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Torse did enjoy the companionship of Comfrey Macleod, all things considered. She gifted him a golden, Zoodian heart. It allowed him more control than his iron heart could offer, and the initial adjustment was well worth the longer-term benefits. However, their relationship was professional. Torse had no greater personal connection to Comfrey than to the pothos he kept on a shelf by the radio.
Torse was, however, becoming disconcertingly attached to the crew of the Zephyr.
He was deeply not accustomed to caring for things. Not in the way humans were, at least. Even in the best of times, Zern valued strength, intelligence, and justice. There were no parents to cradle babies, no lovers and families, only automata born from ash and scrap who sought to better the world for the sake of just innovation.
But Zood was full of love. Torse had seen many Zoodian cities, seen young families strolling through the streets with casual displays of affection. He saw teenagers with lanky legs and freckled faces begrudgingly share their pita with a friend. He saw sky-sailors come meet long-lost lovers on the docks with spinning hugs and kisses peppered on their faces. He saw parents holding their children so tight that you could believe they would never let go.
It was almost sickening, at first. How much time did the Zoodian people waste coddling their young? How much did they waste on love and camaraderie? There was so much more to do in the world, for the good of Zern and for Zood. Torse had not been raised by a loving family, he was simply made. He had turned out alright.
They may be Gathie, but the crew of the Zephyr also clearly loved one another.
Their love was showed in soft smiles and lighthearted jokes. There was love in the way Marya would insist on attaching a new gadget onto each member of the crew before any perilous adventure. There was love in Pappy’s badgering for everyone to eat a full portion at meals. There was love in the way Van would slap a hand across someone’s back and lean over to tell them she was proud. There was love in Monty’s sketchbook, in which he kept detailed sketches of each of the crew members, pointing out each detail of their person. There was love in Olethra’s endless fawning and goodhearted jokes.
And there was so much love in Maxwell. Maxwell, who tried to be stoic and didn’t quite understand the others. Maxwell, who would smile softly as the others spoke. Maxwell, who gripped Torse’s hand like he was worth that teethy grin he sent his way.
He knew deep in his wind-up heart, that he had grown to love the crew of the Zephyr as well, as much as it confused him. They were confusing, a group of antiquated adventurers with the happy-go-lucky energy of a pup. They had social rules and traditions that seemed contradictory, complex notions of good and bad, bonds that seemed to hold their hearts to one another. They were kind, and funny. They believed in him, a commodity he had never been graced with before. They considered his wants and needs not as a means to an end, but a person.
Hence, despite the fact that Torse did not quite need a bedroom to sleep, the crew seemed to insist on giving him his own space of some sort, hence his small closet-sized room at the end of the hall. He kept the room rather bare, save for a small wooden chair and desk to place his iron heart. In the early mornings, he watched the sun rise over the contorted horizon and thought of home. The crew would still be asleep for presumably another hour or so, meaning he had plenty of time to think. That was, until, he heard a small yelp of pain down the hallway.
Torse quickly got to his feet, worried. Had someone been injured? He had not known anyone was awake. He opened his door, walking down the hallway to find the source of the noise.
The hallway was still dark, no windows to illuminate the wooden floors and walls with the early dawn’s light nor lamps to cast flame and harsh shadows upon the faces of the crew. Each door was closed and locked, except one; the bathroom. The door was open, the glow of an oil lamp spilling out softly. Torse reached for the handle and opened the door with a loud creak. Inside stood Maxwell, staring into the mirror and holding up a razor in a shaking hand, shaving cream slathered over his face
“Shit!” Maxwell yelped, whipping around to the sound, evidently startled by the sudden intrusion. He cleared his throat, placing the straight razor down on the shelf and grabbing a towel. He hastily tried to wipe away some of the shaving cream, quickly regaining his composure. “Torse, can I help you?
“I heard a noise of pain. Are you alright?” Torse asked quietly, scanning Max’s body for any sign of injury. He did not seem to be injured, save for the bruises that seemed to live on his knuckles.
“I- well, I think I must have sprained one of my fingers the other day. It’s all well and good though, no need to worry,” he said, turning away from Torse. His voice was confident and steady, but there was an undercurrent of insecurity that tainted his words.
“What pained you?” Torse asked, moving forward into the room and gently closing the door behind him. Max turned back towards him, glancing between his face and the door before letting out a deep sigh.
“I was trying to shave. It’s difficult to hold a razor when you can’t bend your finger past twenty degrees,” Max scoffed with disregard, frustrated not only with his injury, but his inability to simply adapt around it.
Torse reached out and gently pulled Max’s hand closer to examine it. Beyond the bruises, he could certainly feel a more serious ligament tear in the pointer and middle fingers. For the wound to heal swiftly, he would need to allow the fingers to rest and put little strain on them.
“This is a tear. You shouldn’t push yourself, Maxwell. Let them heal instead of straining them more,” Torse said, looking back up to Max’s face. He sighed and gave a begrudging nod, turning to grab a towel to wipe off the remaining shaving cream. “If you would still like to shave, I could help you,” he offered.
Max paused and turned back to look at Torse, something akin to shock on his face. Perhaps this had been a misstep. Max had seemed rather startled at the intrusion. This may be, yet again, a human ritual that he did not fully understand. Max may be uncomfortable with such an offer. He wasn't quite used to feeling emotion, but he knew that the silence after he spoke felt like ripping his heart out.
“That would be- well, satisfactory. To recover of course,” Max said, almost as if he was convincing himself of something. “Thank you, Torse.” That, however, was a different voice entirely.
It was a voice he did not frequently hear from Max. It was quiet, not the prim and proper Gathie high society man nor the violent and rowdy fighter, but just Max. Just-Max was rowdy and quiet and so afraid. He was straightforward and honest, braver than those with hearts of literal steel. And in Torse's opinion, he was beautiful.
He reached for the straight razor Max had placed down earlier. It was a luxurious tool, equipped with a sharp blade and an intricately detailed wooden handle with Max’s initials monogrammed at the base. While the blade was dwarfed in stiff steel hands, the elegant curve of the handle was clearly intended to be ergonomic to any hand of skin and bone.
Torse took a step closer to Max until the two were almost chest to chest, golden heart to heart of flesh. He reached a hand out, gently cupping Max’s jaw.
His skin was warm, not the scorching heat of Zern, but a soft warmth that radiated off of him. Torse had learned the rhythms of life in Zood. He could feel Max’s pulse underneath steel fingers falling across his neck. Humans were so fragile. A wrong move or ill intention could put the man in grave danger, but instead he sat there silently, obediently even. Max trusted Torse, even with bladed hands, and spiked shoulder blades. Max knew that he would never hurt him.
He tilted Max's face up to gain a better angle, and the two finally made eye contact. Max’s pupils were blown wide, his iris only a small ring of hazel around the rim. His jaw was not anchored shut any longer, his mouth ever so slightly agape. If in adjusting the angle Torse ran a finger over Maxwell’s plush lips, he would never admit it.
With his free hand, he reached for the bowl of lather to brush on more cream where Max had hastily wiped. Max swallowed, and Torse was for a moment distracted by the column of his throat and what it may feel like under his hands.
“I am not an expert on the matter of shaving, Maxwell. You may have to instruct me,” Torse said, placing the bowl back down and folding the blade open.
“Right, uh- you hold the blade, like- no, not quite,” he replied, reaching out his un-injured hand to adjust Torse’s grip. They were warm, calloused. “You press down very gently, just like you’re scraping off the lather. I do two passes, the first towards the grain, then the second against it.”
“Understood. Please let me know if I cause you any pain,” Torse said. Max had ended up tilting his head down as he had spoken, yet again. He mumbled some sound of agreement. Torse yet again used the hand underneath Max’s jaw to tilt his head back again so the man would look straight into his eyes. “Max, I need you to confirm that if I hurt you, you will stop me.” Max’s eyes widened slightly, his breathing quickening.
“Yes, I would stop you,” he said breathlessly.
“Very good, I will proceed now.”
Torse began to work, lightly reaching out the blade to Max’s left cheek and softly pulling down with the satisfying noise of the bubbles popping in the lather. He looked back to his eyes again for confirmation that this was, again, okay. Max gave a quick nod, and Torse silently returned to scraping the blade across skin.
The work was meticulous in some ways, rhythmic in the sound of blade against skin as the lather bubbled softly. It required focus, a precision that Torse didn’t frequently get to exhibit. Max remained quiet, his breathing echoing around in the cavity of Torse’s heart.
The work was not laborious, yet Torse felt his wind-up heart ticking faster. He could feel the way Max’s breaths warmed the metal plates of his torso, the way his eyes fluttered around the room, never seeming to stay on one object for too long.
It was a deeply vulnerable state to be in. Max was in no real danger, of course, but Torse wanted to hold him close, to shield him from the world. He wanted to feel those calloused fingers grip to his steel ribs, to warm his bruised knuckles on his beating heart. He wanted Max to crawl inside his chest and never leave. His heart was ticking dangerously fast now, he feared. There must be something mechanically wrong. He had never felt like this before.
His mind raced, but his hands remained steady, giving Max a clean and close shave. He reached to wipe the excess lather with a damp washcloth.
“I believe it is done. Please let me know if this is to your satisfaction,” Torse said, releasing his hand from Max’s jaw. While he had never felt the painful chill of cold, he suddenly understood the concept. Max turned to the mirror, turning his head back and forth to assess his friend’s work.
“This is- incredible. Thank you, Torse. Really,” he said, turning back with a genuine thankful smile, which did nothing to calm his speeding heart. This was most certainly a mechanical issue. He needed to wake Marya at once so she could asses the problem.
“I must be off,” Torse said quickly, leaving before Max had time to object to his abrupt departure.
He quickly strode down the hall to Marya’s room and barged in without knocking. The sun was still low in the sky. Right, the others weren’t awake yet, but he had now awoken Marya with his sudden and loud presence.
She slowly raised herself onto her arms from the bed, groggily rubbing her eyes.
“Torse? What are you doing? What time is it?” she mumbled, looking around for some sort of clock.
“I apologize, but I’m afraid there is something deeply wrong with my heart,” Torse said, taking another step into the room.
“Eh, that sounds like a good reason. Sit down, I’ll take a look,” she said, pulling the covers off her legs and sliding into a pair of rat shaped slippers. Kocka also began to stir, removing a silk eye-mask off his own rat-face and slowly taking laps around his small bed. Torse walked forward again, placing himself on the bedspread. Kocka jumped from his bed to wrap around the back of Torse’s neck, where the warmth of his heart seeped through. It was, indeed, a cold morning.
Marya opened the top drawer of her armoire, reaching in to pull out an armful of assorted toolkits that overflowed from her frail arms. She strode back towards the bedside, dumping the tool-soup across the bed.
“What seems to be troubling you then? Thoughts of extreme bloodlust? Can’t move? Bad dreams?” Marya joked, searching about her tools for her favorite wrench to begin the impromptu examination.
“My heart has been ticking extraordinarily fast, and I cannot control it,” he said, unconsciously reaching a hand up against his ribs.
“Is it fast right now?” she asked, gazing at the golden heart under his ribs with the one-sided focus of a tinkerer.
“No, though it was just a moment ago,” he said. Marya hummed thoughtfully and pressed under Torse’s ribs to open them. She poked around with her tools, quietly humming what must have been an old Scrapsylvanian folk song as she worked. Torse trusted Marya very deeply. They were both of steel and scraps, literally and figuratively. If anyone were to understand what was going on with him, it would be Marya.
“I’m not seeing anything wrong. What triggered the episode?” she asked, leaning back to look up at Torse’s face.
“Hmm. I was helping Max shave. It began after I held his face and felt his pulse underneath my fingers.”
Marya doubled over in laughter.