Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maxwell Gotch wore gloves to school.

He wore them everywhere, really. They were slightly too big, too long in the fingers, borrowed from Samwell’s impressive collection of eveningwear.

Wearing them was a recent development, one his father had surprisedly approved of. Maxwell now properly looked his status as belonging to the upper echelons of his (already sufficiently elite) private school. A university man amongst his secondary school peers. That’s what his father had said, anyway.

Maxwell thought they made him look terribly stupid. He knew that was what his friends thought as well, but mercifully they kept their ridiculing to a minimum. They knew very well that his excuse of walking into a door knuckles first had lost its credibility somewhere around the third time he’d used it.

So he wore gloves, pristine and white, agitating the scabs and bruises that coloured the backs of his hands.

Maxwell walked into the ostentatious entrance hall of his school, resisting the ever present urge to scratch at his knuckles. He kept his chin arrogantly raised, his face carefully neutral. He didn’t look at the small grouping of colourfully dressed students at the bottom of the grand staircase. Instead he looked at his two brothers.

“My absolute oaf of a biology teacher has once again planned one of his useless little fieldtrips today,” Johnwell complained, exasperation dripping off every word. “If I have to spend another Friday afternoon out of breath and sweating, trekking through knee high grass like some sort of mountain man, I think I might hang myself.”

Maxwell snorted. “The Smog knows I would trade with you if I could. I have a three hour economics lecture later. Mr. Bitsanbaubs specially requested the third hour, because apparently there just wouldn’t be enough time to cover everything otherwise.”

Johnwell blew out a sympathetic breath.

“I only have rehearsals today,” Wealwell said, with something of a smug look on his face.

Johnwell narrowed his eyes at him. “I will never understand why you actually go to those things. Even father would understand if you skipped them.”

“He’d probably encourage it.” Maxwell grimaced.

Johnwell straightened his back and curled his mouth into a nasty sneer that resembled their father’s near perfectly. “Only fribbles and dunderheads waste their precious time on something as insubstantial and financially stifling as the arts.”

Maxwell laughed at Johnwell’s (scarily impeccable) impression, until he saw the look on Wealwell’s face, his lips pressed into a thin line and his neck flushed red. Maxwell shot Johnwell a glance, but he didn’t notice. Reading the room had never been a strength of his.

Then the first bell rang, far too soon.

Johnwell sighed dramatically. “Off to the jungle I go. See you dunderheads later,” he said, as he turned to leave for the Natural Sciences wing.

Maxwell looked over his shoulder and watched the group of students by the stairs split up in the directions of their various classes, silently cursing himself for not breaking off from his brothers sooner.

He waved a half-hearted goodbye to Wealwell, who seemingly hadn’t noticed the bell or registered what it signified, and set off towards his own class.

🌤

Maxwell strode across the busy, semi-enclosed courtyard, heading straight for the space between the administration building and the old gymnasium. The seniors liked to scare every first year they could corner with stories of murderers and gang members haunting the shadowy alley, and even though everyone claimed it didn’t affect them, the area surrounding the alley’s entrance remained ever avoided, by lower and upperclassmen alike.

Maxwell was embarrassed to admit he too had once believed the stories, back when he was still afraid of the delinquents his father and older brothers complained about with fear-tainted disgust. Now he passed through the alley with the confidence of someone who knew they were where they belonged.

“Jameston!” he called when he had rounded the last corner and come into the clearing behind the abandoned gym.

The face Maxwell had been waiting to see all morning looked up and grinned. “Gotch!” Camber gracefully pushed himself to his feet and strode over to Maxwell. He punched him just below the shoulder, jovial in that ridiculous, over the top way of his. “Way to keep us waiting, Maxie. We were starting to think you’d chickened out.”

“You wish.” Maxwell smiled. “Playing dirty already, are we?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Camber slung his arm around Maxwell as they walked the rest of the way to their friends, who sat in a cluster a few steps down into the small, overgrown amphitheatre.

“Where’s our joyous greeting?” Jovi asked, crossing her arms.

Maxwell paid her no mind, turning to face Camber. “Punching a man’s bruise hours before a match. It’s almost as if you don’t like your chances.”

Jovi made a sound of indignation. “And now he’s ignoring us.” She kicked lightly at Maxwell’s legs.

“I’m not ignoring them, Jovi. Only you.” Maxwell dodged a second, significantly more powerful kick. “Kidding, kidding! Save your strength for tonight.”

Jovi huffed. “Like I’ll need it.”

Camber sat back down, languidly draping himself on the stone. “I like my chances just fine, thank you very much. Any nefarious design exists solely in your imagination, my friend.” His tone was light, innocuous. A damned good actor, that one, though one with a flair for the dramatic. “It was nothing but a coincidence. You cannot expect a man to know the precise location of every single one of your bruises.”

Maxwell quirked an eyebrow. “Can’t I?”

The tips of Camber’s ears went slightly pink. Maxwell thought it looked good on him, but then again, he thought everything did.

“Guys, stop being gross. It’s too early in the night to throw up,” Verne said, gagging for utterly unneeded emphasis.

Jovi looked over at him. “It’s not even two o’clock.”

“Exactly.”

Maxwell and Camber laughed in unison, something they often did (Jovi said it was creepy, which did nothing to lessen the feeling of satisfaction Maxwell felt every time it happened).

Tem, who sat with her arm around Jovi on the third row, cocked her chin in the direction of the alley. “Looks like we have a stalker.”

Maxwell turned around to find Wealwell, of all people, staring at him. He stood at the edge of the clearing, one hand against the brick wall behind him, one pressed against his stomach. Do not throw up, Maxwell thought at him. He hoped the look in his eyes made the message sufficiently clear.

“Say, isn’t that one of your eighty brothers?” Jovi asked. “What’s this one called? Cheatwell? Doorwell?”

“Fuckswell,” Verne chimed in, his eyes roving over Wealwell in a way that Maxwell did not appreciate.

Jovi rolled her eyes. “Your wit knows no bound, Bayforge.”

Tem snorted.

“It’s Wealwell,” Camber said, shooting a reproachful look at Jovi and Verne. Unsurprisingly, this did not seem to have any effect.

Maxwell smiled at the fact that Camber knew his brothers’ names, or at least this one. He hadn’t even met any of them. Maxwell supposed that was about to change.

Wealwell was still standing at an awkward distance, one Maxwell knew he would not close unless specifically prompted.

He turned back to his friends and gave them all individually a stern look. “Be normal.”

He was met with blank stares and eyerolls, which was about what he had expected. Except for Camber, who gently squeezed his knee before pulling his hand back.

Maxwell sighed and put his hands up to his mouth. “Hey Wealwell, come over here!”

To his credit, Wealwell only hesitated for a moment before stiffly walking towards the group.

Maxwell set his jaw, forcing a smile. “Hey, uhm, what’s up—”

“Wealwell, right?” Verne cut in, pulling a hand through his hair in the way he thought was stunningly suave. Unfortunately, Maxwell couldn’t truthfully say he was wrong. “What brings a fanciable fellow like yourself to our humble abode?”

Tem made a choked noise that sounded very much like a covered up laugh. Next to her Jovi bit back a smirk. Maxwell had to stop himself from burying his face in his hands.

“Well, uhm, you see…” Wealwell had gone completely white, which meant it wouldn’t be long before he’d turn green. “I came to speak with Maxwell. I don’t plan on bothering you longer than I have to. Sorry.” He looked like he was about to pass out.

As Wealwell spoke, Maxwell worried the scabs on his knuckles through his gloves. They were only halfway healed and itched terribly, and Maxwell knew that if he wasn’t careful, he’d open the wounds back up and bleed right through the pristine white fabric.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you sure you won’t stay, just for a little while?” Jovi purred. Camber nudged her with his foot, which she comfortably ignored.

Wealwell cleared his throat. It did nothing to help the squeakiness of his voice. “No, no… Dreadfully sorry, really, but… I have to get back to rehearsals soon anyway.” He looked at Maxwell, his eyes pleading to get him out of there, as if he was in mortal danger.

“If you can’t stay now,” Verne said before Maxwell could even open his mouth, undeterred as ever, “why don’t you come to the party tonight? Big summer blow out, everybody will be there. Everybody interesting, that is.”

Maxwell made a slightly undignified sound, high and aghast, and this time he wasn’t the only one upset. Jovi’s head whipped around to Verne, her expression first appalled, then slowly morphing into annoyed. Camber shot Maxwell a look out of the corner of his eyes. Only Tem didn’t move. She’d gone perfectly still, which was a reaction in its own right.

Wealwell breathed in sharply. His mouth was working hard and still managed nothing but a weak smile. “That’s very kind of you. I, I’ll have to  get back to you on that—”

“Wealwell, you go on ahead,” Maxwell cut in, gesturing to the edge of the clearing. “I’ll be right with you.”

Wealwell seemed grateful for the escape. He turned around and walked off without another word.

Maxwell waited a few moments before he turned to a far too smug looking Verne. “What in the thirteen hells was that?” he hissed.

Jovi scoffed. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I can’t believe he complained about us being too horny,” Camber said.

“Everyone, calm yourselves.” Verne held up his hands. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Maxwell said, his voice pitched with disbelief.

Tem sat up and pursed her lips. “Verne, be honest, are you drunk right now?”

Verne had the temerity to look offended. “No, Temperance, I am not drunk. Look, I don’t know why you people are making such a fuss. I didn’t mention the fight or even allude to the fact that it’s an afterparty—”

“Everyone knows it’s an afterparty, dumbass,” Jovi cut in. “And what if he shows up?”

Verne’s eyes almost sparkled. He smiled devilishly. “I pray that he does.”

Maxwell was about to say something else, something about his brothers being absolutely off limits and didn’t Verne know that, when he heard Wealwell call his name across the clearing. He cursed under his breath.

Maxwell got up and slung his bag over his shoulder, mentally preparing himself for the conversation he was about to have.

Camber caught his eyes and raised his eyebrows. Maxwell responded with a twist of his lips. I’ll be fine.

“I suppose I better deal with this now,” he sighed.

Tem gave him a few supportive pats on his calf. Jovi looked ready to tear into Verne the moment Maxwell was gone. Maxwell hoped she could talk some sense into him.

He flashed his friends one last sarcastic grin before striding off towards his brother.

Wealwell was standing in the entrance of the alley, his shoulders raised so high they nearly touched his ears and his face still suspiciously white.

“If you are going to throw up, please do it in the courtyard.” Maxwell readjusted his gloves.

“I’m not, I swear,” Wealwell said weakly. “It’s passed.”

Maxwell smiled a small, tight lipped smile and walked around Wealwell, into the alleyway that led back out into the world.

🌨

Wealwell was quiet as a ghost as they walked through the passage between the buildings and across the courtyard.

At first Maxwell thought he was in some sort of shock, but that was too extreme of a reaction even for Wealwell, which meant he was choosing not to speak. Staggeringly, it seemed to Maxwell to be on his behalf.

Wealwell kept his gaze stubbornly forward. His jaw was clamped shut, tenser than Maxwell had ever seen it. He didn’t notice Wealwell had walked them to the auditorium until they had passed through its ancient, decrepit wooden doors. All that tuition money must have gone to the new Business and Economics building, Maxwell mused to himself.

Wealwell silently led them through the labyrinthine halls of the theatre department, passing what felt like over a hundred doorways before he crammed them into a small room. It appeared to be storage of some kind, the walls tightly packed with vibrant costumes and props. Fake, fanciful weapons hung from the ceiling. Maxwell noticed them with a distant feeling of disdain.

Wealwell whirled around, finally meeting Maxwell’s eyes. He rubbed his hands together fitfully. “I’m sorry for following you, Max. I really didn’t mean to intrude.”

Maxwell raised his eyebrows. That was not what he had expected. He waited for Wealwell to say more, but he didn’t. Maxwell cleared his throat. “It’s, uhm, it’s no problem.” Another beat of silence. “So, you met my friends—”

“Are they really going to go to that dreadful fighting business?” The words tumbled out of Wealwell's mouth in a hurry. His eyes widened. “Are you?”

“No, no, of course not!” Maxwell heard the hints of manic laughter behind his words more than he felt them. He forced himself to calm down. Everything is fine.

He put on his best gentlemanly grin before he spoke again. “Wealwell, relax. It’s just a simple party. Whatever those…”—his hands flitted through the air as he looked for a word that was appropriately negative, without tumbling face first into being too shocking—“ruffians get up to before… Think of it as a backdrop, a fancy excuse to have a little celebration. No one I know shows up before all that fighting business is well over with”

Wealwell let out a visible breath. “Thank the Smog. I mean, of course. I never should have assumed…” He shook his head.

“I get it,” Maxwell said, absentmindedly fiddling with the fabric around his knuckles. Out of all his brothers, he hated lying to Wealwell the most. On top of that, he wasn’t out of hot water just yet. “So,” he started, voice laced with false nonchalance, “about you going to the party—”

“Oh gods, what a mess. Why did he even invite me?” Wealwell looked genuinely puzzled.

Maxwell almost laughed. “Brother, I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but people find you quite attractive.”

Wealwell seemed no less confused. “Yes, I know, but… it wasn’t one of the girls that asked me. It was that Bayforge fellow.”

The muscles in Maxwell’s neck spasmed. He opened his mouth but didn’t have a reply ready. He covered it up with an awkward scoff of a laugh as he thought of something to say. “Right. No, of course. Verne was just doing the girls a favour, because he knows they’d never ask you themselves.” Maxwell laughed, like he and Wealwell were in on some joke. “You know how girls are.” The notion that Jovi or Tem might be interested in inviting his brother out to anything was nothing short of laughable, but he kept that to himself.

Wealwell nodded in understanding. He had plenty of experience with girls being too shy to ask him out, so Maxwell supposed it must be believable enough. “Yes, that’s good of him.” He looked up at Maxwell, suddenly anxious again. “Do you think the girls would be offended if I didn’t show? You know I’m not much for excitement, at least not that of the unscripted variety.”

Maxwell tried not to let the relief show on his face. Instead he smiled supportively. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Good. You can tell them I’m flattered, if you think that would help.”

Maxwell snickered. He could imagine the looks on their faces clear as day. “I’ll see if it comes up.”

“I don’t know how you do it, brother,” Wealwell sighed. “You’ve always been the most daring of us, hanging around behind the school with those scholarship folks. Who I’m sure are lovely!” He hastily added on when he saw the expression on Maxwell’s face darken.

“Yeah, daring. That’s one way to put it.” Maxwell dragged a hand over his face. Suddenly, he felt like being anywhere but in that tight, stuffy room. “I’ll see you at home.” With that, he turned around and left his brother alone.

As Maxwell found his way outside, weaving through the maze of hallways, he realised Wealwell had meant to talk to him about something. He resolved to ask about that some other time, some unspecified point in the future in which he wasn’t filled with the distinct urge to hit something.

🌩

Maxwell’s skin was hot against the cool evening air. Music swirled and echoed around him through the amphitheatre, surprisingly loud given the size of the radio it emanated from.  Maxwell knew the place well enough to be able to tell it wasn’t simply the superior acoustics amplifying the sound. He suspected one of the engineering students had done something ingenious and potentially dangerous to the radio. It wouldn’t be the first time something exploded at one of their parties.

Maxwell wasn’t focussed on the music now, though. No, his attention was on the soft lips tracing shapes down his neck, and on the waist beneath his bare fingers, covered only by a flimsy undershirt.

Faintly he registered they had been in quite a similar position earlier that night, Camber straddling him in the centre of the stage, surrounded by a jeering crowd. Now they were in a far corner of the party, near the top of the theatre’s sunken rows of seats. The pillows under his back were a lot more comfortable than the fine gravel of the fighting pit.

Maxwell felt like he was floating, buzzed on two cups of spiked punch and post-fight endorphins. A perfect moment.

Camber pressed a kiss on his chin a little too roughly. Reflexively, Maxwell recoiled, grimacing.

Camber pulled back, a remorseful smile lining his mouth. “Oh, gods, sorry.” He traced a careful finger over Maxwell’s split lip. “I really didn’t mean to hit you, cross my heart. You’re face was just so much lower than I ever expected it to be. Why were you even there?”

“I told you, it’s a wrestling move. Had it not been for your elbow hitting me, very ungentlemanly, in the face, I would have had you on your ass.”

Camber hummed sceptically. Maxwell reached up to push his annoying boyfriend’s face away in mock-offence, but before he could Camber caught his wrist and pinned it above his head.

Camber tilted his head to the side. “What’s this move called?”

Maxwell laughed. “In a real match that wouldn’t have flown even a minute. I know three ways to ground you right now.” Maxwell shifted, getting comfortable on the thin pillows below him. “However, since I actually quite like my current position, I am choosing to be merciful.”

“Of course you are,” Camber murmured as he bent down to kiss him again.

Below them the party was in full swing. People were dancing ferociously a few tiers down into the theatre pit, exuding a free sort of confidence that had made Maxwell envy them instantly and intensely. Verne and Jovi were most likely drinking themselves to death in another one of their embarrassingly competitive games of Drunken Engine Repair (although they liked to make fun of Verne for his bacchian tendencies, no one denied that he could drink them all under the table). Maxwell vaguely recalled Tem disappearing into the shadows with a mysterious pink-haired stranger, which had him slightly worried about a blowup with Jovi. Or perhaps Jovi knew about it and it was fine? Maxwell could never keep up with those two and their relationship status.

Camber noticed him getting distracted and pulled back just to raise his eyebrows at him.

Maxwell laughed softly, an exhale of breath. “Sorry, sorry.” He lifted his head, trying to reach Camber’s face as he teasingly raised it higher.

Then he heard it. A name, floating through the crowd, traveling in that strange way all sound did in the amphitheatre.

Wealwell.

Maxwell pulled back so fast he nearly hit his head on the stone beneath him. He tried to disengage from Camber’s arms, but he was on top of Maxwell and their legs were all tangled up.

He cannot be here. Let him not be here.

Camber reacted only a moment later, sitting back to let Maxwell out, but it was already too late. It had been too late from the start. Maxwell looked up and saw his brother, standing in the exact same spot as before, staring at him once again. This time his eyes were wide, his face twisted with confusion and another emotion, something far, far worse. Something that looked like horror, or disgust. It made Maxwell’s stomach turn.

Maxwell scrambled to his feet. For an excruciatingly long second he and Wealwell stood perfectly still, eyes locked, each with their own terrible expression. A stalemate.

Then, Wealwell disappeared into the alleyway behind him, swallowed up by the darkness, gone.

Chapter Text

Maxwell did not sleep.

He had come home, early and torturously sober, to a house full of empty hallways. It had been a relief, and it had also made him feel smaller than he ever had before.

They liked to pretend they were men, down in the fighting pit, or when they knocked back another glass of stolen liquor, but they were boys. Maxwell had never felt younger, never more vulnerable.

He had tiptoed up the stairs and down the hall, giving Wealwell’s room a wide berth.

As if that would make a difference.

In bed, as the gravel he hadn’t bothered to wash away irritated the back of his scalp, Maxwell pictured his brother. He pictured Wealwell sitting in his room, growing more disgusted with Maxwell by the second. He imagined Wealwell waking up their father to tell him what he’d seen. He saw Wealwell coming down for breakfast and throwing up at the sight of him.

Maxwell remembered Camber telling him it was alright. Fear had stained his words like the blood on his collar. It had felt tainted, all of it. Deviant.

He thought about his friends, how they had appeared, as if by magic, to stand next to him. He remembered Jovi’s arm linking through his, the look of horror on Verne’s face.

He remembered the grim determination lining Tem’s normally so delicate features. She had taken him by the elbow and turned him towards her, looking him in the eye intently, patiently, expectantly, until she was sure he was paying attention. “If shit goes down, come to my place. You can stay as long as you need,” she’d said. Then she’d smiled, pained but defiant. “We will figure something out.”

Maxwell had considered it then, running away and never looking back, but the thought had withered before it had had the chance to bloom into anything real. There wasn’t anywhere he could go that was out of his father’s reach.

Maxwell spent the night lying under his oppressively heavy covers, far too awake to sleep, yet too terrified to get out of bed. Somehow, in the absurdity of sleeplessness, he had become convinced that leaving the safety of his bedsheets would break some enchantment, like tripping a wire, and that if his feet touched the cold, unforgiving floorboards all hell would break loose.

Gently, the dark blue of the sky faded into purple, then pink, orange, yellow. The light of day brought with it clarity of thought, and soon he couldn’t justify not getting up any longer.

Maxwell dressed himself slowly, ignoring the hint of nausea in his throat. He flexed his fingers, stretching them and balling them into fists, and looked at his dirtied gloves. They had spent a good portion of the party discarded in a corner, only remembered in the aftermath of Wealwell’s arrival (and immediate retreat), when Maxwell had yanked them on in a hurry. He hadn’t taken them off since. Maxwell exchanged them for a clean pair before walking downstairs.

Wealwell wasn’t at breakfast.

No one seemed particularly perturbed by this fact, probably because Wealwell was the only Gotch son allowed to plead sickness and excuse himself from family meals.

Maxwell’s father was reading a newspaper, distractedly eating slices of the singular orange that lay, peeled and artfully arranged, on his plate.

Hatwell looked bored, which was never comforting.

Johnwell looked up from his plate and stared at Maxwell as he sat down, his eyes round as aircraft engines. “What happened to your face?”

It took Maxwell a second to comprehend what he was talking about. When he did, he silently cursed himself for being too distracted to come up with an excuse for the bruise on his face. The fight felt like a distant memory. “Streetlamp,” Maxwell said curtly, hoping his tone would do the rest of the talking for him. Not in the mood for questions.

Johnwell nodded. Maxwell wondered if he bought it.

They ate in silence. It was strange, which made Maxwell realise how talkative Wealwell really was. Or perhaps he was the only person any of them ever cared to talk to.

Hatwell spoke up briefly to make an utterly unclever remark about the bags under Maxwell’s eyes (he compared him to a LaMontgommery character, which Maxwell deemed an embarrassing literary reference for a university student; they read those books to the older kids in primary school). Maxwell ignored him.

After breakfast was finished, their father cleared his throat and informed the table that Samwell would be joining them for dinner that night, for he was in town on business, or something of the like. Maxwell didn’t quite catch the second half, his mind stuck on trying to figure out if Samwell coming home made him feel better or worse.

What he did know was that he did not want to remain in the dining room. Maxwell excused himself and hurried out of the open double doors, his head low and his eyes on the floor.

He heard movement behind Wealwell’s door as he passed it on the way to his room. Wealwell was avoiding him, that much he could assume. Maxwell dreaded the confrontation, but what he was really terrified of, what made him feel like he was being hollowed out from the inside, was the possibility that Wealwell would never look him in the eye again.

A sense of doom hung over Maxwell’s head in a cloud. There was a certainty in his mind, one he could taste on the back of his tongue, that something bad was going to happen any moment now. Maxwell spent the day in a haze, floating somewhere above his body, waiting for the blade to fall.

He walked in circles in his room, a record humming songs that were so comforting once, but now didn’t do anything to help the painful beating of his heart.

He picked up one of the wooden figures that lived on the shelf above his desk and held it in the palm of his hand. It was a carved statue of Comfrey McLeod, painted with artfully crude strokes. Verne had made it for him, some time ago, after he’d had a particularly explosive argument with his father. Maxwell couldn’t remember what the fight was about now, but he remembered the feeling in his chest as Verne had handed him the gift. Warm and bright.

Maxwell looked over his shoulder. The needle of his gargantium telegraph remained perfectly still, as it had all day. His friends wouldn’t contact him until they could be certain it was safe, as Maxwell knew they should. His father could decide to go after all their scholarships and have them rescinded one after the other, if he felt so inclined. Perhaps he’d think them dark, wicked influences on Maxwell, the reason he was like this, and feel compelled to punish them for it. Perhaps he’d do it simply because he was angry, and because he could.

Maxwell sat down and did his coursework.

At some point, he heard Samwell arrive. He heard the muffled sounds of Johnwell’s excitement and the quieter sounds of Hatwell playing it cool. He had gotten up from his chair, ready to greet Samwell after weeks of not seeing him, before he remembered. Fear seized his muscles, tightened his skin. He couldn’t shake the unreasonable notion that Samwell would be able to read the guilt right off of his face. He sat back down in his chair.

The evening fell, slowly but surely, draping over his bedroom window like a net.

It was Saturday night, which meant mandatory attendance for dinner, sickness or no. Maxwell couldn’t avoid it, and neither could Wealwell.

Maxwell stalled for as long as he thought he could get away with. Finally, when he no longer heard footsteps in the hallway or on the stairs, he took a deep breath and stepped out of his room. Perhaps everything will be fine. Everything could go fine.

He turned his head and saw Wealwell, standing in front of his own door. Wealwell’s eyes widened and his throat spasmed in a way Maxwell recognised, supressing the sickness fighting its way up his body. Wealwell tripped over his legs, clearly wanting to get away from Maxwell faster than his body was capable of, and hurried down the stairs.

The small, fragile, short lived hope that had kept Maxwell afloat splintered ruthlessly, cutting the inside of his chest.

After taking a moment to collect himself, to wait out the thumping pressure in the back of his skull and behind his eyes, Maxwell followed his brother down.

Of course, he was last to arrive. He paused in the doorway, regretting all of his various life choices, as he saw what chair was left empty for him. Reluctantly, he sat down between Samwell and a shivering Wealwell. Why the fuck are you shaking? There was a nasty edge to the thought that Maxwell regretted instantly, even if it had only been in his own mind.

When Samwell squeezed his shoulder in greeting, his eyes lined with a quiet concern, or perhaps reproach (why didn’t you come down when I arrived?), Maxwell smiled. The smile was genuine, and yet he felt fake. He felt it in his skin. Shimmering, scintillating, static. Plastic hiding the rot underneath.

Dinner began. Their father ceremoniously cut the meat, a giant turkey to mark Samwell’s temporary return, before it was sent back to the kitchen and the first course arrived.

Samwell spoke about his experiences abroad in Eisengeist, meetings with attendants of the Queen herself, but Maxwell was distracted. He couldn’t keep from periodically glancing over at Wealwell, who sat stiffly upright, wringing his hands in his lap.

Maxwell hated the suspense more than anything.

He forced himself to look away and his eyes landed on Hatwell, who met his gaze and, horrifyingly, smiled.

Samwell’s story came to an end, and Hatwell looked away, dropping the corners of his mouth into a grave expression. He cleared his throat. “So,” he said, tone thick like the air before a thunderstorm. It made the hairs on Maxwell’s neck stand on end. “I heard about that Latimer kid. Terrible, what happened. Monstrous.”

Maxwell knew that name. It belonged to someone from his school, one of the lowerclassmen. Something about the name made alarm bells ring in the back of Maxwell’s mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

For a moment, no one responded. Samwell lightly furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”

Hatwell put on quite the concerned face. “You haven’t heard? I’d assumed Maxwell had told you.”

Maxwell didn’t flinch, but it was a close thing. He swallowed, trying desperately to get some moisture back in his mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“He’s in your year, is he not?” Hatwell asked, his eyebrows raised.

“One below me, actually.”

“So you do know him.” A statement, not a question. Hatwell spoke like a lawyer who had just led the defendant into a trap. The lawyer he might actually become, if he ever bothered to go to his classes.

Maxwell grit his teeth. “I know of him.”

“Please tell us what happened to him,” Samwell said, calm as ever.

Hatwell inclined his head at Samwell. He was the only person Hatwell actually listened to, aside from their father. “Apparently, he came home late last night, covered in blood and bruises.”

A moment of dead silence. Their father delicately lowered his fork, resting it on the edge of his plate. Maxwell felt Wealwell stiffen next to him. Johnwell let out a small squeak.

All at once, realisation dawned on Maxwell. Without meaning to, he made himself smaller, retreating in on himself.

Anthony Latimer had been at the party, and more importantly, he had been at the fight. Maxwell remembered seeing his name on the pinned up sheet the week before, scrawled next to Jovi’s. She’d rolled her eyes while the rest of them laughed at the kid’s misfortune.

It had been a terribly unfair fight. Mere minutes long, not much of a spectacle. Maxwell suspected Jovi had wanted to make a point. Once, she’d told him that most of the boys refused to fight her because she was a girl, so she only got the younger kids and the inexperienced fighters. Maxwell had offered to be her opponent once, but she had said she didn’t want his pity.

Their father arched an eyebrow, almost imperceptibly so. “How did he end up like that?”

Hatwell took a sip of his drink, clearly enjoying the attention he was getting. “He got beaten up at a party.”

Maxwell shot upright in his seat. “He said that?” He balled his fists under the table, eyes narrowing with pre-emptive anger. Had the sore loser squealed just because he couldn’t handle being beaten by a girl? He almost hoped it was true, just so that he would have the excuse to hit something, someone.

Hatwell scoffed. “Didn’t have to. His brother tells me he reeked of alcohol and his face was an absolute mess. Not to mention the arm. No streetlamp is doing all of that.”

At that, Maxwell did cringe. Hatwell hadn’t believed his excuse, Maxwell could see it in his eyes. He knows.

Maxwell’s fear ballooned painfully in his chest.

“What kind of party ends with a person beaten up?” Johnwell asked. Under different circumstances, in a different world, Maxwell might have laughed.

Hatwell shook his head mournfully. “Be glad you don’t know, dear brother. There’s a dark side to that school. I only found out about it after I left. I’m told of secret parties where people revel in violence and acts of debauchery.”

In spite of everything, Maxwell had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. Hatwell was laying it on thick.

“Those are just exaggerations and rumours,” Samwell said, waving his hand as if physically swatting the idea out of the air.

“Oh, I’m sure only half of it is true,” Hatwell said, shrugging. He turned to Maxwell, a mean glint in his eyes. “Maybe Max can clear it up for us. Since he was there and all.”

Maxwell’s heart skipped a beat. He pressed his lips into a thin line, willing his face not to show anything else. “What?” He deliberately did not look at Wealwell.

“Hatwell, that’s enough,” Samwell said. He was raising his voice now, a rarity. It seemed to shake Hatwell, however fleetingly.

Maxwell felt a swell of warmth in his chest. He shot Samwell a grateful look, but he was still looking sternly at Hatwell.

“You know as well as I do that Maxwell would never associate himself with anything so… vulgar.”

The hopeful feeling curdled, leaving a sick taste on the back of Maxwell’s tongue. The discomfort was quick to turn to anger, as it so often did. Rage buzzed, swarmed like hornets in his veins, alive and erratic. Maxwell pushed his knuckles against the wood of his chair, drinking in the spikes of pain as the fresh bruises protested. It was almost calming.

Hatwell recovered, his tone veering into the defensive. “Wouldn’t he? It was his friend’s party, that miner’s son. Verne Bayforge, I believe his name was.” His mouth curved downwards, real disgust shining through his obnoxious affect. “From what I hear, he’s nothing short of a rowdy.”

The word hit Maxwell like a slap in the face.

“Hatwell!” their father barked, so suddenly that Johnwell dropped his fork. It hit his plate with a clatter. “Language.”

All the fight that had animated Maxwell’s aching limbs had disappeared. He sat in his chair stunned, trying not to do something so horribly weak as to cry.

Their father turned to him, looking like a judge on the verge of verdict, reserving judgement for one last moment. “Maxwell, is this true? Are you friends with these”—he swallowed whatever terrible thing he had almost said, recovered—“people?”

“Of course it isn’t true,” Samwell said, looking exasperated and, to Maxwell’s dismay, utterly offended. Their father might as well have asked if Maxwell spent his days running around the sewers with the rats.

Maxwell couldn’t talk for fear of revealing the lump in his throat. There was the real possibility no sound would come out of him at all, only water and salt.

Hatwell laughed, a nasty sound. The fun he was having had soured. Instead he seemed riled up, desperate for the target of the room’s ire to be on anyone but him. “Oh, yes it is. Johnwell here”—he slapped his brother on his back, a little roughly—“told me how Maxwell hangs around Bayforge and his ilk all the time.”

Maxwell dazedly looked over at Johnwell, who had turned white as paper. “I didn’t… I just said one of the girls Max—” He cut himself off. “One of the girls at school had pretty hair.”

Samwell massaged his forehead, looking as overwhelmed as Maxwell felt. “That still doesn’t mean Maxwell was at the party, or any party for that matter.”

“Doesn’t it? Tell us,” Hatwell said, turning to Maxwell. “Where did you come from so late last night?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Maxwell desperately searched his scattered mind for a possible answer, but before he could open his mouth, a thin voice cut through the thick, stifling air.

“He was with me.”

Everyone turned to Wealwell, who sat straight in his chair, breathing hard. His eyes were wide and ferocious. Hatwell looked like he had only just remembered Wealwell was there. Maybe everyone did, a little.

“We went to watch the sunset,” Wealwell continued. “Up on the aircraft dock.”

Hatwell narrowed his eyes, suspicion and annoyance in the tilt of his head. “Did he happen to walk into a streetlamp on the way there too?”

“The way back, actually.” Wealwell laughed a little, very convincingly so. “It was really embarrassing.”

A giggle escaped out of Johnwell. He quickly put a hand over his mouth.

Samwell levelled a look of reproach at Hatwell, who sank back into his chair, before turning to Maxwell with an apologetic smile. “That sounds like fun.”

Maxwell nodded weakly. His heart was still racing.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the conversation was over. It was more than a little disorienting.

Their father launched into a lecture about proper language use at the dinner table, looking pointedly at Hatwell to punctuate the end of every sentence, but Maxwell wasn’t listening. He alternated between staring at his plate and shooting searching looks at Wealwell’s face. He couldn’t seem to read him at all, which was most unusual. He suspected Wealwell might be feeling sick, judging by the way he only pretended to eat, aimlessly cutting the meat into pieces and moving them around, but that wasn’t a clever deduction as much as a foregone conclusion.

Wealwell never met his gaze even once, not as he looked up to answer a question from Johnwell and not as he passed Samwell the mashed potatoes.

So Maxwell looked back down at his (now cold) food, forcing himself to take small bites even though his stomach turned at the smell alone, and bided his time.

🌨

Maxwell waited for the clock to strike eleven before he dared leave the safety of his bedroom.

He knocked on Wealwell’s door, wasting no time, wanting nothing more than to get out of the open of the hallway. He felt exposed, obvious, like all the many stupid layers of his deceit were visible in every move he made and in everything he did. It felt almost like whiplash, the way that Wealwell’s room was a place to escape to now, when the night before it had been a thing of fear.

Soft murmurs of conversation floated up the stairs. Maxwell could make out his father’s cadence, thought he recognised Hatwell’s insufferable drawl. He wondered if they were talking about him, or if instead the tense dinner had already faded in the minds of his family, for whom it had ended up being nothing but cleared up speculation.

A few moments passed before Wealwell opened the door, just a crack at first. His eyes were wide and nervous, irises skittering around like those of a prey animal, scanning for predators. The calm demeaner he’d worn comfortably at dinner was gone.

His face relaxed minutely when he saw it was Maxwell. He opened the door further, though his body still blocked his room from sight. “Max, it’s you.”

“Can I come in?” Maxwell asked, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder at the obviously empty hall. He didn’t want to give the paranoia any satisfaction.

Wealwell’s shoulders tightened noticeably. His face spasmed, a miserable jumble of guilt and fear. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

Right.

Maxwell raised his chin and pulled back his shoulders, trying not to look too obviously disappointed. “No matter. We can talk out here.”

Wealwell’s eyes darted over the hallway behind Maxwell. “Yeah…”

“Why—” Maxwell’s throat seized. He forced himself to calm down. “Why did you do that?” He kept his voice low, willing the sound not to carry too far down the hall, not to reach Johnwell’s room.

“Hm?” Wealwell looked up at him, disoriented.

“I mean— Thank you, I should say. It’s… not what I expected. But also, why? Why cover for me?”

“Oh, right, uhm…” Wealwell looked anywhere but Maxwell’s eyes. His finger tapped a nervous rhythm on the door he still held in a vice grip. “It felt like the right thing to do, I suppose.” He sounded uncertain. Maxwell wondered if he regretted it.

“I wasn’t aware you could lie like that,” he said, letting himself sound as impressed as he was.  “You’re a great actor.”

A small smile broke through Wealwell’s nervous expression, red blooming on his formerly anxiety-white cheeks. His shoulders relaxed subtly. “Do you really think so?” He raises his chin proudly. “You know, director Jennings says I’m a natural.” Wealwell bit his lip, hesitating. “She actually gave me the lead. In the play.”

Maxwell raised his eyebrows, grin curving his mouth. He reached out and hit Wealwell affectionately on the shoulder, and was glad to see he only cringed a little bit. “Hey, way to go, brother! Congratulations!” He pulled his arm back. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Wealwell worried his lip some more. He was going to seriously bruise the thing if he continued on this way. “I was actually… coming to tell you, yesterday, but then I got completely distracted by the invitation and the fight and...”

Before he could think to stop himself, Maxwell reached his hand up to the bruise on his chin, touching a finger to his split lip. He lowered his arm quickly, clamping it forcefully to his side, but he needn’t have bothered.

As if there was any chance Wealwell hadn’t figured out the level of his involvement yet. As if he hadn’t seen every shameful thing Maxwell truly was, a brute, a deviant, a liar. A rowdy.

Wealwell didn’t acknowledge the moment with anything more than a brief glance at Maxwell’s chin. “I don’t know why I showed up yesterday, I truly detest parties of that nature. I suppose I just wanted a glance at that world, your world. You and your friends seem so… free.”

Maxwell suppressed a scoff, feeling vaguely guilty for laughing when Wealwell looked so genuine. He looked so young. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Wealwell was one and a half years his senior. “Maybe you could join us sometimes? The gang would love to meet you, you know. And nothing’s stopping us, now that you’re in the know.” Maxwell leaned in conspiratorially, smile playing on his lips.

Wealwell drew back. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said, eyebrows creased upwards, almost apologetic. Almost the exact same words as earlier, a stock phrase. As if he’d practiced it.

Maxwell bit back a grimace.

Wealwell hesitated for a breath before continuing. “You know how I said the play rehearsals are mandatory? It’s what I told father, and our brothers and you. It’s not true.” Wealwell laughed weakly. Maxwell’s eyebrows raised up to his hairline. “I was too scared to tell you all I enjoyed something so base as theatre, so I pretended. It’s just one stupid lie, but it’s been killing me. My skin is on fire, constantly, and at all times I expect to be found out. I don’t know how you do it.”

Maxwell nodded. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to sting. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

Wealwell seemed taken aback by that. Confusion rippled over his face. “Of course you have a choice. You could stop with the fighting, and you could stop, um… seeing that friend of yours.” He sounded so earnest. It almost tempered the anger firing up in the pit of Maxwell’s stomach. Almost.

“And you think that’s what I should do? Just stop?” It was nothing short of a miracle that Maxwell managed to keep his volume low. His mouth was bone dry, his tongue grating against his words like coarse sand, and no amount of swallowing helped.

Wealwell looked around desperately, his hands swatting through the air. “I don’t know, Max. Yes? I mean, I saw you. How long before someone else does, someone who won’t lie for you? And what about Hatwell’s whole tirade at dinner? It can’t last.”

Maxwell sneered. “What if I told you to just stop going to rehearsals? Fuck your passion, fuck the arts, go to business school. How would that feel?”

“Father won’t disown me for being in a play,” Wealwell snapped. He left the second part unsaid, but it hit Maxwell like a slap in the face all the same. It shouldn’t have. It wasn’t news to him.

Maxwell raised his chin. The muscles in his neck spasmed, and he could see Wealwell notice. “Goodnight, Wealwell.”

Wealwell’s face was white. His breathing was rough, as if he’d just run to Zood and back. “Okay. Goodnight, Max.”

Maxwell forced himself to turn away and walk down the hall towards his own room. His mind was racing, but the thoughts were a messy Windrider’s knot, caught in each other, tripping over themselves until all that was left was gibberish.

His limbs were alive with static energy, aching to move, to punch, to sprint. He was so tired he could sleep for ten score millennia.

As Maxwell reached for his doorknob, he was startled by the sound of Wealwell’s voice. “Did you win?”

An olive branch. Maxwell grasped onto it readily, desperately, surprising himself.

He turned to see Wealwell still in his own doorway, leaning forward to look past the wooden frame. Maxwell smiled. “No, Camber did. You know, my friend.”

Wealwell nodded easily, no instant discomfort visible on his face. It softened Maxwell’s jagged edges, if only a little.

Maxwell cocked his head, deciding to push his luck. “Do not be mistaken about my ability, however. Cam’s more fun when he’s triumphant, so I let him win.”

Wealwell raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Of course,” Maxwell said fervently. “Though, don’t tell him I said that.”

Wealwell shrugged. “I don’t spread unsubstantiated claims.”

Maxwell made a face at his brother, who laughed, and part of the heavy, unbearable tangle in his gut unfurled. He smiled at Wealwell for another moment before going into his room, shutting the door behind him, and taking his first deep breath of the day.

🌤

MAX: EVERYTHING IS OKAY full stop

CAMBER: THANK THE SMOG full stop

JOVI: SO WEALWELL DIDN’T SQUEAL full stop

MAX: NO THAT’S THE QUEER THING stop HE ACTUALLY COVERED FOR ME full stop

TEM: NO SHIT full stop

MAX: YES SHIT stop HATWELL FOUND OUT ABOUT THE PARTY THROUGH LATIMER stop TRIED TO START A ROW AT DINNER stop WEALWELL SAID I WAS WITH HIM YESTERDAY full stop

VERNE: HOLY SMOKE stop TOLD YOU GUYS HE WAS HOT full stop

CAMBER: I’M GLAD YOU’RE OKAY MAX full stop

MAX: THANK YOU LOVE stop SO AM I full stop

JOVI: I KNOW I WAS HARD ON THE GUY stop BUT HE’S SOLID full stop