Chapter Text
Maxwell had learned about soulmates early on in his life, as it was quite the exciting topic among children when he started going to school. It was a hard thing to remain completely oblivious to when most of them had a red string that tied them to their fated partner, strung from their very hearts and falling from their chests to lead them in whatever direction their other halves would be. Only those connected could see it, as had been explained to him.
He’d also learned quickly that Father didn’t like talking about it, dismissing it is a foolish thing. Max would never know for certain, but he was pretty sure his parents had not been connected by fate. He didn’t remember much about his mother as she passed when he was still very young, but his older brothers spoke of her sweetness in such a way that he couldn’t imagine how she might get along with Father in all his strict behavior.
The seventh son had always had a string for as long as he could remember. He’d been fascinated by it, trying to find the rules of what could and couldn’t pass through it, sometimes pulling on it to see if he’d feel anything pull back. He never did, but he wasn’t sure it worked that way anyway. Maxwell didn’t care much for crushes in his younger years and he knew there was a possibility he’d never meet the other soul, but his thoughts would still wander to their identity every so often. As time passed, however, he’d learned to ignore it, letting it simply exist in his periphery without risk of getting reprimanded by Father—not again. As far as Longspot Gotch knew, his youngest wisened up to stop caring about such meaningless emotional things. At some point, Maxwell had convinced even himself that he didn’t care for it anymore either. He’d be perfectly fine just ignoring it for the rest of his life, or so he said.
Then, one day—he must’ve been only about 12 or 13—the string disappeared entirely. There was no warning, nor was there any physical pain in the loss. No, the pain came in the form of guilt and regret, wondering if he’d severed it completely in his apathy or if a great tragedy had befallen his other half. He snuck into Wealwell’s room that night to break down in his brother’s arms, only half making sense through his babbling explanation as to what happened. He barely heard the assurances that it wasn’t his fault but he cried himself to sleep that night, waking up in his own bed after Wealwell must’ve carried him back to avoid getting in trouble.
That morning, the string had returned, so he couldn’t help but think he was at fault for ever taking it for granted. He hoped his soulmate would forgive him, should their paths ever cross, while praying for the string to carry his unspoken apology. As he aged, he swore not to let himself grow so careless again, even as his whimsy dwindled and he stopped believing in adventure. He’d feign indifference for his father, but he’d never let go again. Wealwell was the only one he ever told about what he experienced, a secret that was kept between them or perhaps forgotten about by his older counterpart.
Maxwell thought that would be the end of it. He’d noticed how his string stretched far into the distance, he could almost swear it led up into the sky, but either way, it was a distance he was convinced he’d never be able to travel. He had responsibilities to his family, a duty to fulfill as a Gotch. Wherever his soulmate was, he distantly wished the best for them, that he would not hold them back.
He’d been mid-fight the next time it disappeared. Over a decade had passed since the first time and he’d never broken his promise to himself, he couldn’t know why it happened, but it was enough of a distraction to get him pinned to the floor of the fighting ring. The background noise became little more than static as panic overtook him, suddenly feeling a thousand miles away from himself, but he managed to congratulate his opponent on a good match before hastily excusing himself.
In the privacy of his room, Maxwell collapsed against the closed door and clutched at his chest, struggling to catch his breath. He didn’t have his brother there to comfort him this time, thoughts immediately jumping to the worst case scenario and worrying for the safety of someone he never met. He thought of the time before, how he’d thought himself to blame, but now, he couldn’t be so sure. He’d never heard of a string coming and going, only the finality of its disappearance when your other half is gone for good. There was only a few hours that he could trick himself into thinking it might return but as the sleepless night turned to morning, he was not so lucky a second time.
Days soon became weeks, and then months. Maxwell was constantly plagued with wondering what he could’ve done differently, how someone so out of reach had been tied to him by fate only to be torn away so soon, if he was supposed to have followed it before it was too late. How strange it was, to grieve someone who remained nameless and faceless to you. Max was a lonely person by nature, even when surrounded by peers; there’d been comfort in the idea that maybe, somewhere out there, there was someone who’d understand him implicitly. Someone he might understand as well, for all the cues he seemed to miss. He dwelled on it more often than he would ever admit, keeping it all to himself. Longspot had made it clear that high society didn’t care for such silly things as fate when there was business to consider. Thus, he found his distraction back in the fighting pits, the punches, the pain.
He’d lost track of the time before it came back, fleetingly. It wasn’t long at all, barely an hour before it faded back into nothingness, but enough that it alerted Maxwell to there being something more complicated going on. It’s no less worrying, but maybe- no, he didn’t know how he could help, but he desperately wanted to. If they were still out there. For the brief time the string was there, he clung to it, but just as he was sure his silent questions didn’t get passed along, he received no answers in response.
With no leads to track past that, he was already off to a bad start, but his mission was delayed further by his father’s commands the next time he returned from university, no time to enjoy being home (not that he likely would anyway) as the seven sons were tasked with repossessing everything Comfrey MacLeod had left behind in her disappearance.
The world started to make less sense from there as everything he learned seemed impossible, if not for the fact he was living it.
It was only when he was in the sky, surrounded by his childhood heroes, that Maxwell remembered how his now-absent string had once curved upwards, towards the sky he’d always been warned against. For the first time in his life, he was no longer grounded, and he wondered ever so briefly if this was what fate had been leading him towards.
The next few days were a blur of discovery, possibilities, fights and close calls. It all seemed to come to a standstill for Maxwell in Ramansu the moment he unlocked the door that opened to death, a graphic display of gore and the most fascinating clockwork being at its center. Subconsciously, he knew he should probably be scared of this… man? but the bodies on the ground appear to be their enemy, and he’d been protecting the very message that called them here in the first place. He’d never seen anything like it, but he couldn’t help but want to see more, to know what the automaton was capable of.
He only had a moment to consider it before Marya was thrown against the wall by Van and priorities shifted.
Maxwell was well aware that he lacked the whimsy that had immediately endeared the Wind Riders to Olethra. Perhaps his grandfather had good reason to tell him to stay grounded, as he was no less out of place here than he was among his family. He wasn’t very good at pretending it didn’t bother him.
When he suggested returning the golden heart to Torse, the name the stone guardians had given them, it had not been with the intention to earn approval but he still held himself a bit taller with pride when Marya announced that he’d found his sense of adventure. From what little evidence they did have, everything seemed to imply that the gold heart was the safest option, as it was created by the Professor’s hand, carved with the words that defined it as worthy, and had been what Torse was reaching for in his final moments before disanimation.
Despite it all, a small part of him wondered. Even as Torse ticked back to life and greeted them with pleasantries, he wondered if they’d missed something in regard to the iron heart. The red glow in his helm as he reanimated felt familiar, stirring an odd feeling in Maxwell’s chest before the light softened instead to gold.
He dismissed those thoughts as the automaton explained that his unused heart was for his fighting nature, a part of himself he seemed… almost ashamed of. Without good reason, Max thought to himself, for the evident skill and strength he possessed. That was a side he’d be rather keen on seeing, but he dare not voice that.
He liked Torse, though. He’s very straightforward, even if he’s being rude (which… Maxwell could forgive him for the compliments he gave in turn. He sincerely hoped no one noticed the way his face flushed at the flattery). He was a realist, a refreshing presence amidst the optimistic whimsy of everyone else around them.
There was a brief reprieve from the action as they set to the skies in search of pirates, in which Maxwell approached the clockwork man with an offer to help rid him of the blood and viscera of Fehujar agents. With no reason to refuse, Torse had accepted, for he was not oblivious to how offputting it was to the lesser crew he’d yet to meet. They were intimidated by him, as many were. But not Maxwell.
They hardly knew each other by more than name and skill, but as the Gotch son scrubbed away the grime of flesh and the filth of the room he’d been locked in for months, they existed in a comfortable silence. Polite chatter was not something Max excelled at, so he had no plans of subjecting the other to that in the meantime. He focused instead on his work, careful to be thorough and not let anything remain stuck between iron joints. The scent of blood was almost overwhelming, perhaps nauseating to some, but he’d grown used to it in countless fights gone too far, the taste of it on his tongue from a number of well aimed punches to the face. He was completely undeterred as he polished sharp blades, holding one of Torse’s hands in his own while focused on the knives protruding over his knuckles. He hardly seemed to notice or care that he’d oriented them toward himself, how easily he could be impaled upon them.
Of course, he wasn’t. Torse had no such plans to bring harm to the allies of Comfrey MacLeod, especially not one keen on helping him. It was a kindness he was unfamiliar with, perhaps undeserving of, but he could not refuse it.
Once satisfied with his work, Maxwell looked up to find Torse already studying him with shapeless glowing eyes from the slit of his helm. It was impossible to tell the intention behind such a look with no facial expression, but he felt no judgment. Still, he seemed to realize himself, letting go of the now-polished hand that he’d still been holding.
Clearing his throat, he managed, “Good?”
Torse’s head tilted slightly, regarding him curiously. It was difficult to imagine him as he described himself, so full of rage, with the mannerisms of a puppy. “Good,” he echoed. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
It was easy being around Torse. Maxwell wondered, not for the first time, if this is what it’d feel like to know his soulmate.