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Language:
English
Series:
Part 3 of Restraint
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Published:
2025-06-08
Completed:
2025-07-05
Words:
1,940
Chapters:
2/2
Comments:
32
Kudos:
97
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Layers of civility

Summary:

Maxwell wraps himself in layers of civility. But he lives for when he can take them off.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Maxwell dresses slowly. Once, his manservant Eugene would have helped him with such tasks, but the signs of change in the family fortune have been many.

He pulls neatly pressed trousers up, lacing them with fingers that seem clumsy today. His father's words from the day before ring in his ears.

It's past time for marriage, boy. You've near completed your studies and I have a number of business partners willing to open a position for you.

Maxwell grimaces at his reflection in the full length mirror as he reaches for a crisp, white shirt, buttoning it to the throat, the starched collar tight around his neck.

You've left it late, but there are still a few prospects about. You could do worse than that Smyth-William chit. I had heard her brother is looking to offload her.

The waistcoat is next, a deep burgundy, the brocade still plush despite the fact that it was the fashion of several seasons past.

Maxwell feels the bitter choke of the words he cannot say stick in his throat as he ties the complicated knot of his cravat.

If it's all the same to you, father, I'd rather not marry at all.

He has the courage for many things. But not for that.

Maxwell slips the heavy jacket over his ensemble and smooths it down. He brushes his fingers lightly through his hair, neatly combed and parted, and smooths the points of his moustache.

He looks presentable. Sociable even. If one doesn't look too closely at his eyes. At the trapped creature they reflect, in its desperate struggle to get out.

He pulls the gloves on last. Crisp and white over scabbed and bruised knuckles. He clenches his fists and feels the way the material confines and constrains him. With a sigh he relaxes his hands, straightens his shoulders and turns away from the mirror.

~

The luncheon is inteminable. Lady Isobelle Smyth-William is as pleasant as always, chattering on about one subject or the next.

Maxwell wants to shake her sometimes. Grip her by the shoulders and say, Do you remember when we were young, Izzy? When we dreamed of pirates and adventures and writing our names in the sky?

Instead he nods in all the right places, returning meaningless platitudes and social niceties on queue.

He looks over at Lord Christopher Smyth-William more than once, but he's always occupied with some conversation or other, his beautiful wife holding court at his side. It's fair; he has a fortune to maintain in the months following his father's untimely death. Still, Maxwell feels the absence of Christopher's regard.

He's collecting a selection of tiny cakes, which Isobelle had declared she simply must try, when he feels a presence at his back.

He tenses, and then smells the hint of citrus that underlays the cologne Christopher favours.

'Tonight,' comes the low voice. 'Nine sharp.'

And then more loudly. 'Come now, Gotch, leave some for the rest of us!'

Maxwell turns with a put upon smile, but the thudding of his heart and the racing of his pulse is real.

'Of course,' he said, as he places another delicacy on the plate. He meets Christopher's eyes and sees the faintest reflection of a trapped thing there as well.

~

His fingers tremble as he unknots his cravat. It's anticipation that makes them clumsy.

He can smell the musk of sweat and the tang of blood. It has seeped into the small changing space over many years.

He shrugs out of his coat, stuffing it hastily onto a shelf, his waistcoat coming next.

He feels as though he can finally breathe as he unbuttons his collar, fingers hasty as they strip away his shirt.

He can hear the noise of the crowd already. It sounds like Kit has stirred up a few more than the regulars. Maxwell sets his shoulders, a low heat curling to life in his belly at the thought of it.

His shirtsleeves get stuck on his gloves as he tries to pull them off. He growls in frustration, bringing one hand up to his mouth, teeth nipping the end of his finger as he bites the glove, pulling it from his hand.

The pinprick of pain has the heat in his belly stirring higher. He shoves the gloves and then his shirt onto the shelf as well.

He's reaching for the oil when the door behind him opens and Kit walks in. The Lord Christopher Smyth-William from earlier is all but gone. The fancy clothes and haughty expression are banished. His hair is touseled and his eyes dance with excitement.

'Are you ready?' Kit asks, taking the oil from him and pouring some into his hands. He rubs them together and then begins to run his hands down Maxwell's shoulders and arms. Across his chest.

It's a ritual they have. One that settles him at the same time as it gets him worked up. Makes him want to hit something.

Maxwell nods, catching sight of himself in a cracked mirror behind Kit's head.

The trapped thing behind his eyes is vicious. Hungry.

'I'm ready,' he nods again.

Kit smooths the oil across his cheekbones, dabs a swipe across his lip. His grip is firm, but the pads of his fingers are soft. The ache in Maxwell's gut becomes a fire.

'Right,' Kit says, meeting Maxwell's burning gaze.

'Let's go get a bit rowdy.'

Notes:

A post-fight scene came to me, which I've added as chapter 2. Tone may be slightly different but hopefully it flows.