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Maxwell and Wes were on a date.
With wine.
Now, Wesley wasn’t much of a drinker. He much preferred juices or just plain water. Come to think of it, when he was living in Paris, although it was common place for wine to be served often…. he couldn’t actually afford it. He had lived on the streets in a cardboard box on the road, like an orphan from something on the silver screen. He became easily accustomed to the constant, living with simple things- accept now, instead of being surrounded by a bustling city, he was encloseed by the wilderness. Instead of living by each small piece of change awarded to him by strangers for his pantomiming, he now had help from his fellow survivors to assist him in cooking and living properly.
Among those people, one of them stood out as particularly kind. Well, not from the beginning. From when they first met, the man had trapped him in an ironic, invisible box. A scientist with strange hair had saved him. You would think the hero would get the mime, and the two would fall in love- but Wesley fell for another- his captor: Maxwell Carter.
Maxwell was only really kind to Wesley, strangely enough. He was cold, and he kept to himself- maybe out of guilt for how he treated everyone. Debatably, he had treated Wes the worse. Perhaps that is the reason Maxwell treated him so delicately. A fondness originating from the cruel heart of Maxwell Carter. Coming from guilt. Or, it was because Wes was just truly charming.
Wesley was sort of a pathetic man. He was very weak, poor, and unlucky man. Heck, he had gotten dragged into the constant by accident. Although he was poor in his old life, here, he was incredibly wealthy- but not in a way measured in money. He was rich in happiness. His life’s goal was to make everyone in the world happy, and seeing joy on people’s faces filled him with glee in return. His daily life was tremendously fulfilling, making the children of the constant laugh and smile, making his fellow adults chuckle and grin. Making Maxwell, the cold terrible man who never showed a lick of joy, happy. Wesley’s heart soared at the thought.
Maxwell caught onto Wes’s fantasies rather quickly. At first, he stubbornly denied the idea that anyone could forgive him, especially someone he had behaved so poorly to. He pushed away Wes, but soon he felt a fondness to him. Initially he hated the mime, for not allowing him to enact his revenge. While on the throne, he punished Wesley for that. But now that he was off of the throne, and the shadows no longer clouded his mind, he just felt guilt for it, no longer anger. He didn’t want Wesley near him while his head of flooded with feelings of the past.
Yet Wesley kept insisting that Maxwell be forgiven- nay, that Maxwell be joyful- with Wes. So, finally giving up with his cold facade, Maxwell indulged Wesley. He asked him out for a lovely dinner.
A date.
So there they sat, the handsome dark magician and the cute little mime. They sat at a table with a red cloth draped over it, their surroundings lit by candlelight. The light was unnatural, as it was darkly colored and intimating cool air, instead of the normal and usual heat a candle would produce. There was honey ham on the table, a bottle of wine, and Maxwell, fiddling with his glass of dark purple liquid. Wes silently stared at him, occasionally glancing at his own wine glass. Maxwell stared back awkwardly at the mime. He cleared his throat, and did something a mime would never dare to do- speak!
“Ahem,” Maxwell cleared his throat, keeping his persona of ‘gruff edgy old man’ partially up. “Swell night for a get-together, even if it’s just the two of us, eh pal?” Wes nodded hastily. He smiled and nervously sweat in his seat. The man sitting before him was so handsome, he could hardly stand it.
“You seem a little tense, pal,” Maxwell cracked a smile, holding his glass up with a smirk on his face. Tipping the glass toward Wesley, he showed his fangs as he spoke. “Let us declare a toast to this lovely night, shall we? Lighten the mood a little, right?” Wes’s eyes went wide, and he picked up his glass full of wine. He rose it to Maxwell’s, and clinked the rim of his glass to the magician’s. The magician in question took a swig of his wine, swallowing it quietly and politely. Wes looked down at the dark purple drink, seeing himself in it. With a frown, he took a big sip, trying to match Maxwell’s energy.
The taste was horrid. It tasted like if terror could have a flavor. His hands shot up to his lips, as he struggled to keep the foul liquid inside his mouth. A bit of it, he accidentally spit out onto his light cream colored gloves, staining the palms of them a deep purplish black. With a sweat, he gulped down the drink, regrettably. Maxwell noticed this and frowned.
“Having trouble there?” Maxwell leaned in. “I suppose not everyone is accustomed to the taste of alcohol- especially that made from nightmare fuel.” Wesley felt sick now. The man before him had the mime drinking the stuff of nightmares. He stuck his tongue out and closed his eyes at the bitterness. The liquid was incredibly acerbic, and the aftertaste was like burnt rubber and motor oil combined into a putrid cocktail. Maxwell stood to get closer to his date, stroking his back as the mime gagged.
“I should have known better than to serve you wine on an empty stomach,” Maxwell sighed, beginning to caress the other’s cheek. “Please, eat. You’ll feel much better.” Wes nodded, outstretched a stained gloved hand out to pick up his fork, and serve himself a piece of honey ham. As he reached his hand out, his vision blurred and unfocused, and it seemed as he had three hands grabbing for the ham. Strangely enough, he was not startled by this, in fact, he found it quite amusing. Some part of his mind, perhaps the logical, quizzical, and sane bit, had shut off and powered down. The magician, standing next to him quickly realized what was happening to the mime, exceptionally after seeing his crooked, loopy smile. It was quite entertaining, to say the least.
“My my, someone’s a bit tipsy, aren’t we?” Maxwell grinned smugly, patting Wes on the head. Wesley barely reacted. With a dramatic, faux sigh, the magician spoke once more. “Nightmare fuel works fast. It’s highly parasitic, getting into the bloodstream and intoxicating its consumer rather quickl-” Maxwell paused as he felt something ticklish bothering him. “-What are you doing?”
Wes was playing with the buttons on Maxwell’s suit jacket. After all, he was in a very playful and silly mood. Maxwell cracked a slight smile, before gasping as Wes shoved his face into Maxwell’s waist. The magician stood there, frozen for a few moments. He had never let anyone get this close to him before, other than Charlie, but that was before the throne. It was honestly refreshing, yet Maxwell was deeply uncomfortable. This feeling was foreign to him. He had to peel Wesley off of him, which left behind makeup smears and smudges from Wes’s face. Wes giggled softly, which caught Maxwell’s ear. It was oh so adorable to listen to the mime make a noise, very much because it was a giggle like that. It was so soft and wonderful, and he wished to hear it again. He was so encapsulated by the mime’s noise that he didn’t mind or care about his stained suit jacket, covered in red, white, and black makeup.
“Your voice is so precious...” Maxwell exhaled with joy. He leaned down and his breath was hot on Wes’s neck, as he whispered lustful wonders in the mime’s ears. “May I hear it again, my darling?” Wes was practically fish-eyed, and he giggled once more, reaching for Maxwell’s shoulder and completely missed. Maxwell tilted his head, but kept persisting. “Wesley, dear… I want to hear you make a noise,” he nearly begged. “Your voice is so addicting...” he hugged the mime tightly.
But Wes quickly moved away from him. Maxwell was almost heartbroken, until he saw Wes kneeling down, throwing up on the floor. Maxwell felt awful. Those were noises, all right, but sorrowful and ill ones. This was no time to make a move on his date, not while he was sick like this. Wes looked up at the three Maxwells he was seeing with his unfocused eyes, still smiling. He looked like such a mess. His hair was messy and unkempt, his makeup was all smudged, and there was vomit dribbling from his lips. Yet somehow he was still smiling with his loopy face.
Taking out his Codex Umbra from his ruined jacket, he summoned a shadow servant and commanded it to lift up Wesley and help him bring the mime back to camp to let him rest. Wes squeaked as he was picked up by cold shadow hands. Maxwell picked up one of the shadow candles, bringing Wes away from the delicious smell and luxurious look of the fancy dinner.
As they walked, that being Maxwell and his shadow clone, as Wesley was in no condition to, a faint light was emanating from the plains in front of them. Maxwell foolishly assumed it was the campfire of the other survivors who graciously let him stay with them. Walking closer, and trying to pick up the pace, Maxwell soon discovered that the light was in fact not the campfire, but WX-78, the living machine. Maxwell wasn’t the fondest of WX. They shared a sense of humor, and that was about all they had in common. WX-78 was apologetically a total ass. It made Maxwell snort with amusement once and a while, but it also reminded him of how he was on the throne.
WX-78 spotted them, turning to stare at them robotically. With no emotion showing on their face, they blared, “DETECTING… MAXWELL AND WES.” they roared with their monotone voice. “HOW INTERESTING. THE FRAIL FLESHLING HAS BEWITCHED THE CLOWN.” Maxwell kept his cool, not getting defensive quite yet. There was no winning with WX.
“He is certainly not bewitched, Mx. WX.” Maxwell replied, keeping his temper in check.
“SO IS HE DEAD?” WX asked. Maxwell opened his mouth, but WX interrupted. “HA HA HA HA. YOU ARE AN INCONSISTENT VARIABLE.” WX laughed flatly. It was hard to tell if they were even honestly laughing. “HE WAS AN ANNOYANCE. HIS PROGRAMMING MUST BE FAULTY.”
Maxwell snarled at that. Wesley was nothing but sweet and kind to everyone he ever met, including WX. “Do not dare call Wesley faulty!” he retorted. “He a sweet, wonderful man, something you don’t even have the circuits to comprehend!” He was barring his fangs, and he looked for any sort of emotion on WX’s face. The robot blinked, but no emotion appeared.
“SYSTEMS DETECTING… ROMANTIC ATTRACTION.” Suddenly WX’s head cocked and sparks came from their neck. “>>ERROR<< >>ERROR<< THIS IS DISGUSTING. >>ERROR<<” Maxwell, now flustered, growled back and responded, “I simply owe him at the moment! You are detecting something that isn’t there, you blasted machine!”
“TWO FLESHINGS WITH THE SAME PROGRAMMING AS EACH OTHER BEING TOGETHER? THAT IS A GLITCH IN THE CODE. A FAULTY PRODUCT.” WX screamed. They were clearly not going to budge on this. Maxwell was fuming. He stuck his nose in the air and signaled that the shadow puppet follow him.
“WAIT,” WX sneered, still sparking. “WE SHOULD USE THE CLOWN AS FILLER IN OUR CROCKPOTS. A MORSEL OF CLOWN MEAT IS BETTER THAN WHATEVER THAT FOOL OF A SCIENTIST CAN COOK UP.”
“That sounds like a great idea, WX.” Maxwell growled and rolled his eyes.
“GREAT. I WILL GO TELL EVERYONE WE ARE HAVING CLOWN TONIGHT.”
“You insufferable piece of scrap metal- I was being sarcastic!” Maxwell gritted his teeth. “Don’t you even think about telling them anything regarding me, or Wes!” WX, however, started running off. Monotonously laughing along the way. Maxwell groaned, not being able to chase the automaton. He had his hands full- not literally of course, as the shadow puppet was the one carrying the mime- with Wes.
Walking back to base with his shadow puppet carrying Wes in the bridal position, the light from the camp was bright. The shadow clone dissipated, leaving Wesley to fall. Maxwell gasped, dashing to catch the mime. He successfully managed to catch the poor thing, who was half asleep. Wes stirred, mumbling and staring deep into Maxwell’s eyes.
“J’adore tu,” Wesley slurred. He smiled and chuckled, putting a hand on Maxwell’s cheek. “Maxy-Waxy. Teehee.” Maxwell winced slightly at the nickname. Though the warmth coming from within his chest was overpowering. Maxwell knew French, Wes’s native tongue. He was so happy to hear someone say that. ‘I love you’. He wasn’t quite able to admit his love for Wes- not yet.
“Well then, Wessie,” he happily matched the mime’s silly nickname. “We need to get you to bed, alright? You’re a little too silly.” Maxwell soon added, “More than usual.”
Walking through the wooden gate of the camp, he upsettingly heard a familiar voice. He ditched his shadow candlelight and sighed.
“THERE IS THE FRAIL FLESHLING. AND THE CLOWN.”
Then he heard ones that he hadn’t heard all night.
“Stars and atoms, what did Max do to him?”
“Oh dear... poor Wesley.”
Maxwell stayed still. Too many people were talking at once, and his sanity was already low from the summoning of his shadow servant earlier. That certainly didn’t help, and neither did the small crowd around him. Chattering from Wilson, WX, Ms. Wickerbottom- it was very distracting.
“Maxwell Carter!” Wilson P. Higgsbury, the one who had been surviving here in the constant the longest, and had the most bad blood with Maxwell, stared at the former nightmare king directly. “Is it true? Have you killed Wes?”
Offended, he glared at WX-78. “That is a ridiculous notion and I will not stand for it!” he shouted. As he spoke, Wes groaned and wiggled into a new position. He vomitted violently for a second time this evening, the vomit splattering onto Maxwell’s boot. Wincing with disgust, Maxwell looked at Wesley with pity. Wilson’s eyes went wide and he grimaced. “Well, you’ve clearly poisoned him with something!” Wilson gasped in horror.
“We were drinking, Higgsbury.” Maxwell rebutted. “I didn’t know Wesley here had such a low tolerance.” He explained, with annoyance and irritation oozing from his voice. “Drinking?” Wilson inquired. “Where in the laws of Newton did you get alcohol from?”
“It’s crafted from nightmare fuel, Percival.” Maxwell snapped.
Wilson’s gaze got dark. “Don’t you dare call me Percival.” His face was red with rage.
Pushing Wilson back few inches, Ms. Wickerbottom stepped forward. “Did I hear you right, dearie? You had Wesley drink nightmare fuel?” She chimed in. Maxwell ignored her, already angry with these accusations. He tried to to push his way through to get to his tent, but Ms. Wickerbottom caught his attention by putting a hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t think you’re a bad man, dearie, and I’m very glad you didn’t kill Wes,” she spoke sweetly, but sternly. “But given your history- to all of us, and very much to Wes, this is a bit…inexcusable.”
“Do not talk down to me as if I was a child!” he roared. That was a nerve she just it. “Fools! All of you! All I did was treat Wesley to a dinner fit for kings, and here you are accusing me of murder!” Maxwell sneered.
“WAIT,” WX beeped. “THE CLOWN IS NOT DEAD?”
“Clearly not, you buffoon!” the magician boomed. “Now if you would excuse me, this ‘clown’ needs to rest!” Using his Codex, summoned shadow barriers to trap his fellow survivors. Pillars shot up from the ground and surrounded the three. It was tricky getting his Codex out to cast the shadow magic with Wes in his arms, but he managed. Wilson looked furious. Maxwell didn’t stick around to hear what he had to say, though. His main priority was Wes.
Carrying Wes carefully to the magician’s tent, he opened the beige tent flap with his foot, as his hands and arms were preoccupied by Wesley and his Codex Umbra. Ducking inside his tent revealed a common sight to Maxwell- luxurious fluffy blankets made from beefalo wool and spider silk, three pillows, all colorful and filled to the brim with feathers. And most importantly to Maxwell, a small, poorly made stuffed rabbit that a different side of Maxwell had dubbed ‘Jack’, after his twin brother. Blushing as he saw his stuffed bunny, he swiftly kicked it out of view and covered it with a pile of clothes.
Gently placing Wesley down onto the makeshift bed, he tucked the mime in and gazed down at him. Wesley groaned, closing his eyes and holding his stomach. “I’m sorry, Wesley...” Maxwell whispered, sitting next to the bed. Wesley whined, and looked to Maxwell. While wincing, he patted to side of the bed next to him. Maxwell’s eyes widened, as he realized what Wesley wanted. Lifting up the blanket, he slid into bed with Wesley, who latched onto Maxwell almost instantly. Maxwell, startled, struggled not to make a sharp noise of surprise. Wesley nuzzled Maxwell’s neck, and he sounded like he was purring. The two of them were cozy, and happy.
“J’adore tu aussi, Wes.”
Maxwell whispered. His french accent was nearly perfect. Wes smiled with glee, and his eyes closing once more as he soon started snoring lightly.
“Good night, Wesley.” Maxwell smiled, his eyes getting heavy as he kissed Wes’s forehead. He closed his eyes and drifted off to a happy sleep with Wesley in his arms.