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Maxwell cannot move his left leg. It is… disconcerting. Worrying, even, were he the type of man to worry about injuries. He is not. He will not be. Torse is there, after all, what does he have to worry about?
From the tilt of his head, after all, Torse is doing all the worrying for him. There's no need, really, Maxwell is fine, he just can't move his leg-
“Maxwell, you cannot move your leg?” says Torse. Max hadn't realised he'd been speaking.
“You are still speaking,” says Torse, and, oh, there is a strange trickling down Maxwell's neck. He may be slightly concussed.
“Maxwell,” says Torse, admonishing. “Slightly is an understatement. Why can you not move your leg?”
“I don't know,” says Maxwell, with some effort. There had been a pop. It might be dislocated.
Torse kneels down, next to the leg that refuses to function, no matter what he does.
“May I?” says Torse, hand hovering over Maxwell's flesh.
“Yeah, go ahead,” says Maxwell, like he hasn't daydreamed about Torse touching him for weeks at this point.
Torse's gears tick faster. “I am choosing to believe you did not mean to say that last bit out loud,” he says. “I am… not opposed to the idea. But- not while you are injured.”
If Maxwell were more coherent, he would blush.
“You are blushing,” Torse tells him, and wraps a cool metal hand around Max's thigh, thumbs sinking into the relaxed muscle. The other hand supports Max's hip, and Torse shoves the two of them together, with a shock of pain and a thunk, as ball returns to socket.
“Fuck you,” says Maxwell, mostly out of embarrassment. “I didn't mean that,” he says, after. “I'm definitely concussed.”
“I am aware,” says Torse. “I will not hold it against you.”
Maxwell wishes Torse would hold him.
“That can be arranged,” says Torse. “May I?”
“Yes,” slurs Max, and Torse's hands slide under his legs and his back, lifting him carefully. One hand wraps around his thigh again, grip tight. Max turns his face into Torse's chest, exhausted.
“Do not fall asleep,” says Torse. “I understand it may be detrimental, after a concussion.”
It is. Max knows this. And yet- Torse's arms are so comfortable. He could sleep here so easily.
“You are talking without realising, again,” says Torse. “I will simply have to find a way to keep you awake myself.”
A beat. “Not like that,” he says. “That would be- inappropriate, while you are concussed. Later.”
“Right,” says Maxwell, deliberately. “When I am less concussed. We should… talk?”
“Yes,” says Torse. “We could talk now. If you are up for it. It may… help keep you awake?”
Maxwell might love him. It's terrifying.
“It is,” says Torse, and of all the things Maxwell had not wanted to say accidentally that might be the most embarrassing. “I- The thought of losing you frightens me, Maxwell. I am not often frightened.”
“Feeling like this,” says Maxwell, his heart still racing, his head pounding, Torse's thumb pressing cold into his thigh, “it frightens me. We- I may be too out of it. For this conversation.”
Torse nods, and Maxwell feels the movement of it against his hair. “I understand. Tomorrow. When you are- less acutely injured. I would like to… discuss. These feelings. With you. But - I feel the same. Do not worry.”
Maxwell smiles, and tucks his battered head into Torse's chest.
“I'd like that.”