Chapter Text
“Maxwell.”
It was hardly a sound; less of a fully constructed word and more of a small breath of a name. And yet, it seemed to echo infinitely in the air.
Wilson tugged on his flower garland, pulling it until it hit his ears, then pressed it against his head and released. He ran it up and down a few times through his hair—which had already been a mess but became more of one as a result of this action. He turned it a hundred and eighty degrees around his head, so the back was now the front and the front was now the back. He continued to toy with it and to maneuver it, as though it was a broken machine, and it might start working again if he could hit it in the right spot or turn it off and on again a thousand times. When he gave up on this and pulled his arms down, he kept one flower firmly in his grip and pulled it out of the headpiece. He lifted his knees and very slowly let his head drop onto them, every shaking breath heating them up where it landed. He wrapped his arms around his knees to fully ball up, and squeezed the flower in his hand.
“Maxwell,” he repeated, this time with strength, though it was muffled by his forearms pressing against the side of his face, and his thighs centimeters away from covering his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, angry with himself that he was speaking the name aloud, and tried not to think about it as he let the rest of the words fall off his tongue, “Maxwell, I don’t know if you can hear this, or see this, or . . . I don’t know. Just, p-please,” he clenched his teeth and cursed himself for how close he felt (and probably sounded) to crying. He couldn’t let the man know how weak he was. He inhaled and tried to stabilize his voice as much as possible, “Please come here.” He was quiet for a moment longer, turning the flower in circles in his hand, before adding another please for good measure.
He didn’t open his eyes to wait for the man to appear. He didn’t lift his head. He knew that the next time he looked at the world around him, it would appear in only shades of gray. He rubbed his thumb over the petals on the flower in his hand, desperate to be able to calm himself before he had to look up and confront the darkness in the world around him.
He knew Maxwell had arrived by the smell of smoke. Still, he wasn’t going to look up until he heard a voice. He would keep his eyes closed as long as he could. Even if it meant he was exposed to his captor like this; fragile and hurt and frightened. He could hardly remember what Maxwell’s face looked like, but he could just picture the way it must have been frowning at him, with annoyance or disappointment or something else. Wilson registered it as another thing he didn’t want to have to look at.
“Your request?” Maxwell’s voice came curt and cold.
When Wilson picked up his head, he did not look to his right or to his left or over his shoulder. He didn’t want to know where the shadows were, didn’t want to know how big or how close or how deadly. He looked ahead and minimized his peripheral vision, trying as hard as he possibly could to only focus on the man in front of him—even if his forehead read like a book, wherein every crease of the skin told Wilson another story of what to be afraid of. Despite his attempts to avoid seeing the shadows, he could feel their presence, the way they all stared at him like a big, red target. Without shifting his gaze, he pulled his backpack closer to grab a spear when needed.
Once he fully processed that Maxwell was standing in front of him, his first instinct was to grimace or kick him in the shin, but he was reminded that he had summoned the demon of his own will. Once that settled in his mind, he focused on the question being asked of him. What was his request? The question was answered almost as soon as it was raised, as the pain that had been haunting him for so long sunk in once more.
When Wilson was able to speak, the words didn’t come out anything like he had planned them, “Will you sit down?”
Maxwell’s frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say a word as he dragged a chest near him and took a seat on it. “I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, you do,” came Wilson’s response, and before he could say anything more, he had grabbed his spear and turned to face the creatures that were getting too close for his comfort. He didn’t manage a swing at any of them, though, as he watched them all slowly scurry away or disappear. Confused, he turned back around to see Maxwell holding out a hand in front of him, telling the creatures to retreat. Wilson almost thanked him, but bit back on it when he noticed the scowl he was wearing.
They sat in the quiet for a couple moments before the demon spoke up, “I’m not a gracious man, Higgsbury. I recommend you hurry it up.”
Wilson cringed at the sound of his name in Maxwell’s mouth. His shoulders lifted to line up with his jaw, and he looked at the ground sheepishly. This was already proving to be a horrible idea, and he was certain that Maxwell wouldn’t be receptive. He figured that it was too late to turn back, though, and it wasn’t helping his odds at all to crouch like a coward. He unfolded his legs, and drew his hands behind him to hold his weight. He met Maxwell’s gaze— god, how he loomed over the scientist—and attempted to pull off confidence when he admitted the reason for his invitation: “I want to talk to you.”
Maxwell’s eyebrows pushed against each other and formed a little bump right at the top of his nose, “About what?”
Wilson blinked a few times and pursed his lips, “Um, no, that’s the request. Just to talk to you.” Screams rang in his mind about how terrible that came out and all the ways he could’ve phrased it better.
Maxwell really didn’t seem to understand, and Wilson watched his face shift to make the subtle difference between suspicion and curiosity. The boy exhaled a sigh and ran gloved fingers through his (usually excellent, currently disasterous) hair, pained with the knowledge that he would have to be vulnerable with the man who kidnapped him.
“Listen,” he started, and his voice lost the edge that it had carried moments ago, “I can slay the beasts. I can best the cold, and I can quench the hunger,” he pulled his torso to slightly lean over his outstretched legs, and looked solemnly into his lap, “But . . . I can’t fight the loneliness. I’ve been here for, how long? It must at least have been a year by now, and in the entirety of that duration I haven’t once spoken to another real, sentient life form.” He wanted to lift his head, but was too scared of what he might see in Maxwell’s eyes. He wasn’t sure which he would resent more: judgment, or pity. He continued, “I’ve tried many a time to befriend a pig, but they’re far too touchy and they aren’t very . . . articulate, surely not suitable for the taste of a great scientist such as myself. And Chester is delightful,” he couldn’t resist breaking his speech to wave at the creature where he was curled up underneath Wilson’s crockpot, “But he isn’t much of a talker. The solitude . . . It’s getting to my head. You’re the only person I know of to talk to.”
Maxwell tilted his head up and to the side, and thumbed at his chin. He had never gotten a request like this, not from any of his players. His good sense told him to laugh at Higgsbury, advise him to pick some flowers and mock him for thinking he could get any help from the nightmare king himself. But he was fascinated by the young man’s proposal, enough to consider accepting. His mind began to wander to all the interesting ways he would be able to manipulate the game from the inside if he developed a friendship of some sort with the player. Plus, he’d certainly taken a liking to Higgsbury in particular. He grew fond of watching the way he was so stubborn about surviving, always doing anything possible to live another day, even when it might be more favorable to just accept death and try again. Maxwell leaned in to get a closer look at Higgsbury, to appreciate the indignant look in his eyes, and the way all of his features were sharp somehow, and the faint leftover of a recently shaven beard. It wasn’t the first time the puppeteer had appreciated how pretty the boy was, but it was his first chance to get a good, close look.
Higgsbury must’ve noticed Maxwell’s thoughtful eyes on him, because he took Maxwell out of his thoughts by saying sharply, “Don’t be foolish, though. I still despise you.”
He tugged the corners of his mouth into his signature grin and leaned back on the chest, taking a drag of his cigar before replying, “That’s not a very polite thing to say to your new friend.”
Wilson reeled in response, ducking his head into his shoulders and scrunching up his nose. “Never, under any circumstances, call me that.”
Maxwell only smiled. “Shall we get to the, uh, talking, now?”
“Oh, right,” Wilson said, “Yes. We should do that.” God, it really had been so damn long since he spoke to someone.
Maxwell had to think for a moment. In truth, he seldom had conversations during his time in the Constant. How do conversations happen again? He cleared his throat, “So, er, how are you doing?”
The scientist squinted at him for a long few seconds, before saying, “Not very fucking well. Thanks for asking.”
Maxwell exhaled an amused breath, “Why might that be? I’m feeling perfectly fine myself.”
Wilson clenched his fists. He wanted to hit himself. Of course this was going to be how it was. Of course Maxwell would only taunt and demean. It was the only thing the bastard had ever done as long as Wilson had known him, and it was the only thing he would ever do for as long as he lived—which could very well be forever. Although he certainly hadn’t expected he would be pleasant to be around, he hoped for some sort of respect from the man, and what a fool he was for that. He thought briefly that it might take more of a toll on his sanity to tolerate Maxwell than to live in complete solitude. But he couldn’t deny the small spot at the back of his brain that was warm with the delight of hearing another human voice.
Not human , he reminded himself.
“I can only imagine one would when he is playing god.” Wilson waited for a response, but only heard the creaking of wood that would surely break if Maxwell sat for much longer. He figured there was just one thing to discuss. “That is . . . You did create this world, yes? Or you at least govern it.”
Maxwell’s growing smile pushed his cheeks into his eyes till they were hardly visible, “Everything you see, everything you have ever seen here, was created purely of my mind.”
Wilson looked around him, at the world which was slowly fading back into color, to his relief. He looked for and appreciated everything his eyes allowed him to see; a forest thick with trees, a den of mingling spiders, the faint outline of a small village of pigs, a catcoon slashing at a bird. There was life in this world. Hell, most of this world was life. There were plants and animals and supposedly civilized communities. Thousands of creatures with thoughts and voices and motivations. And they all came from the imagination of a cruel man.
“ Extraordinary .” The word fell from Wilson’s mouth in a sigh, and it came with the relief of letting go of the breath that had been building in his lungs. “But how? Science says it’s impossible for matter to be created or destroyed. And even if all of this world was created from existing matter, it surely would’ve had to be transformed in extreme ways to create such anomalies as are present here, and that isn’t possible either. It’s alchemy. It can’t be real.”
Maxwell laughed, and it was the sinister laugh that made Wilson’s heart beat out of his chest. The laugh that he heard far too often during a time long ago, when Maxwell had only seemed like a kind, albeit highly suspicious, stranger who could speak through the radio and offer guidance. He would laugh that way whenever Wilson questioned him about his motives or about whatever exactly it was that they were working towards, or how it was going to work. Hearing it now made his blood boil.
“I assure you, it’s real,” the king said with a chill in his voice, “But it surely is not science. It’s magic, Higgsbury.”
“Horsefeathers!” Wilson barked. He tried to think of what he could say next to prove it wrong, but the word alchemy began to ring in his head. And he recalled the alchemy engine sitting no more than a few meters away from him. Then he saw the shadow manipulator sitting next to it. His mind began to clutter with all the instances of obvious magic in this realm that he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
Maxwell must have recognized the defeat on Wilson’s face, because he chirped another laugh or two. He didn’t say anything, didn’t tease any further, because he didn’t have to. The twitch in his smile was enough to make him turn red. Just how many times had he lost to Maxwell? How many times was he going to lose in the future? He pulled a petal from his garland and kneaded it between his thumb and index finger. He promised himself that he would discover the secret of this world someday—because science always finds an answer!—and opted to change the subject.
“Well, I apologize for acknowledging the obvious matter of discussion. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” He wasn’t exactly sure why that was the first question he thought of. He didn’t think he had any sort of desire to get familiar with the man who abducted him, but maybe it was just that he had an air of mystery surrounding him. Yes, it was surely Wilson’s natural thirst for knowledge that made him curious.
Maxwell wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He tried to think about it for a moment, tried to determine what the best thing to say would be. Should he reveal something that makes him seem more human? Or something that makes him more frightening? It certainly couldn’t be anything that made him seem weak. He puzzled over it in his head while he watched Higgsbury impatiently stir. The young man had begun gathering twigs and grass, presumably to start a fire. Maxwell hadn’t noticed that it had begun trailing into the later hours of the evening. Wilson had noticed a long time ago. He’d trained himself to always be acutely aware of the time, and at this point was able to determine when to build a fire based on the angle of the shadows. Maxwell was staring at the result of twelve months of suffering, and he had no idea.
When he finally answered, he’d lost any strategic or manipulative intent. He only said what he thought would make for pleasant conversation: “Well, do you fancy a fine artwork?”
Higgsbury’s attention was stolen from the fire, “Huh?” He seemed caught off-guard.
Maxwell was suddenly intensely aware of the eye contact they were holding. It wasn’t anything strange. It was just the way two people would look at each other when they were talking. But it made Maxwell’s head a little fuzzy, because he was finally beginning to appreciate that he was having a proper conversation. The king’s reign had lasted for an eternity, and he had grown accustomed to the lifestyle of a ruler. The world was his to distort, and he liked to govern it from afar, providing himself with anything he desired, and distantly watching his captives fail to do the same. Now he was face-to-face with a captive, meeting his eyes and exchanging chatter. It was extremely humanizing. Maxwell had not felt human in a very long time. It was exciting and it was frightening, and he wanted to get high on it. Perhaps it was the only luxury he hadn’t been afforded by his power. The smile that raised between his pointed cheeks was not his typical devious smile, but something much more sincere. He wondered briefly if Higgsbury could tell.
“You know,” he said, trying to speak calmly despite his elation, “Paintings. Photography. Sculptures. Personally, I am a fan of Lempicka. And Picasso. Lord knows how I wish I could take a simple peek into their world and see what they’re accomplishing nowadays.”
The boy toyed with his hands and shook his head, “No, I’ve never been one for the arts. I am a man of science, as you know.” Then, he stood up, and pointed to the chest on which Maxwell sat, “Could you get up for a moment? I need some stuff from there.”
Maxwell took a moment to delight in the realization that Higgsbury, when standing upright, wasn’t much taller than Maxwell was sitting down. He stood up from the chest, but lingered in front of it to dwell in the close proximity he had with the scientist, greeting his frustrated scowl with a grin. He noted that there must have been at least a foot and a half of height difference, and took his time taking a drag from his cigar before stepping to the side.
Higgsbury crouched to open the chest and rummage through its contents, and said without looking up, “That offending smile of yours makes me worry you’ve done something to my belongings.”
Maxwell let the smoke spill out of his mouth, making his voice rasp when he spoke, “You think so little of me. I play a cruel game, but I play it fair.”
“Forgive me if trusting you doesn’t come easy.” It was quiet, but it had a harsh edge to it that struck a nerve somewhere in Maxwell. He tried not to let it show.
“Hey, pal, I’ve already played the only trick I needed to. Well, the only malicious trick, that is. If you ask me nicely, I might look for a quarter behind your ear.” The smile that made its way onto his face was audible.
Wilson stood from the chest with two handfuls of charcoal, but didn’t move to allow Maxwell to take a seat on it. “You haven’t given me any reason to believe a word you say. I’ve scant knowledge of your motivations. Or your capabilities. Or most of the mysteries surrounding you. Any of them, actually, I would say.”
“Well, no,” Maxwell said, leaning down a bit to match Higgsbury’s height, an act of kindness that he didn’t look like he appreciated much, “We aren’t that good of friends yet.” He brought his cigar to his mouth and reveled in Higgsbury’s cough. He placed it against his lower lip and spoke around it, “I look forward to getting to know you.”
Wilson swatted at the smoke and sidestepped to dislodge himself from between Maxwell and the chest. He feared the sinister tone present in Maxwell’s voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to deem this a bad idea. It really was nice to speak to someone again, to know that there was someone who was listening to his thoughts. Even if it was the demon who’d sealed him in this hell in the first place. And he even found himself a bit enamored in the man, filled with that burning curiosity and need to understand exactly who Maxwell was. He wouldn’t admit that to himself, though.
He dropped the charcoal into the fire, causing it to flare with light. Maxwell flinched slightly at it; only when the area filled with light did he realize how dark it had been. Higgsbury looked at the king for only a moment, “I’m going to sleep now. If I stay up talking to you, I’ll go mad.” He picked up his eye bone from where he kept it placed in front of his tent, beckoning for Chester to run up to him. “So you should leave. We can talk again . . . whenever I ask. Now scram.”
Maxwell smiled, “I don’t believe you’re the one in charge of our interactions.”
Wilson shivered, but was distracted quickly by Chester’s warm fur against his leg. He smiled—possibly with the most joy he’d felt since this morning—and reached down to scoop him up. He couldn’t help but giggle when the animal started excitedly licking at his face, in the way that one giggles when they are overcome by bliss and have no proper outlet for it other than laughing in an extremely adorable manner. When he remembered that he was being watched though, he quickly turned to meet Maxwell’s amused gaze, and put in a concentrated effort to stifle his mewls of joy. Very quietly, but still sternly, he said, “Off with you, now.”
Maxwell nodded with a teasing smile, and fixed his cigar between his teeth. It was then that his body disappeared from the scene, but unbeknownst to Higgsbury, his eyes remained. He watched the scientist get comfortable in his tent, with his pet nestled between his chin and his chest, and he paid keen attention for the next thirty minutes to try to pinpoint the exact moment that he fell asleep.
He began counting the seconds to their next interaction.