Chapter Text
It took Wilson an uncomfortably long moment to realise the splotches of darkness on the ground were not blood, but merely black spots in his vision.
He blinked to dismiss them with some success and focused instead on what really was there. There were his spoils of war: the stringy, noxious meat which would harm him as much as help him if not carefully prepared, and wicked fangs for fashioning traps. So many fangs... just how many hounds had there been? He had lost count after he had skewered the second one and the third one had sunk its fangs into his arm in retaliation... and now he could see the real blood...
He took a step forward and his legs immediately gave way. He shored himself back up by digging the butt of his spear into the dirt and leaning against it, doing his best to ignore the cold flames radiating from the bite wound. Once he could no longer prevent himself from glancing at it, he realised his sleeve was soaked with blood. He shook his head to clear his vision again — a bit too vigorously, because the next thing he knew, his head was spinning — then tried to think logically. Of course he was bleeding. The blood on the ground had to have come from somewhere, and he was well aware that when the hounds bled — and they rarely did — their wounds wept poison and shadows...
He found himself suddenly doubled over as a fit of coughing overtook him. He hastened to cover his mouth for fear of attracting more predators if he didn't muffle the sound. When it finally abated and he straightened his back, he discovered flecks of fresh blood on the black fabric covering his palm.
He must have bit his cheek during the mêlée, he decided, bunching his hand into a fist. That was all there was to it. Instead of focusing on needless concerns like imagined fatal injuries, he ought to gather up his new resources and retreat to relative safety to tend to his arm.
He managed a few more shallow breaths before being overwhelmed by another coughing fit.
Yes, he had been too careless, he decided as he swallowed the bloody spit filling his mouth. He had been in worse scrapes, far worse, but hobbling back to camp would still be a drawn-out ordeal. He didn't even wish to consider how long it would take for his wounds for fully heal, assuming he even survived the night.
But he was alive for now. And, in the end, wasn't that all that mattered?
He drew his first successful deep breath since the hounds had first lunged at him. Emboldened by this small triumph, he used his spear as a cane to take a step forward, and when that worked out just fine and he felt no further urge to cough his lungs out, he began to wonder if just maybe he might—
"You always treat my pets so cruelly."
And there he was, Wilson thought as he slowly turned around. His ticket to further misery.
Even standing surrounded by the remains of dead hounds, Maxwell looked as though he had just stepped out of a country club. His smirk was perhaps slightly more subdued than usual, but it was regardless extremely smug.
Wilson straightened his back to stand up at his full height. Admittedly, he required the support of his spear to do so, but that didn't matter as long as he could meet Maxwell's haughty stare as directly as possible. "Maybe I would treat them more kindly if you ordered them to keep their fangs to themselves."
"And deprive them of their greatest pleasure? That hardly seems fair to the poor beasts."
Wilson said nothing. Maxwell's tone was dismissive, but Wilson thought that just for a moment, he caught a flicker of something else in his eyes, something akin to uncertainty. It was most likely a trick of the light, but he still made a mental note to scrutinise the possibility that something about the hounds made Maxwell nervous at a later time.
For now, he raised his chin. "Get on with it."
Maxwell quirked an eyebrow. "Get on with what, precisely?"
"You only ever show up either to taunt me when I've done something you find especially idiotic or to make my life harder when you have grown bored with me doing well for myself." Wilson shook his head and cursed under his breath when the simple gesture made him feel dizzy. "I have been holding my own lately, so you must be here for the latter reason."
"You call this..." Maxwell made a lunge as if meaning to grab Wilson's arm and dig his fingers into the broken flesh. Even though it was an obvious feint, Wilson took a stumbling step backwards. "Holding your own?"
Wilson renewed his glare. "I'll survive."
"Ever the optimist, I see."
"I would survive just fine if you didn't stick your big nose into my business." It took some effort, but eventually Wilson managed to stand up without support. He raised the spear and turned its tip towards Maxwell's throat. "Do you have nothing better to do than tormenting me? I would have thought you'd be as sick of looking at me as I'm of looking at you by now."
Maxwell's eyes narrowed. "Since when have you been this arrogant? Perhaps you need a reminder of your situation."
"Do your worst. See if I care."
Maxwell blinked. "What did you just say?"
In truth, Wilson wasn't initially certain what had possessed him to say that. Perhaps the thought had been fomenting in the more rebellious parts of his mind for quite some time now, or perhaps he was merely growing giddy from blood loss. Either way, he found himself slowly starting to smile.
It wasn't that he hadn't held his ground against Maxwell before. In fact, if there was one thing he could be proud of, it was of how rarely he had allowed his fear to dictate his actions when facing his tormentor. Even so, today felt different. Yes, why not test the limits of what Maxwell would do to him if he annoyed him enough? At this point it was obvious Wilson would always eventually die and wake up to find his body once again in one piece.
As for his mind... well, perhaps the limitations of his imagination were for once a windfall rather than a curse. Either way, he had already made his move. It was time to see how Maxwell responded.
Maxwell was looking at him not unlike how one might observe a potentially dangerous cornered animal. He was most certainly not smirking now. His eyes flashed as he leaned forward. "Let's try something else first. If you wipe that smug look from your face within the next five seconds, I'll tell you something you will find very interesting."
Wilson didn't even consider the offer before he shook his head. He wasn't falling for that for the... what, one hundredth time? "Is that the best bait you have left?"
He expected Maxwell to snarl and perhaps to express his displeasure with a less than gentlemanly clawed strike. Instead, Maxwell drew his head up, studying Wilson along the bridge of his nose like inspecting some hitherto unknown species of invertebrate.
Wilson took the opportunity to study Maxwell in turn. He was not conventionally attractive by any stretch — less so even than Wilson himself was, and he was willing to admit he was no prize — but given that his was the only human countenance Wilson had seen apart from his own in literal years, it had slowly and despite Wilson's great reluctance become a somewhat welcome sight.
The thought made him shudder. Perhaps he truly had lost his mind. He vowed at once to do what he could to avoid looking at Maxwell's ugly mug for as long as possible after this encounter.
"I'm quite serious, pal," Maxwell finally said. "There's something you need to know. Listen carefully."
He leaned in as if to whisper in Wilson's ear, bringing the reek of cigarettes with him.
Wilson didn't wait to hear what he had to say. Instead, he struck.
It was a feeble effort — while by now an expert survivor, Wilson still wasn't much of a pugilist. Still, the attack connected: his knuckles slammed against Maxwell's cheek and made him step backwards, if most likely merely from surprise.
For a single moment, Maxwell simply stared at Wilson. The next, he was snarling. "If it's war you want, pal, then war you shall—"
He didn't have time to finish the sentence before the shaft of Wilson's spear struck against his forehead. He stumbled again, this time clearly from pain.
Wilson pounced. He more collapsed into rather than tackled Maxwell, but the end result was the same: they both barrelled towards the ground.
What followed was a scramble. Maxwell lashed out, seemingly aiming to scratch Wilson's eyes out. On his part, Wilson focused on leaning as much of his weight onto Maxwell as possible to force him prone while also struggling to hold onto the spear.
In the end, it seemed it was more Maxwell's disinclination to get blood on his suit than Wilson's ferocity that earned Wilson the victory. Regardless, he found himself armed and pinning Maxwell onto the ground, which was as good an outcome as he could ever have hoped for. He aimed the spear's tip at Maxwell's face and kept it there even as his arm began to tremble from the exertion.
Maxwell glared up at him. From close up, his eyes looked even more like voids. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
Wilson didn't move. Really, what was he waiting for? Why hadn't he plunged the spear into Maxwell's flesh at the first available opportunity and so eked out at least a scrap of vengeance?
Because it was meaningless. Tempting as it was, killing Maxwell now meant he would be back five minutes later intent on spending the next several hours trying to find new ways to make Wilson wish he could die in earnest.
He almost skewered Maxwell out of spite anyway before a new thought crossed his mind. What did he really want when it came to Maxwell? For him to stay as far away as possible, of course. Was there anything he could do that would repel Maxwell so utterly that he wouldn't even bother with vengeance?
The idea struck Wilson like a bolt of lightning, minus the numbing agony and the sensation of being transformed into barbecued meat.
Had he considered it for longer than a heartbeat, he most likely wouldn't have acted upon it. But in the moment, while his head was spinning with pain and adrenaline and a sudden sense of determination, it was simple enough to go through with it.
He dropped the spear and leaned forward. His lips were on Maxwell's before the weapon was done clattering to the ground.
The kiss lasted for a second, perhaps two. Wilson wasn't exactly counting.
He sat up straight, suddenly dizzy all over again. The taste in his mouth was foreign and far from pleasant — he couldn't stand the stench of tobacco, and it was worse mingled with the metallic reek of blood — but the way his lips tingled was curious in a more intriguing way. He licked them in an effort to make sense of the sensation when another thought crossed his mind.
Wait. I just kissed my mortal enemy.
For a moment, he could think of nothing else as he shuddered from sheer mortification. But then, a rational part of him reminded him that he had done far worse in the name of survival. Besides, if he, who at least was perfectly aware of the rationale behind the rash act, felt this way, he could assume Maxwell was even more stunned.
That certainly seemed to be the case. There was nothing preventing Maxwell from getting up — as spindly as he looked, even he had to have enough strength to throw Wilson off now that he wasn't attempting to hold him down — but he continued to lie flat on his back, still as a corpse. He looked like someone who had just swallowed a live fish which had then gotten stuck in his throat.
Even as he waited for the inevitable explosion as Maxwell's shock wore off, Wilson couldn't help but feel a flicker of triumph. Oh yes. He had definitely surprised Maxwell this time around.
He suddenly fell onto the ground, his palm meeting grass and dirt instead of the fabric of Maxwell's suit. He blinked just in time to see wisps of shadows evaporating into the sunset.
In other words, Maxwell was gone.
Wilson reached for his spear and waited for several moments, unwilling to let his guard down. It was likely Maxwell had only pretended to flee. As soon as Wilson stopped expecting it, he would re-appear and summon shadows to tear off Wilson's arms or do something else equally unpleasant.
Only, he didn't. As the flames of tension faded to embers, Wilson was left feeling weak but also certain he was utterly alone.
His legs shook as he stood up. Disbelief slowly began giving way to joy, unpunctured even by the knowledge of how he had gained his victory.
I actually beat him at his own game!
He was suddenly aware he was grinning from ear to ear. Though it took some effort, he raised a triumphant fist towards the sky.
Checkmate, Maxwell.
Even as he kept smiling, he slowly became aware of the growing burn of his wounds. The sensation had been dulled during the excitement, but now his arm was throbbing, and he noticed to his great alarm that he was bleeding again. He still didn't think he was that likely to die because of it... but on the other hand, any remaining daylight was rapidly fading into a blood-red sunset, and he was still far away from his base.
"Damn you, Maxwell." And with that, he hastened to light a torch and begin to limp to safety.