to be much harder than I originally expected," she mutters.
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When dinner comes around, Maxwell patrols the base. Sometimes he harvests their crops or adjusts shabby-looking tents, yet others he just walks.
But he never, never eats.
When he knows someone is looking, he'll eat a carrot or two, maybe a handful of berries. Just to prove to them that he's fine -- and it works, nobody seems to be suspicious. It's also possible that they've noticed and don't care, which seems just as plausible.
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Right next to him, someone's stomach grumbles. He looks over to see Maxwell stumble slightly, pain flickering across his expression for just a moment. Predictably, Wickerbottom calls out an offering of food, but the tallest of them doesn't move a muscle. He's in a relaxed position, but completely tensed; trying his best to seem casual. Maybe if Wilson didn't stare so much, he wouldn't notice. But he did, and in that split second, he knew.
Maxwell, the former king of their world, was starving himself.
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He talks to Wickerbottom the second they return to camp.
"An eating disorder," she says, "is usually a way of regaining control over your life. One feels that they are powerless, so choose to obsess over one thing they know can be controlled: food. It certainly doesn't help that not eating is associated with losing weight; becoming more attractive, but that is not the main cause,"
In his mind, red strings connect everything he's ever known about Maxwell and power and food. He sees the cards, though Maxwell hasn't placed them on the table yet. The most composed man he's ever met is weak, and so, so vulnerable at his hands.
This is when he knows that he can't tell the others, and instead vows to be a martyr for a miserable magician.
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He's picking a fresh durian when someone sneaks up behind him.
"Would you like to eat dinner with me?" Wilson says, forgoing a usual greeting. Maxwell jumps about a foot in the air and whips around.
"Jesus Christ," he says, breathless. Then he registers what the shorter man said. "Wait, what?"
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Wilson shrugs sheepishly, "Well, the others can be quite loud, and not nearly as tall or dapper," he says. Maxwell's eyes narrow at him. "...And you have a bit more refined palate, and Warly said he'll make me a red crockpot if I manage to cook something not repulsive," The lie slips off his tongue easily. "I figured you'd be second best to him in terms of... food-tasting abilities. Wait, that didn't really- You get what I mean, right?" Maxwell, mildly amused, nodded in the affirmative.
"Great! We had some leftover seafood, so I made Wobster Dinner, I hope you don't mind," Wilson doesn't think that's nearly as convincing, but Maxwell just smiles in surprise.
Wilson doesn't care that he smiled, and wasn't even sure that Maxwell was fond of Wobster Dinner.
(These lies are to himself.)
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They walk to Wilson's tent in tandem, matching each other step for step, even though Maxwell has much longer legs than him. Maybe it means something, or even just a shadow of something; that even though they are so immeasurably different, they aren't worlds apart any longer -- nothing is stopping them from becoming friends (although Maxwell would probably say pals).
When they reach their destination, Wilson stops.
"There, uh, weren't a lot of leftovers, so I figured we could both eat half?" He confesses, and this time it's half true.
Max snootily points his nose (Should he find it ugly? He doesn't.) skyward, but says, "Fine by me,"
Wilson has enough Wobster for a week if they both ate a full plate, but Maxwell doesn't need to know that if it means he's comfortable. They'll take it slow, he reasons, with Maxwell's favorite foods in smaller portions until he can eat more. He has to suppress a shudder at the thought of what the other man's stomach must feel like and is profoundly grateful to have an outlet for his emotions in the form of science (though he also gets carried away; whether it's staying up for days on end to finish a project or having delusions of grandeur that he can rule the world with the power of science).
Wilson pulls the tent door open and motions the taller man in, trying to be as polite as possible. Once Maxwell steps inside, Wilson enters as well. As he plucks the Wobster from his crockpot, the ex-king settles himself upon the straw floor, knees facing opposite directions as his gangly legs folded together. He looks graceful, as if he was a model in a past life (it dawns on Wilson that looking good is at least half of being a successful magician, so maybe the man is a bit of a model).
He splits the meal among two plates and hands one to his companion before sitting opposite the man.
Wilson doesn't love seafood, but as he talks and laughs with Maxwell, he thinks this might be the best meal he's ever had.